It's dark out when Daryl gets out there. Took him a minute to find somebody to give Judith to – ends up being Carol, and he can't help but think she knows what he's fixin' to do, 'cause she tells him last she saw of Rick, he was headed for the yard – but he's out, now, and making for the yard where Carol says she saw him last.
Doesn't take much looking. Ought to, by all rights. Prison's a big place, even if it don't feel that way most times. Everyone's heading in, though, and Daryl's got good eyes, so when he spots a figure down by the graves, he knows just who it is.
He knows it don't mean nothin' good he's there, neither.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters under his breath. He's already walking, though, cool night breeze nipping at his bare arms. Feels good, now that it's starting to warm up. The prison holds heat like a damn oven.
He don't take any great pains to keep his approach quiet. Matter of fact, he tries makin' a little noise, just out of habit. People 'round there spook easy, and it don't pay to catch someone unawares when they got something sharp or loaded on their hip. It's weird; Daryl's used to light feet and quiet steps. But if it means not getting' on the business end of a weapon, he reckons he'll tough it out.
Rick's got his head down when Daryl gets over to him. he's on his knees in front of a cross Daryl remembers breakin' down a slat for, hands on his laps, curled into fists. And nah, he ain't too good with people, but he knows what he's looking at just fine.
That's Rick's mourning pose. Daryl reckons everybody's got one, some way of standin' or sittin' that makes 'em feel better when they're hurtin'. All this time, Daryl's picked up on most everybody's. Hershel folds his hands under his chin all solemn like, prays a good long while 'til he's worked his way through whatever the hell it is. Beth curls up real tight, hugs her knees or her daddy, one. Carol's legs go out like somebody's kicked her, and she holds her mouth like there's somethin' she don't want bustin' out. And Rick…
Rick does this.
Thing is, Daryl can't think of what he's mournin'. They got food, supplies, nobody's died in weeks; way Daryl sees it, they're doin' pretty damn good. He's wrackin' his brain, but he's pretty well and truly stumped on just what the hell the problem is, so he just gives up guessin'.
"'S fixin' to storm," he tells him, walking up a little ways behind him and holding there. Man needs his space, sure, but he wasn't lying. Clouds're rolling in, blocking out the moon and what's left of the sunlight, and the air feels thick and charged. First cracks of thunder came a few minutes ago, and Daryl reckons it's maybe five, ten minutes before the sky opens up and starts dropping buckets down on their heads. And he ain't real keen on being out in it when it happens. Rick, neither.
Rick don't say nothin', though. Not for a while, and Daryl gives him time, but he don't even raise his head.
He tries again. "Gonna be bad, looks like. Prolly flood the creek. Sure as hell soak you pretty good." He says it all casual-ike. He's talking about the weather, for Christ's sake, 'cause he don't know what else to talk about. This ain't his bag; it's more for Hershel or somebody that knows what they're doing, but they're all back in the prison, and Daryl can't get his feet to move in that direction.
To be honest, he's not real sure he's trying all that hard. Rick's done it for him, ain't he? Turned up when he needed him, got his mind off things. Rick wasn't no more keen on talking than he was, so if he could do it, Daryl figures least he can do was give it a damn shot.
For all the good it's doing. Rick's still sitting there, holding his damn staring match with that cross stickin' out of the ground. Truth is, Daryl ain't even rightly sure which one'll blink first.
Daryl bites back a swear. He ain't any good at this. Hunting, fighting…he knows that. But this ain't in his wheelhouse, and he can't help but wish it was, 'cause dammit, what good is he anyway? If he can't even get a couple words out. He's trying. Shit, he's trying. He just don't know what he's doing.
He's scrambling. Shifting around on his feet, hands hanging useless at his sides, 'cause this ain't a problem they can diz. It's a problem for heads and hearts, and Daryl's not real good at using neither. He needs something to say, and the more time ticks by he don't get it, the more uneasy it makes him. The worse he feels.
There's a flash of lighting, and Daryl counts three seconds before the clap of thunder hits. It's loud and heavy, and Daryl don't like it for what it means, but a part of him's just glad for the break in the silence.
He's even gladder for the bit that follows it.
"You should go inside," Rick says. His voice is so low, Daryl can scarcely hear it over the walkers at the fence and the wind.
It's a relief hearing his voice, but there's somethin' in it makes Daryl's brows scrunch up. "You too," he mutters. His ain't much louder, but he knows Rick hears him just fine.
"Not yet." It's like he's talking in an echo's the only way Daryl knows how to describe it. Like he's miles away, talking, and Daryl's here hearing it. "You go on."
Daryl frowns. Takes a step back – Rick knows what he's doing, and Daryl ain't smart enough to claim he knows better than Rick – but then has a change of heart and takes one forward. He may not know better than Rick on most things, but he knows better'n leaving him out in a storm. And he don't know why, but it ain't just the rain he's worried about Rick drownin' in.
