Author's Note: Good news: your abundance of beautiful reviews and feedback had me dying to get another chapter up (also, I'm an arrogant little shit who likes to hear lots of nice things about what she's writing before she can get the next chapter started). Bad news: this is the last of the chapters I already had written. Now, you'll have to wait a week or sometimes (I try my best) more for an update. For that, I'm sorry. But at least the ending of this chapter isn't as much of a cliffhanger as the other one. I really hope you guys all like it, and I hope it isn't a disappoint to all the suspense I built at the end of last chapter.
I'm gonna make another special mention to K Lynn Perks, who I just realized (belatedly, I'm sorry) has been reviewing since the inception of this fic on this site. Thank you very, very much for your continued support, dear! You have no idea how wonderful it is to read your beautiful feedback.
Also, Mayeri, I absolutely adore long reviews; you have no idea. Continue to write them, please!
Anyway, this is the ninth chapter. It has some heavy shit (not as heavy as what's to come, but I digress). Just. . . I've been told it's extremely emotional, so keep that in mind before you dive in to read it.
"You're late, man," Shane commented when Rick climbed into the driver's seat of his patrol car.
"I had to take Hazel home," Rick responded distractedly. "We were at the park."
He didn't mention that 'we' also included Daryl Dixon. Although he'd be the first person to tell Shane exactly where to shove his dislike of Daryl, he didn't think purposely inciting his friend was a good idea. They'd agreed to not talk about him, and that was how they were still friends. Still, he wanted to be able to talk about the boy who'd become his best friend in the course of the last six months. Then again, that same boy had essentially replaced Shane in Rick's life, so maybe he really couldn't blame him. He sighed. Maybe it was time to finally clear the air between them.
"Y'all have a good time?" Shane asked, sitting back in his seat.
"Yeah," Rick replied and started the car so they could begin their patrol. He drove out of the lot of the station's parking lot, heading toward the far end of town. "She got lost in the woods, though." Talking about Daryl helping Hazel might warm the man's perception of him.
Shane looked at him, concern in the furrow of his brow. "You weren't watchin' her?"
Rick bristled a little at the blame in his voice. "I just took my eyes off'a her for a second. . . She was chasin' a butterfly." Rick smiled helplessly, forgetting his irritation, and Shane couldn't help but join him. Like Daryl, he had a soft spot for Rick's kid sister. Or maybe that was just the case with everyone. He shrugged.
"A butterfly," his friend echoed, shaking his head. "How'd you end up findin' her? You ain't a woodsman."
"I had some help," Rick responded uneasily, eyes fixed on the road.
"Who from?"
"Daryl Dixon." There it was. He said it.
To his credit, Shane didn't react with the explosive fit of rage Rick was expecting. He just bit into his nail, stared out his window before turning back to Rick. But his posture was rigid, and Rick knew him too well to think he wasn't pissed. "He's hangin' out with Hazel, now?"
Rick met his gaze evenly, resisting the urge to curl his lip at the disapproval in his tone, before turning his eyes back to the road. "Is there a reason he shouldn't?" he asked, and Shane huffed in irritation, like the answer was obvious.
"He's a Dixon, Rick. Maybe he ain't bad now, but he will be. Just look at his brother, or his old man."
"Look, Shane, he ain't his brother. He's a good kid. He loves Hazel, and Hazel loves him. I'm tellin' ya, my ma's almost called Daryl instead'a me ta watch her when she was at work. He's a good person, Shane. I don't know why you can't see that."
In fact, he did know, and he'd told Daryl the reason for it himself. Still, it didn't make him feel any better about the fact that his friend was a judgmental asshole.
Rick pulled to a stop at the corner of street, thinking it was a good place to keep an eye out for trouble or respond to a radioed message needing their help. He stared out at the gentle wilderness, and Rick found himself thinking of Daryl, of the flower he had given Hazel. He recalled the image of her clutching the beautiful bloom to her chest as she ran back up the drive to Rick's childhood home. He thought about the careful directions Daryl had given his kid sister about keeping the rose alive for as long as possible, how Hazel seemed to drink up every word like the boy was speaking gospel.
He looked at Shane, then, holding his curious, frustrated gaze. "He's one of the best people I've ever met," Rick said softly. Even when he and Shane were at odds, he was speaking his mind in front of the guy. Old habits die hard, he supposed.
A strange look came over Shane's face, morphing from jealousy into sudden, somewhat horrified realization. "You like him, don't you?" he all but whispered. His mouth was hanging open slightly.
