#selenblackwrites

[selenblackwrites]

3. Bold

Daryl didn’t think of himself as bold. Never had been. He left the boldness to others - Merle, mostly, with his loud mouth and devil-may-care attitude. Bold was for people who didn’t have to think about consequences, who didn’t spend their whole damn lives trying to go unnoticed.

But somehow, being around Rick made him want to be bold.

Not that Daryl would ever admit that out loud.

Rick was standing at the edge of the clearing, sunlight catching in his hair and painting it gold. He looked... calm. At peace in a way that was rare in the world they lived in now. He had one hand resting on his hip, the other holding his machete loosely at his side. Even from where he stood, Daryl could see the faint smile tugging at the corner of Rick’s lips.

Daryl shifted his weight, his boots scuffing against the ground. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to pull words out of the swirling mess of his thoughts.

He’d been thinking about Rick too much lately. About the way he moved, the way he smiled, the way his voice dipped low when he said Daryl’s name. It was distracting, maddening, and - if Daryl was honest - terrifying.

Rick turned his head slightly, catching sight of Daryl out of the corner of his eye. “You comin’, or you just gonna stand there all day?”

Daryl grunted, adjusting the crossbow slung across his back. He forced himself to step closer, to stand beside Rick at the edge of the woods.

“What’re we waitin’ for?” Daryl asked, his voice gruffer than he intended.

Rick tilted his head, his smile widening. “Nothin’ now.”

That was the thing about Rick - he always made it seem so damn easy. Talking, smiling, looking at Daryl like he meant something. It was infuriating.

They moved together, walking the edge of the forest in a companionable silence. Every now and then, Rick would glance at Daryl, his gaze lingering just a little too long.

By the time they circled back to camp, Daryl’s stomach was tied in knots. He dropped his crossbow on the ground near his tent and busied himself with checking his gear, trying to ignore the weight of Rick’s eyes on him.

“Daryl,” Rick said, his voice soft but insistent.

Daryl froze, his hands stilling over the straps of his pack. He didn’t turn around. “What?”

“You good?”

“’Course I’m good,” Daryl muttered, but the words came out more defensive than he intended.

Rick stepped closer, and Daryl could feel the heat of him at his back. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Always quiet,” Daryl shot back, but there wasn’t any bite to it.

Rick reached out, his hand brushing against Daryl’s arm. The touch was light, hesitant, but it sent a jolt through Daryl’s entire body.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Rick said, his voice low. “About anything.”

Daryl swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could feel the tension crackling in the air between them, the unspoken something that had been building for weeks.

It would be so easy to turn around, to face Rick and say what he’d been holding back for so long. But easy wasn’t in Daryl’s nature.

He pulled away, his shoulders stiff. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

Rick sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. “You’re a hard man to read, you know that?”

“Good,” Daryl said, his voice clipped.

Rick didn’t say anything else, didn’t press. He just stood there, watching Daryl with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

The silence stretched, and Daryl’s chest tightened. He didn’t want to lose this - to lose Rick - but the idea of opening up, of putting himself out there, made his stomach churn.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to turn around and meet Rick’s gaze. “What if I ain’t good enough?” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Rick blinked, startled. “What?”

Daryl clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “What if I ain’t enough for you?”

Rick stepped closer, his expression softening. “Daryl...”

“I ain’t bold like you,” Daryl said, his voice rough. “Don’t know how to say the right things, or... or do the right things. Just... don’t wanna mess this up.”

Rick reached out, his hand settling on Daryl’s shoulder. “You think I care about that? About you bein’ bold or not? Hell, Daryl, you don’t need to be anything but yourself.”

Daryl looked down, his jaw tightening. “Don’t know how to be anything else.”

“Good,” Rick said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “’Cause I don’t want anything else.”

The words hit Daryl like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. He looked up, meeting Rick’s gaze, and for the first time, he saw the truth in those blue eyes.

Rick cared about him. Hell, maybe even loved him.

And maybe, just maybe, Daryl could be bold enough to believe it.

Next ┈➤

[selenblackwrites]

2. Blue

Daryl didn’t like bars. Too many people, too much noise, and too many damn lights. He preferred quiet, preferred solitude. But Merle had dragged him out, saying something about how he needed to “get outta that damn rut” and “live a little,” and Daryl didn’t have the energy to argue.

So here he was, nursing a cheap beer at the edge of the bar, doing his best to blend into the shadows while Merle hollered and flirted with anything that moved.