"Nah," he says, takes another step forward so he's just off Rick's shoulder, and squats down, holding out his hand to catch the first few drops of rain. "Think I'll stay out here a while."
He sees Rick's shoulders stiffen up, and there's a part of him thinks maybe he's doin' it wrong, that he should just do what Rick says and head in, 'cause hell if he knows what he's doing.
He tries not to pay it no mind, though. Thinks on what Carol or Hershel'd do, and maybe they'd back off, maybe they wouldn't. But they sure as hell wouldn't leave without sayin' nothin', and since Daryl's got nothin' to say, he reckons he ain't goin' anywhere.
"Daryl." Just his name, but it sounds like a request. Or a warning, one, but for all Dayrl's used to those, it don't feel right. Rick ain't like that, not to him. Not anymore.
He's earned his place. Or else he's earning it.
So, he don't say nothin', but he don't go, neither. The rain's pickin' up. He reckons they've got maybe five minutes 'til it hits full on, but much as he ain't keen on getting' wet, he's not moving 'til Rick's with him.
"Daryl, I said go on inside."
Daryl just nods, props his arm up over his knee, and says after a second, "I heard you." And he don't know why he does it, but he reaches for Rick's shoulder, meaning to turn him around or just show he's there or shit, he don't know. Somethin'. Rick'd do the same for him. Has done, more than once.
Rick shrugs him off, though. Hell, Daryl might just as well have held a lighter to his shoulder, way he jerks back. And maybe Daryl should just leave well enough alone, but he don't. He tries again, and this time, instead of just jerking away, Rick swings around, knocking Daryl's hand clear off him.
There's another clap of thunder, and then somehow, they're all out tussling. Daryl's got Rick by the front of the shirt trying to get a hold of him, and Rick's twisting loose and batting him away. They don't neither of them go for punches; it ain't that kind of tussle. More like wrestling. Grappling or some shit. Daryl's just trying to keep hold of him, and he don't even know why it's so important he does, just that it is and that Rick don't seem to agree. He's wrenching and turning, and Daryl feels the sleeve he's holding rip, but he don't seem to notice any.
"Dammit, Daryl!" Rick snaps, but Daryl keeps on. He gets knocked off, hits the ground on his back, but he gets right back up, near enough tackling Rick. Rick's got some weight on him now, so that's just about what it takes to get the chance to get his arms around him.
It ain't perfect form or nothin'; Daryl never got training outside what he picked up from Merle and just a shit ton of experience. But he manages to get one arm tucked up under Rick's with his hand on the back of his neck in a janky sort of half nelson, and he's got a fistful of Rick's sleeve in the other gripped tight.
"Let go 'a me!"
Daryl wishes it was just his imagination, but his voice sounds awful hitched. Ragged, like he's fixin' to lose it. But Daryl don't let go. He won't, not 'til Rick's done fighting with whatever the hell it is going on in that head of his. If that means he's gotta fight with Daryl to blow off the steam, well hell, 'least he ain't usin' a belt or a broken beer bottle.
'Cept that ain't fair. Rick ain't his old man. Rick ain't Merle or nobody else Rick grew up with. And just a few weeks back, when Daryl cold-clocked him in a fight, he didn't hit back. SO, Daryl just holds tight, lets him thrash around like he needs 'til he's worked it all out. 'Cause he's shit with words, and a walker'd prolly be better company on a good day, never mind a bad one, but this…this, he can do. At least.
The rain's coming down hard, now. 'Course it is, 'cause it ain't bad enough. It's making it harder to hold onto Rick, making his grip slip and slide, and he can't quite get his feet dug into the ground enough to get good footing. He's all covered in mud from the waist down, and Darol'll like as not chew his ear real good come morning, but he don't really give a damn, 'cause right then, that's when Rick takes a turn. For worse or for better, Daryl's got no idea, but he stops twisting around, and Daryl waits a second or two just to be sure before he starts to let up. He goes slow, makes sure he's still got a chance to grab him if he snaps again, but he don't think he will. And somehow, they end up sitting there, bare shoulders touching where Rick's sleeve's ripped half off, nothing but rain and walkers filling the silence.
"We should go in," Rick says after a long moment.
Daryl doesn't budge. "Figured you might have somethin' you needed to get off your chest." It's as close as Daryl can bring himself to askin' if Rick wants to talk, and he can still hear at least three different voices in his in his head asking him when he turned into such a little bitch. He tries ignoring them; they're all dead and gone, but Rick ain't…he ain't. He's there; he's always there, seems like, always offering a hand up or an eye out, or just about anything else Daryl can't hardly recall any 'a those other people sending his way.
Far as Daryl's concerned, that makes him the one that matters.