"Of course I do," Rick responded. "That's what I've been tryin' ta tell—"
"I don't mean like that," Shane interrupted, dark brown eyes bored into his, appearing almost black in the shadows of dying twilight.
Rick averted his eyes, playing absently with the holster of his gun. He was fully aware of how his eyes lingered on the Dixon too long, focused on his pink lips, his flyaway blonde hair, his sparkling blue eyes framed by long, golden eyelashes. So what if he found himself wanting to press his lips against the birthmark just above the left corner of his lips? Those were his thoughts, and he sure as hell never thought that Shane would pick up on them. He was more than happy to remain just friends with Daryl, because he knew exactly just how flighty he was. A stupid little crush was not a good enough reason to risk losing Daryl. But, that stupid little crush was there, and Shane had somehow picked up on it.
So, he settled to simply say, "Oh."
Shane looked taken aback, and Rick couldn't blame him. He probably expected embarrassment, or denial. But Rick chose to stare at him stonily, wondering what was okay to say around his friend. He shook his head. The only time he had to watch what he said around Daryl was when it concerned his family, and Rick got that. Not everything was for other people to hear; there were things about his father he didn't want to talk about, either. Mostly because the hurt of losing him was still raw, but he thought that it was still basically the same thing.
Before either of them could say anything more, their radio crackled in, and the voice of a dispatcher filled the car. They instantly quieted themselves, listening intently for the anticipating report.
"Respond to 55 Water Street, signal 22, possible 10-35."
"That's us; we're closest," Shane muttered, waiting for Rick to relay that they would be reporting to the scene, as was usually his job.
But Rick was rigid in his seat, staring blankly, mind only just registering that Shane's eyes were burning into him. The words of his friend got lost as they picked their way through the voice's words on the radio echoing around in his head. Eventually, it narrowed down to just the residence repeating like one of his broken records, and Rick tried and failed to swallow down the sudden dryness in his throat, vanquish the sudden sweat pooling in the center of his palms.
Because that was Daryl's address.
Shane gave up on waiting for him, picking up the radio and pushing down the transmit button to give it time to connect. "Paul 103 to DIS," he said slowly and clearly into the microphone, releasing the button, eyes not leaving Rick.
"Go ahead, Paul 103," the voice responded after a second.
"Reporting to 55 Water Street for signal 22, possible 10-35."
This way, the other units nearby would know that the incident was covered, that they didn't need to swarm to report to the address. But Rick felt that they should, because that was Daryl's house. Knowing the implications, his heart jumped up into his throat, and, fuck, he couldn't breathe. Maybe it wasn't Daryl's address, maybe he'd heard wrong. He could feel his heart's erratic beat in his ears, behind his eyes, in his mouth, and he felt like he was choking—
"Rick!" Shane's voice cut through his panic, and Rick looked to him with a stricken expression, eyes glazed. There was concern behind the determination on Shane's features, and he knew that his friend was fully aware of what it all meant—the signal, the code—and taking control. He was a cop, and proud of it. This was what he was trained to do. It was Daryl's address, and he hadn't heard wrong.
Rick dutifully started the car, pulling out of their parking space at a ridiculously fast speed that he'd have never even dreamed of hitting. Shane hurriedly reached down to turn on their siren and lights, just so that incoming traffic would have a chance to avoid Rick and his frenzied warpath. He cast worried looks in Rick's direction every few seconds, but Rick paid him no attention. The last thing on his mind was whether or not his friend thought he was emotionally stable. As he raced down the roads leading to Daryl's house, his brow furrowed, he thought about how he had just been heading this way at eight o'clock this morning to pick Daryl up for their adventure at the park. He didn't know how things could change so drastically in less than twelve hours. He didn't know how he could go from having Daryl, safe and whole and smiling next to him, to this, traveling toward his house with sirens wailing and red and blue lights flashing.
Some part of his logical mind was still intact when he approached Daryl's street, and he reached down to turn off the siren and the lights, slowing the patrol car to a more moderate speed. Daryl had always been so insistent on inconspicuousness when Rick came to pick him up, and something told him that, even now, that carefulness applied here, too. He didn't know why, but he'd learned over time to go with his gut instinct. Maybe it was because he was trying to make up for the guilt of not realizing that something had to be up for Daryl to be afraid of being seen with a damn friend, for God's sake. He shook the thought away. He had other things to be worrying about than his own damned conscience.
