Rick stood in the middle of the bathroom, feet bare on the tiles, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He lifted a hand up to the mirror - for the second time that day, and probably not the last - and he set it upon the glass, pressing his palm against it flatly, his fingers spreading apart slowly.
The steam from his second hot shower that day had fogged up the mirror, warping his reflection, making the face that stared back at Rick almost completely unrecognisable. He wiped away some of the residue that the steam had left behind, clearing away a patch, then another, until the entire mirror was almost clear and clean, Rick's reflection becoming more and more visible with each swipe of his hand.
He squinted, narrowing his eyes as he leant closer, closer.
A man stared back at Rick with hard blue eyes. He was a stranger. Rick lifted a hand to his face, and ran the tips of his fingers under his jaw, then across cleanly shaven cheeks, tentatively exploring the area. This is me, this is still me, he told himself, dropping his hand away. Rick gripped the edge of the basin tightly, knuckles turning white from the sheer force of his grip.
He lowered his head, resting his chin on his chest. Damp hair fell around his face like a curtain, shielding him from the stranger in his reflection. It wasn't the first time that he had felt such unease, when faced with a reflection that he did not recognise. His beard was gone, his hair trimmed, and yet he still felt as though he were a stranger, as though he were inhabiting a different body.
You're not a killer.
Rick's head snapped up suddenly. He released his vice-like grip on the basin, and glanced up at his reflection, eyes narrowed, lips pursed together tightly. He knew that voice, those words. There was a feeling of unease - set deep in his bones - that he couldn't shake. He was completely, entirely alone, half-naked in a steamy bathroom, and yet it felt as though someone was with him, as though she were right beside him.
Lori.
The words came again, softer that time. You're not a killer.
"I am."
Rick lifted a hand to the mirror again, wiping away any remnants of fog that lingered. He cleared the mirror, and stared back at himself once more, chin raised, head tilted to the side ever so slightly. His eyes skimmed over the stranger that stood before him - over the broad, lean shoulders. The scattering of scars, and colourful bruises that adorned his skin. His skin had been ripped open by bullets and blades, but not teeth, not yet - and he only felt a flicker of recognition.
You're not a killer and I know that. I know that.
He staggered back from the basin, glancing around in confusion. There was a tremor to his voice when he answered, hands balled into fists by his side, nails digging crescent moons into the centre of his palms. "I am what I am," he said, shaking his head. "But you, you're not here. You can't be."
Lori's voice had faded out to almost nothing. Her words reverberated around his skull. Do whatever you gotta do to keep this group safe and do it with a clear conscience. Not for one second do I think there is malice in your heart. You're not a killer.
Rick winced, and nearly flinched away from the words.
A beat passed, and there was nothing, just deafening silence. Rick ran a hand over his face, then brushed the wet curls out of his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh as he slumped against the far wall, closing his eyes for a moment. Faintly, he could hear chatter from downstairs - the sound of distant laughter, echoing throughout the halls of the house, set Rick on edge, making something sharp twist in his gut - but that was it.
The sound of her voice was unexpected; it rattled him. He hadn't heard it in months, hadn't thought of her in weeks. Rick leant his head back against the wall, eyes still crammed shut, hands still clenched into fists. It wasn't until he felt a wetness between his fingers that he opened his eyes, peering down at both of his hands. The skin was cracked open, torn from how harshly his fingernails dug into the skin.
He belatedly uncurled his fists, stretching his fingers. Blood dripped down the spaces between his fingers.
It was a rich, dark red, that got under his nails like dirt. He rushed to the sink, fumbling with the silver tap, smearing blood over the bone-white basin. Rick held his hands under the steady flow of water, scrubbing at his skin roughly with blunt nails. He scratched away dried blood. Rinsed the fresh blood off of his hands, transfixed by the sight of it as it swirled around the sink, turning pink before it disappeared down the drain.
The sound of Glenn's voice from the opposite side of the door had Rick fumbling for the tap again. He switched it off, and wiped his hands off on his towel, unthinking. "Just because you're a cop again doesn't mean you get to use up all the hot water." the other man called; voice jovial, light. "Come on. Quit hogging the shower." he whined. "I get it. You want to clean up all nice so you can show off in your Sheriff's uniform. Just hurry up, Clint Eastwood."
The uniform felt too tight. It clung to Rick's skin, in a way that was almost suffocating, despite the fact that the clothes hung loosely from his lean frame. Wearing it felt wrong, as though he weren't deserving of it, and perhaps he wasn't. Not now. He wasn't the Rick Grimes that he used to be; that man was a ghost, lost to him now.
