This was written for my dear friend, Taylor, who requested some Rick/Reader for her birthday.
We Were Drawn From The Weeds
He's fidgeting around on the couch again, trying to twist his body into a semi-comfortable position, and when he winces at the pain it causes his left leg you wince with him. It's hard to see his face contorted into such agony, harder still to see it bruised and swollen, but you've done all you can for him. And somehow he's still gorgeous, even with the black eye, cut up nose, puffy cheeks, swollen lips, and ragged beard. He could probably take your breath away if he was back to normal, but you're not sure you'll ever get the chance to see him that way, so you push the thought from your mind.
"I know it's hard, Rick, but you've gotta try to stop moving that leg around. You're just going to make it worse by jiggling it every which way on that couch." You say as you walk over to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to still him.
Rick huffs and rolls his good eye. "Been shot before, y'know. I'll be fine."
"Was that back before the world went to hell and you had trained doctors to help you recuperate? Because you don't have that luxury now." You're snappy, and you know it, but sometimes Rick's just so stubborn you can't help but get a little pissy. "Let me get a look at it."
He doesn't speak, just lifts the edge of the blanket and pulls it away from his leg. He's not wearing his pants, just his boxers, per your instructions to him since the day he got here. You vaguely wonder if he feels uncomfortable like that, but you're not about to ask him.
You pull off the bandages covering his wound, biting back a smirk as he damn near yelps at the way the sticky parts pull at his leg hairs. You're not a doctor or a nurse, but you do know a little bit of first aid, and you can tell that the bullet wound is healing the way it should. There's bruising flowing from the wound out through the rest of his thigh from the bullet's initial impact, but there aren't any signs of infection that you can see, and you have plenty of hydrogen peroxide to kill any germs still residing.
You leave his side and go to the kitchen table, grabbing the peroxide and a big bag of cotton balls, along with a few more bandages. You lay the objects out on the floor and then plop down beside them, almost hitting the couch on your way down. You can feel Rick's eyes on you as you uncap the peroxide and pluck a cotton ball from the bag, but you pointedly ignore him.
You hold the cotton ball to the opening of the peroxide bottle and slowly tip it, making sure the liquid only gets onto the cotton ball and not all over the floor. Once the little fluff-ball is thoroughly soaked in peroxide you turn to face Rick. "This is going to sting, okay?"
Rick nods, his jaw clenching as he prepares for the burn. You waste no time in pressing the cotton ball to the wound and holding it there, making sure it douses the entire affected area before pulling back. You do the same thing with another cotton ball, and then use a third to wipe away any excess. A few bandages later and Rick's leg's as good as it's going to get for at least one more day.
"May as well give your face a little treatment, since I'm down here." You mumble, pushing your first aid materials along the floor as you inch closer to where Rick's head is resting on the arm of the couch, propped up on two spare pillows.
You cup his chin gently between your fingers, turning his head slowly so you can check each of his facial injuries. The cuts are healing faster than you thought they would be, and his black eye is starting to open a little bit; the swelling in his cheeks has gone down, too, and he looks almost the way you're figuring he should.
You splash another cotton ball with peroxide, press it to the few cuts on his face, and then close everything up. You push it all aside, aiming to get up, but he lays a hand on your shoulder, keeping you in place on the ground.
Rick is staring at you, his one good eye a blue as bright as the ocean at noon, and burning with some odd kind of intensity. You stare back, transfixed by his magnificent gaze, waiting for him to either speak or release you from this sudden hypnotism.
Finally, he chooses the former. "I just wanna… wanna thank you, for all you've done for me, for my son."
You swallow past the lump in your throat, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. "I didn't do anything another decent person wouldn't have done."
He chuckles at that and shakes his head slightly. "Don't know if you've noticed, but there ain't that many decent people left in the world. I'm just glad we managed to stumble upon one of them."