He took the left onto Daryl's street and pulled in front of the rundown shack Daryl called home. He left Shane to turn off the engine before he pushed the car door open and all but tumbled out of the seat, hitting the ground at a sprint. Rick didn't waste time banging on the door or demanding to be let in; he tried the handle, and he was shocked and relieved to find that it wasn't locked. Taking only a tiny breath to calm himself, he pushed his way inside the darkened house, letting the fading sunlight spill into the house, barely having the presence of mind to identify himself as the police.
The entire room was wrecked. Rick's eyes traveled over the clutter of the main room anxiously, searching for anything that would reveal Daryl's whereabouts. He found nothing, and his mind calmed enough to let him take in the full extent of the damage done to the room. The ragged armchair was on its side, a cluster of magazines and newspapers strewn next to it. Beer cans littered the floor, and glass from what he suspected were the remains of a bottle of moonshine joined them. Rick's eyes followed the mess, trying to imagine what could have put it there. He froze when his eyes caught sight of a blood red flash, the rest of the room seeming to go dark.
A knife, discarded and bloody lay on the floor of the kitchen, a thin trail of the red liquid tracing where it'd skid after being thrown. Little smears and puddles of blood led from the tiny kitchen to the hallway, and he felt his panic hollow out to pure, all-consuming terror as he stared at it. It was like he was removed from his body as his feet led him closer, fingers hovering over where the stuff was smeared against the wall, and he hardly noticed when Shane came up behind him quietly. The sharp metallic tang assaulting his nose made him want to vomit, but there was a small, rational part of his brain that told him that this was not the time for him to lose his stomach.
"What the hell . . . ?" Shane whispered, and Rick ignored him to follow the trail of blood down the hallway. His friend clenched his jaw and moved over to the phone, undoubtedly to call for an ambulance, and Rick couldn't make out his words over the blood rushing in his ears. He still felt like he was watching himself from afar, and maybe it was just his way of keeping him from giving into the hysteria he could feel dancing at the bottom of his stomach. His formless consciousness hovered as he watched his body proceed down the hallway, Shane following him after finishing his call. Rick found himself abruptly jolted back into his mind as he halted at the doorway where the path of blood ended, staring hard at the splotches of blood forming an imprint of a hand on the chipped paint of the doorframe.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, he steeled himself and stepped into the room, and his frazzled mind quickly dismissed it as being empty. His boots squelched in the largest volume of blood he'd seen yet, and he jerked backward, air whistling harshly through his nose. But it wasn't the blood on the ground he flinched back from; no, it was from the paper scattered all over the ground, paper he recognized. Paper he'd used to write the owner of this room silly little notes when he wasn't able to hang out with him because of their conflicting schedules. Paper he'd used to convince Daryl that he missed him and cared about him, knowing that the Dixon was inclined to believe that no one would ever feel those things for him.
More were spilling out from the remnants of a smashed box, and he leaned down to take the note closest to him in his trembling hands, trying to ignore how the almost-black blood stained one of its corners. As he numbly unfolded the paper, Shane stepped farther into the room, investigating it more thoroughly than Rick had. Rick ignored his presence and turned his eyes to the words on the paper. Stricken, he noticed that the creases in the paper were worn and fragile; Daryl had clearly opened this note more than once.
Daryl, he read, even his own neat handwriting becoming hard to read through the tears in his eyes. I miss you, man. Work's been killing me lately, but believe me when I say I'd rather be hanging out with you. I swear to God, with all the work they're having me do, I'll be a deputy sheriff by the time I'm twenty. Then again, the higher my rank is, the less I have to do, and that means more time to myself (which includes you, by the way). Anyway, I think I can get some time off this weekend. Do you want to go out to dinner? I have a present for you. Tell Glenn yes or no. Don't worry, he doesn't know what the question is. ;) Rick.
"Rick. . ."
He looked up from the note, trying to piece together what it all meant, to locate Shane. Rick found him leaning over something, and everything seemed to stop when he caught sight of painfully familiar construction boots, just visible behind Shane's leg. Rick rushed to his side immediately, the note slipping from his fingers as he did so, already forgotten.
And even though he'd already known from the minute he saw his boots, he hadn't allowed his mind to register the fact that it was Daryl lying unconscious on his bedroom floor.
And thank Christ for those boots, because the only way he'd have been able to identify him would be by his blonde hair, and even that was nearly stained entirely black by blood. His face was a bloody, bruised, and swollen mess, blood trickling from one side of his mouth. As Rick looked up and down his body, he saw purple and blue and black mottling the skin of his arms, circling his neck like someone had tried to throttle him. And, if the wheezing breaths just barely escaping the parted lips were any indication, that was what exactly had happened. Both of his eyes were surrounded by shiny and puffy skin, and one of them he could tell would be entirely swollen shut. Blood dripped down from his nose and onto his lips, and Rick let himself feel a little relief that it didn't seem to be broken.