Rick gripped the bannister tightly, forgetting the torn flesh in the middle of his palm. He lingered in the hallway, just outside the living room. The faint sound of chatter had gradually gotten louder as he approached, smiling to himself at the sound of Carl's laughter ringing out into the night. Rick stepped into view, instinctively skimming the room in search of both of his children. He heard Michonne's voice before he saw her.
"You clean up good, Sheriff."
Rick smiled thinly, fingertips absent-mindedly brushing over the open wounds on the inside of his hand.
"Shower's free." he replied.
"Good to know. Might go brush my teeth for the thirtieth time today." Michonne said, smiling slowly, easily.
His heart clenched at that. She wanted this; a chance, a life. They all did, of course. But he could see the fear in her eyes - fear of losing this, losing her mind, losing her family - and he saw the desperation, too. The desperation to cling onto every little good thing that came your way, regardless of how big or small it was.
Rick glanced away, but looked back suddenly, the light catching on Michonne's necklace; the glint of the golden A drew his gaze in. He swallowed thickly, and averted his eyes. He always meant to ask, always meant to try, but couldn't bring himself to form the words. It was her badge, marking love and loss. She clutched the necklace sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. Her lower lip would quiver, and her hands trembled.
He couldn't bring himself to ask.
She had her necklace, and he had his wedding ring. Her gaze would stray every now and again, lingering on the silver band on his finger. She knew, of course. They all knew. But she didn't pry, didn't ask, only watched on with a mix of pity and grief in her clouded eyes. Rick touched his wedding band now, out of habit.
"Hopefully mine looks as good on me as yours does on you." she said.
He frowned, her words not making sense for a moment. Oh. He ran a hand down the front of his chest, smoothing out non-existent wrinkle. It was out of habit. He fiddled with his tie, brushed out the wrinkles in his shirt, because he had to do something, had to do something with his hands. Rick wasn't sure when it started, but he just couldn't keep still, no matter how hard he tried to.
"Navy was never my color." Michonne continued.
"Yeah. I'm sure it'll look terrible on you."
Rick glanced over the room once more, doing a mental tally of who was there, and who wasn't. Everyone except Daryl, of course. Carl was sitting at a table across from Noah; the two were playing some sort of card game. Abraham and Rosita were in the farthest corner of the room, huddled together, while Tara and Eugene were sitting side by side on the floor. Sasha was by the window, staring out of it.
Guilt struck Rick in the chest, hard. He wanted to say something to her, but knew that no words would make up for her loss.
The rest of the group were scattered across the room - some sitting, some standing, some curling up on the couch under thick woollen blankets - but the hunter was nowhere in sight. Rick looked back to Michonne slowly. As though she had sensed his thoughts, Michonne nodded towards the porch. Rick's gaze flicked up and towards the door.
"He's out there."
"Why?" Rick asked, as though it were that simple.
"He wants to be alone. I think it's too much for him."
Rick dropped his head, and looked away from the front door. "We have to make it work, right? That's what you said. And I see that now."
"Yeah, we do." Michonne said, smiling brightly. "And we will. Daryl will come around. He always does."
The hunter was edging himself out slowly, putting more and more distance between them. Rick knew that, and he felt helpless, like there was nothing he could do to bring Daryl back to them, back to him. He knew that the archer was hurting, that he lost something - someone - and he wasn't coping well with the grief. Rick had to do something, he knew that. Had to find a way to bring Daryl back.
"Go," Michonne's voice startled Rick, dragging him away from his thoughts.
Rick rubbed at his forehead, looking back up at Michonne. "He wants to be alone."
"Maybe. Maybe he does want that. All I'm saying is you should talk to him."
"Why? What makes you think he'll listen to me?"
Michonne seemed to hesitate. "It's you, Rick."
"I don't - I don't know what that means."
"It means it's you. It's always been you, when it comes to Daryl."
Rick nodded, and tried not to dwell on her words. He wasn't quite sure what she meant by it - by saying, it's you, Rick. It's always been you, when it comes to Daryl - he couldn't linger on it though, couldn't toss it over in his mind, not now, he couldn't afford to. Daryl rarely relied on him, but in moments of vulnerability, he would lean on Rick. Lately, Rick felt as though he was asking far too much of Daryl. The hunter carried enough weight on his shoulders; he didn't need Rick's burdens.