Daryl kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the condensation pooling around the base of his bottle. He told himself he’d stay for one more drink, then slip out. Merle wouldn’t notice until much later, and by then, Daryl would be long gone.

That plan derailed the moment he walked in.

Daryl didn’t notice him at first. The guy wasn’t loud, didn’t demand attention like Merle or half the other assholes in the bar. But then he caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye, and the world seemed to slow down.

It wasn’t just his easy posture or the way his smile lit up the room, though that was part of it. It was his eyes.

Blue.

Not just any blue - something brighter, sharper, more magnetic than Daryl had ever seen. It wasn’t fair, the way they seemed to hold his gaze like a hook in his chest. Daryl couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

The guy caught him staring. Of course, he did. Daryl quickly dropped his gaze, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“Smooth, Dixon,” he muttered to himself, taking a long swig of his beer.

But then, out of nowhere, the man was there, standing right in front of him.

“Mind if I sit?” the guy asked, his voice warm and friendly.

Daryl froze, his brain scrambling for a response. He finally managed a nod, jerking his head toward the empty stool beside him.

The guy slid onto the stool, resting an elbow on the bar. “Name’s Rick,” he said, extending a hand.

Daryl stared at it for a second too long before shaking it, his calloused palm brushing against Rick’s firm grip. “Daryl,” he mumbled.

Rick smiled, and those damn eyes crinkled at the corners, pulling Daryl’s attention like a magnet. “Nice to meet you, Daryl. Can I buy you a drink?”

Daryl blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, sure,” he said, barely getting the word out.

Rick motioned to the bartender, ordering two beers. Daryl watched him out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out why this guy - this beautiful, confident guy - was talking to him.

Rick handed him the beer, their fingers brushing briefly. “So,” he said, leaning closer, “you don’t seem like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time in places like this.”

Daryl snorted. “Ain’t.”

Rick chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Figured. What brings you out tonight?”

“Merle,” Daryl said, gesturing vaguely toward the other end of the bar, where Merle was loudly regaling a group of strangers with one of his tall tales.

Rick followed his gaze and smirked. “I take it that’s your brother?”

“Unfortunately,” Daryl muttered, earning another laugh from Rick.

Daryl nodded, his tongue feeling too big in his mouth. He was usually quiet, sure, but this was something else. He felt like every word he might say would come out wrong, like he’d embarrass himself if he even tried.

But Rick didn’t seem to mind the silence. He leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink and glancing around the bar like he belonged there, like he wasn’t sitting across from a guy who could barely string two words together.

“You live around here?” Rick asked after a moment, his tone casual.

Daryl nodded again, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Rick chuckled softly, and the sound sent a shiver down Daryl’s spine. “Man of few words, huh?”

Daryl shrugged, taking a long pull from his beer to avoid answering.

But Rick didn’t seem put off. He kept talking, filling the silence with stories about his job, his hometown, the ridiculous antics of his best friend. And Daryl… Daryl just listened.

He nodded in the right places, occasionally grunted out a response, but mostly he just watched Rick. Watched the way his lips curved when he smiled, the way his hands moved as he talked, the way those eyes lit up when he laughed.

By the time Rick bought him another drink, Daryl felt like he was drowning in blue.

They stayed there for hours, long after Merle had stumbled out with some woman on his arm. Rick kept the conversation going, never once making Daryl feel awkward or out of place. And when the bartender finally announced last call, Rick stood up, clapping a hand on Daryl’s shoulder.

“Guess it’s time to call it a night,” he said, his thumb brushing briefly against Daryl’s collarbone.

Daryl nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Rick smiled again, that same warm, inviting smile that had knocked the air out of Daryl’s lungs when he first saw it. “See you around, Daryl.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the night.

Daryl sat there for a long time, his mind spinning. When he finally made it home and collapsed into bed, he could still see Rick’s face in his mind.

But most of all, he saw those eyes - blue and bright and endless.

And as he drifted off to sleep, he made a silent promise to himself.

He was going to have that man. One way or another, Rick was going to be his.

Next ┈➤

[selenblackwrites]

1. Blood

Daryl hadn’t meant to do it. It was one of those stupid accidents, the kind that happened when you got a little too comfortable, a little too careless.

Rick had been leaning close, saying something low and teasing, his hand brushing against Daryl’s hip like it was second nature. And Daryl had turned his head too fast, intending to bark back some smartass comment.

Their foreheads collided with a dull thunk, and Rick reeled back, swearing under his breath.