But then Rick wasn't focused on any of that. Not when he realized that the blood staining Daryl's shirt was not from his battered face, that the blotches were spreading from the center of his stomach. Carefully, Rick moved to tug the shirt up, hands surprisingly steady. There, on Daryl's abdomen, was an assortment of deep slashes, where they ended and began hardly discernable from the blood smeared on the surrounding skin. Rick stared in repressed horror at the new wounds and the old, badly healed scars.
"Shane, call an ambulance," Rick said in a monotone, tearing his eyes away from Daryl's stomach and leaning forward to check his pulse. It was all he could do after seeing something like that, to keep from losing his fucking mind.
"I already did, man."
Rick blinked. That was right; he'd seen Shane go over to the phone. "Then go and meet them and bring them here." His voice broke a bit on the last word, and he swallowed thickly.
For once, Shane didn't argue, just bowed his head before standing up and leaving the room. Rick pressed his fingertips to Daryl's neck. His pulse was weaker than he'd have liked, but it was steady, and the tension seeped out of the cop, leaving him feeling even shakier than before. Rick let his forehead rest against Daryl's, the only place he hadn't seen bashed up on the boy. He sucked in a deep, stuttering breath, tears pricking at his eyes, before drawing back and taking a more complete look at Daryl's body. He could just see the edge of darkened skin underneath Daryl's shirt, and he pulled the fabric up carefully, avoiding the cuts in his skin with both his hands and his eyes. Rick's breath caught in his throat when he saw the purely black bruises blooming over Daryl's ribs, and he didn't need to do any further investigating to know that they were broken. There was a gash open along the line of Daryl's left eyebrow, and Rick knew that a man's fist had put it there from his response training at the academy.
He was shocked at how much time he must have spent staring at Daryl when he felt himself getting tugged away from the body on the ground by Shane and the paramedics, lying broken and discarded like one of his old toys. No, that wasn't right, because he wouldn't have even treated a damn toy the way someone had obviously treated Daryl. He felt the hysteria start to hit him as they lifted Daryl up off the ground, the blonde's head lolling backwards, and it was too close to the image of him being dead for Rick to bear. His breaths were entering and leaving him too fast, and his entire face was starting to tingle from the lack of oxygen. Rick ignored Shane when he tried to comfort him and shush him. Instead, he tried to follow Daryl as they loaded his gurney into the back of the ambulance, but one of them pushed him back with a barring arm across his chest.
"Who are ya ta him?" a paramedic asked when Rick kept trying to push by him, eyes still fixed on Daryl and only Daryl.
"I'm his friend," he said numbly. "I'm his friend."
The paramedic exchanged a look with Shane before he nodded, stepping aside to let Rick into the ambulance. Rick dazedly took the seat next to Daryl, eyes trained in a dead stare on his face, searching for any movement. He gave into the urge to take Daryl's hand, holding the bruised and potentially sprained limb with care. It was everything to just feel that warm skin on his, even though it felt limp and weak and just not how Daryl was supposed to be. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the velvety, still-soft skin of the back of Daryl's hand.
After a few moments of his rendition of some sort of vigil, Daryl moaned in pain and confusion, fingers twitching in his own.
"Daryl?" Rick croaked out, raising his free hand to wipe away the tears that had pooled underneath his eyes. His voice was choked with emotion, but he didn't try to clear it.
An eye cracked open, and he was sure he wasn't imagining it when he saw the panic and fear in its depths. It was replaced by recognition—maybe a private reassurance, too—within seconds. "Rick?" The word mostly came out as air, but Rick heard it clear as day. He could also hear the agony in it. "Where'm I?" He let out a whimper when the ambulance was jostled on its way to the hospital. Rick shushed him.
"You're in an ambulance," Rick whispered, and he was all too aware of another paramedic watching them quietly from her corner. "They're gonna patch ya up."
"S'good. Feel like shit." His words were slurred, and Rick was beginning to think that he might have a concussion, what with his pupil blown wide in his one visible eye.
Rick laughed, but it was a watery sound, maybe even a sob. "You're gonna be okay."
Rick was silent, just alternating between petting Daryl's hand comfortingly and wiping away his stubborn tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, the wetness captured in his eyelashes cold against his cheeks. He sat like that for a moment, hands clasped around Daryl's and brow furrowed like he was in the middle of some kind of prayer. He could list a thousand things he'd be praying for, and Daryl was in every single one of them.