You smile at that, a soft upward curving of your lips, and he smiles back at you. And for some reason you're longing to kiss him, longing to just cup his cheeks and press your lips to his for at least an hour; but you maintain your self-control, because who knows how he'd react to that.
He seems to be waiting for you to say something, and before you can really think of a good way to continue the conversation you blurt out, "You never did tell me what happened to you two."
Rick's eyes lose that spark of tenderness they'd just had, his lips falling into a thin line. "Nothing to tell."
Your drop your eyes from his gaze, not wanting to pry, but somehow needing to know. You reach up, covering his hand that is still on your shoulder with your own, tenderly stroking his knuckles with your fingertips. "You stumbled in here, your son practically carrying you through the door, a bullet lodged in your thigh and your face looking like it had been attacked by wasps, and you say there's no story there?"
He sighs and starts to pull his hand away, but you grasp it tighter, linking your fingers together. He turns his head to see you better, locking eyes with you once more. "Maybe I just don't want to tell you about it."
You nod, averting your gaze once again. "That make sense." You untwine your fingers and release him.
His hand hesitates in the air, his expression torn; he doesn't want to relive the past, but he doesn't want to see you sad either. So he comes to a mental compromise. "It's just a long, painful story. Talking about it makes it real all over again, and some things are better left in the past."
His hand now hangs limply against the side of the couch, and hearing his explanation you can't help but clasp it in your own once more. You understand what he's saying; you've had to live through things that should have given you a mental breakdown, things you don't know if you'll ever be able to talk about again. So you won't say anything more about it.
And the past doesn't matter anyway. For now you have this moment together, and you don't even care that you've only known each other for about a week, give or take a few days. You enjoy Rick's company, and he enjoys yours, and in this world that's what really matters; after all, decent people are hard to come by.
Suddenly he tugs his hand away from your grasp, laying his hand on the side of your face instead, his palm against the side of your throat, his fingers against your jaw and cheek, his thumb gently stroking your bottom lip. He's looking at you differently now, his eyes fixed on your mouth, and you wonder if he's thinking about kissing you, just like you'd thought a few minutes prior.
You think that maybe he needs a push in the right direction, so you inch slightly closer to him, pressing your chest against the couch and leaning forward so that your faces are just inches apart.
That brings him to action, and he is pushing himself forward with the elbow of his other arm. He doesn't have far to lean to reach you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb on your lips, kissing you tenderly, the unspoken gratitude rolling from him in waves. You almost have to remind yourself to kiss him back because you're so lost in the sweetness of his touch, but your lips have no trouble molding themselves to his.
His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair, and you grip his arm to balance yourself as he attempts to pull you closer. Your other hand comes up and wraps around his chest, clutching at his shirt, wanting more. It's been far too long since you've had a man to spend the night with, let alone a handsome one, and you're damn near pulling him off the couch and down next to you just to get at him.
But Rick has too much honor, has seen too many people he loved die, to just throw it all away on some fling. He doesn't plan on staying here with you forever, and there's no guarantee that you'll go with him when he does leave. So as much as he wants you, as much as he wants to feel something other than pain and sorrow, he can't bring himself to go any further.
Rick pulls away, untangling his fingers from your hair, and pries your hands off of him. "I'm sorry. I like you, I do, but… there's too much going on, too much to think about and worry over. I can't do that, not right now."
And there is such sadness in his eyes that you don't argue, just lean forward and press a compassionate kiss to his forehead. You rise from the floor, gathering up the first aid materials you had pushed away, and turn to leave the room.
"Stay with me?" He asks, and though your back is turned you can hear the pleading in his voice and know that his expression bears that same weight.
You look over your shoulder, throwing him a playful smile. "Of course. Just let me put these things away, and I'll be right in."
Maybe he doesn't want to be intimate with you, but he does want to be near you, and that's enough for now. Maybe you'll never be intimate, maybe he'll leave tomorrow morning or in the next few days and you'll never see him again. But for now he's your friend, and you his, and just being able to hold his hand and see him smile will get you through one more night.