“Shit!” Rick’s hand flew to his face, cupping his nose as blood began to drip between his fingers.

“Damn it,” Daryl growled, immediately reaching for Rick, guilt twisting in his gut. “Lemme see.”

“I’m fine,” Rick said, his voice muffled, but he didn’t resist as Daryl tugged his hand away to assess the damage.

The bridge of Rick’s nose was red and swelling slightly, but it didn’t look broken. The blood, though - it was everywhere. Thick and dark, running over his lips and down his chin, pooling in the divot of his collarbone.

“You gotta stop movin’,” Daryl muttered, grabbing the hem of his shirt to press it against Rick’s nose. “Tilt your head forward. Ain’t supposed to lean back with this kinda thing.”

Rick obeyed, his hands bracing on Daryl’s hips for balance. “You’re gettin’ real good at this first aid stuff.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you from bleedin’ out,” Daryl shot back, his voice gruff. He tried to focus on stopping the bleeding, but his eyes kept drifting.

The blood… it shouldn’t have affected him like this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen plenty of it before. But on Rick? It was different.

The streaks of red stood out starkly against Rick’s pale skin, catching in the light like something dark and sinful. His lips were stained, slick and shining, and Daryl felt his stomach twist - not with guilt, but with something hotter, darker.

Rick groaned softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “It’s slowin’ down. Think I’ll live.”

Daryl pulled the shirt away and tossed it aside, his breath hitching as he looked at Rick again. The blood was smeared now, more chaotic, streaked across his jaw and throat. It was primal. Messy.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice pulled him back, his tone curious but laced with concern.

Daryl didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could. His hand moved on its own, fingers brushing over the blood on Rick’s chin, tracing it down to his neck. Rick stiffened under the touch, his lips parting in surprise.

“What’re you- ?”

Daryl’s thumb swiped across Rick’s bottom lip, and before he could stop himself, he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste the blood.

Rick froze, his breath hitching sharply.

Daryl should’ve stopped there. Should’ve apologized, backed off, done something reasonable. But he didn’t.

The copper tang of blood coated his tongue, and he groaned softly, pressing closer. His lips met Rick’s in a messy, desperate kiss, his hands gripping Rick’s hips to pull him closer. Rick’s mouth opened under his, and Daryl pushed his tongue inside, letting Rick taste the blood too.

It was feral, raw, like nothing they’d ever done before. Rick made a noise - half protest, half surrender - and then he was kissing back, his hands sliding up to fist in Daryl’s shirt.

Daryl didn’t know how long they stayed like that, tangled together, the taste of blood and heat filling the space between them. When they finally broke apart, they were both panting, their foreheads pressed together.

Rick’s lips were red and swollen, smeared with blood and spit. He licked them slowly, his eyes searching Daryl’s face.

“That was…” Rick trailed off, his voice husky.

“Yeah,” Daryl rasped, his own voice wrecked. He still had one hand on Rick’s hip, the other resting on the side of his neck. “Sorry. Shouldn’t’ve - ”

Rick cut him off with another kiss, this one slower but no less intense. When he pulled back, he smiled faintly, shaking his head.

“You’re somethin’ else, Dixon,” Rick murmured, his voice soft but warm.

Daryl didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugged, his fingers tightening on Rick’s hip.

“C’mere,” Rick said, tugging him closer. “Let’s get cleaned up before Carl sees us lookin’ like a couple of damn lunatics.”

Daryl snorted, but he followed Rick to the bathroom, his hand never leaving Rick’s waist. And later, when they were tangled up in bed, Rick’s nose iced and the blood long gone, Daryl couldn’t help but think about how it had felt - wild and electric, like something that couldn’t be undone.

Next ┈➤

[selenblackwrites]

3. Admire

Daryl leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, arms crossed, his shoulder brushing the faded wood. The scent of bacon and eggs wafted through the air, mingling with the faint smell of coffee brewing on the counter. He wasn’t even hungry. He was just... watching.

Rick stood at the stove, barefoot in old jeans slung low on his hips, and an undershirt that clung to his back in a way that had Daryl biting the inside of his cheek. His hair was mussed from sleep, sticking up in every direction, and a faint line creased his cheek where he’d slept too hard against the pillow.

He was humming softly - something country Daryl couldn’t quite place - and it was terrible. Off-key, low and scratchy like the gravel in Rick’s voice when he first woke up. And God, it was perfect.