"Guess it's official now," came Daryl's voice, as Rick stepped out onto the dimly lit porch. There was a cigarette propped between the archer's lips, dangling as he spoke. Rick let a moment pass, before taking a slow step closer. Daryl's figure was shadowed in darkness, with Rick only able to make out his outline, the shape of his body, the lit cigarette that burnt orange as he drew back on it.
Rick slowed to a halt, stopping just inches away from Daryl. "Yeah, I guess it is."
"Never thought I'd see you in a uniform again." Daryl scoffed, looking away. He plucked the cigarette from between his lips, and held it between his forefinger and thumb. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Ain't gonna be much crime to fight 'round these parts, Sheriff."
"I'm not - nothing's changed, Daryl. Not between us."
Daryl looked up at Rick from underneath dark lashes, shadows still cast upon his face. He didn't look convinced.
"Nothing has to change," Rick ducked his head, hoping to get a better look into Daryl's eyes. "It doesn't have to. I'm not your Sheriff."
The archer said nothing, just scoffed, again, and looked away.
"I'm just playing my part, Daryl. That's all."
"That's all it is, huh? A part?"
Daryl was leaning against the railing, his back against a beam. Rick moved to stand next to him, but looked out at the night, and up at the stars, instead. They were close, shoulders almost brushing, but Rick couldn't help but feel like there was distance between them. Rick sighed, and ran a hand over his face, turning to Daryl.
"We need this place." he said bluntly.
"Ain't gonna pretend that I'm somethin I ain't."
"They look at us, Daryl, and they see outsiders."
"That's 'cause we are." he pushed himself off of the railing abruptly, and lifted the cigarette to his mouth, stepping away from Rick.
"We found somethin good, Daryl." Rick sighed, tracking the archer's movements. "We need to make them feel safe. Like we're not threats."
Daryl spun around sharply, advancing on Rick. "I ain't gotta do shit, Officer. It ain't on me. You wanna make 'em feel safe? Go ahead, cause it sure don't bother me either way. I said it already," he continued, exhaling silver smoke between them. "I ain't gonna pretend that I'm somethin I ain't. Never had to do it before. Ain't gonna start now."
"I'm not askin that of you, Daryl."
He was invading Rick's personal space, crowding him against the railing. "What doya want from me?"
Rick faltered. He wasn't quite sure what he was asking of Daryl, if he would be asking too much. All he knew was that he wanted Daryl around, and that he missed him when he wasn't. Rick couldn't voice that though, not to Daryl. Instead, he sighed, and leant back further into the railing. That did little to put distance between them; Daryl was merely inches away from him, staring Rick down with clouded blue eyes.
"I don't know." Rick murmured.
Tell me you won't leave.
Daryl started to retreat, taking a deliberate step back. Rick fought the urge to reach out, to keep Daryl there, with him.
He knew it would be a mistake, to touch Daryl. Rick was aware of Daryl's past, of the scars that marked his skin. It had to be Daryl; he had to be the one to initiate contact. And he would, every now and then. A hand on Rick's shoulder, a pat on his stomach, a shoulder brushing against his own. Brief, fleeting touches, that were so light, so rare, and Rick had grown to cherish them.
As much as he wanted to grab hold of Daryl, he knew that it would be a mistake - he could see the tension in the taut line of Daryl's shoulders, see the way his lips were pulled tight, his eyes almost cold - so, Rick stayed where he was, and simply watched on as Daryl took another step back, and then other, throwing his cigarette down to the ground. He crushed it out with his heel, eyes still on Rick.
"Lemme know when you figure out what you want, Officer."
Rick watched Daryl's retreating figure, as he returned inside the house, letting the door swing shut loudly behind him. Rick sighed, and ran a hand over his face, running over Daryl's words in his mind. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but he knew that he couldn't stand the thought of losing Daryl. He wanted Daryl around, wanted him safe, and close, as close as he could have him. Rick wasn't sure what that mean, he wasn't sure if he would have time to figure it out. All he knew was that Daryl was lost, and Rick had to give him a reason to stay.
AN: This is my first time posting in this fandom, so I'm really nervous. Rickyl is everything to me, so I hope you enjoyed this. The title is inspired by Florence + The Machine's song 'What Kind Of Man'.
For anyone wondering why Daryl's acting this way, it's because he's worried that he doesn't fit into this new life. He doesn't have a place inside the walls of the ASZ, but he knows his place outside. Rick has resumed his pre-apocalypse role of being a 'Sheriff' / 'Officer' and Daryl's concerned that he's going to revert back to being the 'outsider' of the group, like he was in parts of season one and two.
Rick just wants Daryl near him, but doesn't quite understand why.