Rick shifted his weight, balancing the spatula in one hand while he reached for a plate with the other. His movements were casual, almost lazy, but there was a confidence in them that made Daryl’s chest feel tight. Everything about Rick, from the way he stood to the way his arm flexed as he flipped a strip of bacon, made Daryl want to press him against the counter and never let go.

He wasn’t even doing anything special - just cooking breakfast like he always did - but it didn’t matter. To Daryl, it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

Rick turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder when he felt the weight of Daryl’s stare. A slow smile spread across his face, lazy and lopsided, the kind that always made Daryl’s stomach flip. “You just gonna stand there gawkin’, or you gonna help?”

Daryl snorted softly, pushing off the doorframe but not moving any closer. “Ain’t gawkin’. Just watchin’.”

“Uh-huh,” Rick drawled, setting the plate on the counter and turning fully to face him, the spatula still in his hand. “Pretty sure that’s the same thing.”

Daryl shrugged, his eyes trailing down Rick’s chest and back up again, unapologetic. “Can’t help it. Yer kinda nice to look at.”

Rick raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That right?”

“Yup.” Daryl stuffed his hands in his pockets, his voice low but certain. “Hottest damn person I ever seen.”

Rick chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to the stove, but Daryl didn’t miss the faint blush creeping up his neck.

“You’re somethin’ else, Dixon,” Rick said, his tone warm and teasing, but Daryl didn’t answer. He shoved off the doorframe, finally crossing the room in a few quiet steps.

Rick stiffened slightly when Daryl’s arms slid around his waist, but only for a moment. Daryl didn’t hug him often, not like this, out of the blue with no warning. But Rick relaxed into it quickly, leaning back into the warmth of Daryl’s chest.

“Keep doin’ what you’re doin’,” Daryl murmured, his breath warm against Rick’s ear.

Rick’s eyebrows rose, his hands pausing mid-motion over the pan. “What, makin’ breakfast?”

“Nah.” Daryl’s voice dropped an octave, rougher, more gravel than usual. His lips brushed the shell of Rick’s ear as he spoke, quiet but deliberate. “Just standin’ here lookin’ like that. Movin’ like that. Bein’ you.”

Rick huffed out a laugh, but it was a little breathless, the tips of his ears going red. “Daryl…”

“Shut up,” Daryl muttered, tightening his grip around Rick’s middle. “Ain’t nothin’ you can say to make me stop thinkin’ it.”

He nuzzled the side of Rick’s neck and up to his jaw, his nose brushing the line of stubble there. Rick smelled like soap and coffee and something warm and clean that was just him.

“Don’t even need to try, ya know?” Daryl murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Could just stand here all damn day, and I’d still think you’re the hottest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

Rick’s hand tightened around the spatula, his knuckles going white, and Daryl felt a flicker of satisfaction curl in his chest. He didn’t say stuff like this often, not outright. But damn if it didn’t feel good to watch Rick squirm under the weight of his words.

“You’re impossible,” Rick muttered, but there was no heat in it. His free hand came up to rest on Daryl’s arm, his fingers curling over the worn fabric of his shirt.

“Yeah, well…” Daryl pressed a kiss to the side of Rick’s neck, his lips brushing the spot where his pulse beat steadily. “Ain’t gonna stop.”

Rick tilted his head back slightly, giving Daryl just enough space to nuzzle closer. “Y’know, if you keep this up, breakfast is gonna burn.”

“Don’t care.”

“Pretty sure you do,” Rick said, laughing softly.

Daryl sighed, reluctantly loosening his hold and stepping back just enough to let Rick turn around. Rick’s eyes met his, bright and warm and full of something that made Daryl feel like his chest might crack open.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Rick said, but his tone was soft, fond.

“Yeah. And you like it.” Daryl shrugged, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “Still think you’re the hottest damn person I ever seen.”

Rick shook his head, but he was smiling as he reached for Daryl’s wrist, pulling him back toward the stove. “C’mon, Dixon. You can sit your smitten ass down and pour us some coffee while I finish up.”

Daryl didn’t argue. He sat at the table, watching as Rick went back to the stove, still humming that off-key tune, and he thought to himself that if he got to start every day like this, he was the luckiest damn man alive.

Next ┈➤

[selenblackwrites]

9. Anatomy

The morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in the blinds, soft and golden, warming the small room without being intrusive. Rick lay on his side, head propped up on one hand, the other lazily trailing over Daryl’s arm. He let his fingers explore the terrain of muscle and scar, mapping it out like a man memorizing a road he never wanted to forget.

Daryl was sprawled on his back, eyes half-closed, his chest rising and falling with an easy rhythm. He looked so damn peaceful like this - something Rick wasn’t used to, but it suited him so well. The world didn’t leave much room for peace anymore, but here, in this fleeting moment, Rick felt like they’d carved out something sacred, and he silently promised to himself that he would do his best to give them more of these moments.

Rick’s thumb traced along the curve of Daryl’s bicep, marveling at how the muscle shifted under his touch. The strength there wasn’t just physical - it told stories of survival, of everything they’d endured.

“Y’know,” Rick drawled, breaking the silence, “you ever think about how impressive these are?”

One of Daryl’s eyes cracked open, his head rolling just enough to give Rick a skeptical look. “What’re you on about?”

Rick grinned, his thumb brushing over a faint scar that jagged its way across Daryl’s forearm. He loved how deep and raspy Daryl’s voice got in the mornings, his drawl coming out even stronger than usual.

“Your arms. They’re a damn work of art.”

Daryl snorted, closing his eye again. “Ain’t nothin’ special. Just from workin’. Splittin’ wood, haulin’ stuff, the crossbow, y’know.”

Rick’s lips twitched. Of course, Daryl wouldn’t see it - not the way Rick did. Daryl probably thought of his body like any other tool: useful, practical, but nothing to dwell on. Rick, though? Rick couldn’t stop looking.

“They’re special,” Rick said, shifting closer. His fingers wrapped around Daryl’s wrist, lifting his arm to inspect it like he’d stumbled across some rare artifact. “Look at this.”

He ran his thumb along the prominent veins that stood out beneath the skin, marveling at the precision of it all - the way the veins snaked under his calloused hand, the subtle flex of tendons when Daryl’s fingers twitched.

“Strong, capable,” Rick murmured. “But the way it all fits together - muscles, tendons, veins - it’s somethin’ else.”

Daryl huffed, turning his head away as if that might hide the faint flush creeping up his neck. “Don’t know why you’re lookin’ so close,” he muttered, his voice softer now. “They’re just arms.”

Rick chuckled, leaning in to press his lips to the crook of Daryl’s elbow, letting his beard brush against the sensitive skin there. “Not just arms. They’re your arms.”

Daryl shifted, a quiet grunt escaping him, but he didn’t pull away. His cheeks darkened, though, and Rick didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched, like he was fighting off a smile.

Rick let his hand wander up to Daryl’s shoulder, squeezing gently. His mind flashed back to those early days in Atlanta, when Daryl had been all sharp edges and coiled energy. Even back then, Rick had noticed those wide shoulders, the way they seemed to carry the weight of the world even before they really had to. It was pathetic, but he could still see the way Daryl had flung the rope of squirrels at him, hissing like an angry cat, his muscles bunching together so perfectly to make the throw.

“C’mon,” Rick said, grinning now. “Flex for me.”

Daryl turned his head, giving Rick a look that was equal parts amused and annoyed. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Rolling his eyes, Daryl lifted his arm, clenching his fist and flexing. The muscle tightened under Rick’s touch, solid and unyielding. Rick let out a low grunt of approval, his thumb tracing the hard curve of Daryl’s bicep.

“Damn,” Rick murmured. His voice dropped, thick with something he couldn’t quite name. “You don’t even realize, do you? How good you look?”

Daryl shifted again, visibly uncomfortable, but his lips twitched in that almost-smile. “Ain’t somethin’ I think about.”

Rick leaned down, pressing a kiss just below Daryl’s shoulder. “Well, maybe you should. I sure as hell do. All. The. Time.”

His lips followed the line of Daryl’s arm, slow and deliberate as he punctuated the words with small kisses, his nose brushing against the skin. When he reached Daryl’s wrist, he pressed a kiss to the pulse point, lingering there like he could feel the life thrumming beneath his lips.

Rick paused, his mouth hovering just above Daryl’s skin. “You’re somethin’ else, Daryl Dixon,” he said softly, his words more prayer than compliment.

Daryl finally turned to look at him, his blue eyes steady and unguarded in a way that made Rick’s chest ache. “You’re ridiculous,” Daryl said, but there was no heat behind it.

Rick grinned, sitting up slightly to look down at him. “Maybe. But that don’t mean I’m wrong.”

Daryl shook his head, the faintest smile breaking through his defenses. “If you’re done playin’ anatomy class, maybe we can get up and do somethin’ useful.”

Rick’s grin widened, and he leaned down to kiss him - slow, lazy, and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.

“Not done yet,” Rick whispered against his lips.

Next ┈➤

[selenblackwrites]

➳ SUMMARY: Where Merle goes, chaos follows, and in that chaos, trying to put their lives back together is always Daryl. Amidst the turmoil, Daryl crosses paths with Rick, and an unexpected connection blossoms, setting their lives on an unpredictable course.

➳ PAIRING: DARYL DIXON X RICK GRIMES

➳ CHAPTER COUNT: 1/21

➳ SETTING: AU - MODERN DAY

➳ LINK: RIGHT HERE

It was Daryl’s day off, which usually meant he would get up when it was still dark outside, grab his crossbow and backpack, and go hunting in the woods behind their house. His brother taught him how to hunt, how to track the animals, and be one with nature. It was a necessity back then because if you didn’t hunt, you didn’t eat. Their daddy did not believe in providing food for his children. But Daryl chooses to remember the hunting and locks the rest in a deep recess of his mind.

So it’s his day off, but he’s only just waking up. The alarm clock on his bedside table shows 3:27 PM. Daryl’s sleep-addled brain tells him to jump from the bed and run to hide in the woods. Daddy doesn’t tolerate laziness. But he takes a moment to wake up properly and quickly realizes that his daddy is long gone, and he can sleep however long he wants.

Daryl’s been working nonstop for the past two weeks, staying in the garage until odd hours at night. There were two rounds of food poisoning in his workplace (that Daryl dubbed in his head as a 'shitfest') that left only him able to work. He knows why he brings his own lunch. First, he doesn’t have the money for fancy lunches, and second, he likes to know where his food comes from. Sure, sometimes it’s a possum that was rummaging around in his trash can, but he still knows where it came from. On the other hand, he wouldn’t touch the meatloaf that brought the second round of food poisoning with a metal bar, let alone eat it.

He reaches for his phone, hoping and praying that there are no messages calling him to work, that none of the idiots in the garage ate something vile again. He’s not sure he can pull off a one-man show again for a week. Sure, working on the bikes, that’s easy, even if it’s physically taxing. But that’s what Daryl likes, and he’s relatively good at it. But the rest... The interaction with customers, handling money, answering emails, and the worst of all - taking phone calls... he can’t deal with that stuff. He has no idea what is wrong with him, but talking on the phone not only brings out his accent way more than he’s comfortable with, it also makes him sweat and stutter, and overall, he sounds like he has some brain damage.

Luckily, there are no messages from work, just one missed call and a message from Merle. He decides that Merle can wait, tosses his phone back in the direction of the bedside table, and gets up. He stretches, and his back and shoulders pop like a glowstick. Damn, he’s getting old. He pads to his bathroom, once again thankful for not having to share it with his brother. They were still living in that shitty trailer he grew up in, butting heads every day on everything when a fancy lawyer in a suit arrived, saying their auntie, who they didn’t even know they had, had left them her house.

It was immediately decided that Merle gets the ground floor, while Daryl settled upstairs and made it his. He even installed his own kitchen, converting one of the rooms because there is no way he’s gonna share the kitchen with Merle.

While he's brushing his teeth in the Merle-free bathroom, his phone keeps beeping with new messages. With the toothbrush still in his mouth, he walks back to the bedroom to check the chaos unfolding, but deep down, he already knows. When his phone starts blowing up like this, it means Merle’s in trouble.

There are now seven missed calls and thirty-three new messages. How could that happen in the span of three minutes? He has no idea. With a sigh, he opens the messages first. It's mostly an illegible mix of random letters and symbols, so he quickly scans the messages for any semblance of coherence. There's one very blurry selfie, possibly of Merle’s chin and bottom teeth, and another indistinct photo of a toilet stall. The rest is gibberish.

It's clear that Merle's high again, perhaps mixing it with alcohol. Judging by the messages, he needs to be picked up and driven home to sleep it off. Daryl's not sure what it says about him that he can recognize the bar by the blurry photo of the toilet stall, but he knows the place. There's no need to think about getting dressed; there's only one clean shirt at the back of his closet, as he had no time for laundry in the past two weeks. It's his least favorite, which is why it stays in the back and never sees the light of day. It's too tight, so he ripped off the sleeves, but that didn’t help, and it's missing most of the buttons, making him look like a douchebag who needs to show off his chest—like there's something to show off. He shrugs it on, buttons up the three remaining buttons, pulls on the least dirty cargo pants, and heads to the kitchen.

The toast is done by the time he ties his boots, and he grabs the two dry pieces of bread to eat in the car. Downstairs—The Kingdom of Pleasure, as Merle calls it—the air carries the scent of stale bodies, cheap beer, cigarettes, and something else Daryl isn't keen on identifying. That said, it's relatively clean; you can still see the stained carpet in some places. Daryl sweeps the trash littering the hallway aside with his foot, creating a safe path. He swears that he'll make Merle clean it up, but deep down, he's quite sure that he'll end up doing the cleaning himself in the end. Daryl's truck isn't in the driveway, so he hops onto Merle’s bike. He hopes the truck's parked nearby because taking high Merle as a passenger on his own bike would be a death sentence. He tucks the toast into his pocket, hoping to catch a long enough red light to wolf it down as he heads toward the bar. ➳ Read the whole chapter on my AO3

[selenblackwrites]

5. Age

Daryl sat on the edge of the porch, knees bent awkwardly, his fingers working a fishing line he hadn’t used in months. The reel squeaked as he twisted it, the sound cutting through the crisp evening air. Rick was on the porch swing behind him, one foot lazily pushing against the ground to keep the motion going, a faint creak accompanying each gentle sway.

Daryl snorted when the reel stuck, his roughened fingers fumbling to fix it. "This damn thing's older than Carl's first car," he muttered, squinting at the line as if staring hard enough would fix it.

Rick chuckled softly. "Hell, so are we," he said, rubbing at the ache in his left shoulder. The years had been kind to neither of them. Rick’s hair was nearly white now, though he still kept it long-ish. His beard was trimmed close but unmistakably silver. Daryl wasn’t faring much better - his once dark hair was streaked with grey, and his face bore deeper lines than it used to, the kind earned from a life lived rough and full.

“Speak for yourself,” Daryl shot back, smirking as he yanked the reel free with a satisfying click. “I’m in my prime.”

Rick barked a laugh. “Your prime? Last week you got stuck on the ground for fifteen minutes after fixing the truck.”

“Didn’t see you rushin’ to help,” Daryl said, tossing a mock glare over his shoulder. “And for the record, that was ‘cause my fuckin’ knee locked up, not ‘cause I’m old.”

Rick arched a brow. “You’re old,” he said, his tone dry and matter-of-fact.

“Don’t mean I can’t still take you,” Daryl replied, his smirk widening. “Want me to prove it? We can take this down to the yard right now.”

Rick shook his head, grinning. “What, so we can both end up flat on our backs with no way to get up? No, thanks.”

The swing creaked again as Rick shifted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands clasped together loosely, and Daryl caught the subtle tremor in them. Rick didn’t try to hide it - it was just part of life now, same as the arthritis in Daryl’s hands that sometimes made holding a knife feel like trying to grip water.

“You remember when we could do all this stuff without thinking about it?” Rick asked, his voice soft with nostalgia. “Go huntin', fix up the place, patch each other up, all without complainin' about our backs or knees.”

Daryl hummed in agreement, running his thumb along the reel absently. “Yeah, but we were dumbasses back then. Probably why we’re so busted up now.”

Rick snickered, his smile reaching his eyes. “Speak for yourself. I wasn’t a dumbass.”

“Oh, you were the biggest dumbass,” Daryl said, turning to face him fully. “Like that time you thought you could clear that creek jump with your truck and damn near drowned us both.”

Rick’s laugh was loud and unabashed, the sound so familiar and warm it made Daryl’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with age.

“Okay, fine,” Rick admitted, wiping at his eyes. “I was a dumbass. But you went along with it, so what’s that say about you?”

“That I was a bigger dumbass,” Daryl said, grinning.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, the sun sinking low on the horizon, casting everything in hues of orange and gold. The aches and pains didn’t feel so bad in moments like this, when they could just sit and exist, side by side, the weight of the years shared and lightened between them.

Daryl turned his gaze to Rick, taking in the lines on his face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that came from decades of smiling, laughing, living. His heart swelled with a love that hadn’t dulled with time, a love that felt like an anchor in the stormy seas of life.

“You’re still good lookin’, you know that?” Daryl said suddenly, his voice gruff but genuine.

Rick’s head tilted in surprise, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “Ain’t sayin’ it again, so don’t get used to it.”

Rick leaned back in the swing, his smile soft and warm. “You’re not so bad yourself, Dixon,” he said.

Daryl rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

Rick chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The reel squeaked again as Daryl fiddled with it, and Rick let the swing sway lazily. The world around them was quiet, save for the rustling of the trees and the occasional chirp of a bird settling in for the night. They might’ve been older, slower, a little worse for wear, but in that moment, they were just two dumbasses still figuring it out together.

Next ┈➤

[selenblackwrites]

21. Ball

Daryl tossed the ball to Carl, watching as it sailed through the air with a satisfying thump when it hit his son's hands. Carl grinned, catching it with practiced ease. The little bastard was getting better at this every time, his coordination almost as good as a pro. Daryl threw the ball again, this time a little harder, and Carl jumped, snagging it mid-air with a triumphant shout.

“Nice catch, kid,” Daryl called, his lips curling into a grin despite himself.

Carl’s eyes shone with that same fire they always had, even when things were tough. The kid didn’t give up on much, especially not now, with everything they'd been through. He was a fighter, like both of them. But it wasn’t just the fighting he’d inherited. Daryl couldn’t help but notice the way Carl threw that ball - like he'd watched him enough times to know exactly how it should feel to catch and throw it. Just like the way he carried himself. The way he talked. Sometimes, it was like Carl had absorbed everything about him without even meaning to.

“Come on, old man! Try to catch this!” Carl called, winding up with a grin that reminded Daryl of the past.

Daryl narrowed his eyes and chuckled. “Old man, huh?”

“Yep,” Carl said with a smirk, tossing the ball high. “You’re getting slow.”

Daryl lunged to catch it, just barely grazing the edges of his fingers as the ball bounced off the ground. He shot Carl a look of mock disbelief.

“Not bad, kid. You’ve got a good arm,” Daryl said, trying to mask the slight sting of defeat.

“Guess I learned from the best,” Carl teased, tossing the ball back.

Daryl couldn’t help but laugh at that. It wasn’t a bad life, really. Not right now, anyway. He had his family around him. They were safe, at least for the moment. And despite the world outside being shit and everything else falling apart, he had this: playing catch with Carl, joking around, feeling the fresh air on his face. It was something simple, but it was enough.

As Daryl lined up for the next throw, he noticed a shadow at the edge of his vision. Turning slightly, he caught sight of Rick, leaning against the side of the house with his arms crossed, watching them intently.

Rick’s expression was softer than usual, that look in his eyes like he could see everything happening in front of him and yet, still be lost in it. It was a loving look, one that Daryl had come to know all too well. Rick’s gaze lingered on Carl as he caught the ball again, then shifted to Daryl with an almost imperceptible smile. He didn’t say anything, just watched.

For a moment, Daryl felt exposed, like he was being scrutinized in a way that felt too intimate. He had no idea why Rick was staring so intently, but the warmth in his eyes made Daryl’s heart skip a beat.

Daryl cleared his throat and tossed the ball a little harder this time, trying to shake the feeling that Rick was looking at him like he was some kind of prized possession. He didn’t need that. Didn’t need Rick’s approval, not really. But somehow, when Rick looked at him like that - like he was the most important thing in the world - it made Daryl feel... well, something more than he was used to. Something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Carl tossed the ball back, and Daryl made the catch, smiling despite himself. He turned to Rick, still watching with that damn loving gaze. “You gonna join us, or just keep standing there?”

Rick chuckled softly, pushing himself off the wall. “I’ll join you in a minute,” he said, his voice light but his eyes still full of that affection. “Just wanted to see you two having fun. You look... good together.”

Daryl felt his face flush, just a little. It was strange, this thing he had with Rick. The way they could joke around one moment, and then everything would go quiet, and there’d be that look - the one that said more than words could ever explain.

“You’re gettin’ sentimental, man,” Daryl muttered, turning back to Carl. “Get your arm ready for this one. I’m throwin’ it fast.”

Carl snorted but squared himself up. “Bring it on, old man.”

Daryl made the throw, watching as Carl jumped to catch it again. This time, Carl didn’t miss. He caught it with a confident smile, and Daryl couldn’t help but feel that little swell of pride in his chest. That was his kid. And somehow, with Rick by his side, it all felt like it was meant to be.

Rick’s presence in the background, watching quietly, was like a steady anchor for him. For all the chaos they’d been through, for all the storms they’d weathered, this - this moment, this small sliver of peace - was something Daryl would never take for granted.

And when Rick finally stepped up beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, Daryl didn’t need to ask why he was still there, watching. The love was in the silence. In the way Rick looked at him, like nothing in this messed-up world would ever make him look away.

Next ┈➤