Finally, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was scarcely audible, eyes half-lidded as he opened them just enough to look at Daryl.
But Daryl was already unconscious, his breaths nothing but pained, ragged gasps echoing in the silence of the ambulance. Rick lifted his hand up to his lips and kissed it, giving into the urge and ignoring the woman in the corner. His question wasn't important—he knew now, and he was going to make damn sure that the motherfucker who did this to Daryl would never lay eyes on him again.
Daryl couldn't see, but he could feel. And fuck, he wished he couldn't. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that everything hurt. Deep down, under his skin, burning pain everywhere on him and inside him and maybe even around him. He couldn't tell, not when every sense, every nerve was alight with agony.
There were fingers poking and prodding at him, and Daryl hissed, snarling at them. He meant for obscenities to fall out of his mouth, but it sounded like jumbled gibberish even in his own ears. Daryl jerked away when the probing digits touched his side. Even the gentle contact sent fire racing through him. Couldn't they fucking tell that his ribs were splintered without jabbing their damn fingers into him? He might as well have had broken glass filling up his chest, and the strain of fighting whoever wouldn't get their damn hands off of him wasn't helping matters. His head began to feel light when he couldn't get a full breath around the pain in his ribs, and, suddenly, phantom hands were around his throat, cutting off his air completely.
"He's having a panic attack," a voice whispered, and Daryl's ears automatically tried to catch what was being said. Seemed like he could hear, too, even though the pounding in his head was only worsened by his inability to breathe.
"Daryl?"
Daryl tried to turn his face toward the voice, because he knew it. It was something familiar, something grounding in the nothingness all around him. He tried to put a name to the voice, but he could only summon a mental image of smiling, almost-red lips and ice-blue eyes and curly, dark brown hair.
"Daryl? Can you hear me? It's Rick, Daryl. You need to breathe."
Rick. That was it. The name managed to break through the cloud in his mind, and the vision in one of his eyes was suddenly clear. A face hovered above him, and Daryl took in the concerned crease of his brow. If his arm didn't feel so damn heavy, he'd have reached up and smoothed it out. It didn't belong there, marring that beautiful, soft-looking skin. But he just stared up at Rick, thinking that maybe the torment of being poked and prodded at would end now that he was there. He felt the pressure around his throat disappear as his eyes took in Rick's fucking beautiful face, and he greedily took in as much air as he could without the pain in his side becoming unbearable.
"Daryl, you're hurt pretty bad," Rick said after Daryl's breathing evened out, and Daryl just blinked at him. The world seemed to spin with every flutter of his eyelashes. "You need to let them help."
He scrunched up his face, about to protest. He didn't trust anyone to make him feel better—except for maybe Rick. He opened his mouth to tell him so, but the only thing that escaped him was a groan of pain when the movement sent agony spiking through his head.
"Can't ya get him some painkillers or somethin'?" Rick asked, turning away from him, his voice garbled and concerned in Daryl's ears. He yearned to see the blue of his eyes. The room was too white without them. He whined, trying to get Rick to look at him again.
"Hey, it's okay. I'm here," Rick said, turning and smiling down at him. It was forced, and Daryl knew it was his fault. He hated that even a fake fucking smile put him at ease. Daryl forced back a sob. He was so fucking useless. He couldn't be hurt without hurting someone else, too. A different, angrier voice echoed in his ears, saying something similar, and he cringed.
He heard a door close, and he realized he was alone with Rick. The voice in his head disappeared when he focused on the man's face. "Hurts," Daryl let himself whimper, squeezing his eye shut. He could feel tears accumulating there, but he couldn't wipe them away.
"I know." Rick's voice sounded strangled, and Daryl's eye cracked open again. He flinched at the raw pain he saw on the man's face before Rick smoothed it over, gave him that forced smile again. "They're gonna get ya somethin' for it. Can ya hold on till then?"
Daryl nodded, sniffling. He could do that, so long as he had Rick's eyes to keep him here. The blank nothingness from before was even more terrifying than the pain. He didn't want to lose himself again, and the man hovering above him seemed to be the only person who could keep that from happening.
The door opened again, and Daryl cringed at the even brighter light that seeped in from beyond it. It sent another flare of hurt through his head. To her credit, the nurse shut the door quickly, and Daryl relaxed infinitesimally.
"This is gonna pinch a little, honey," she said to him, and her voice was far too shrill in his ears. He missed the rich, rolling tones of Rick's voice.
Compared to the other pain he was feeling, the little prick he felt in the crook of his arm was nothing. Daryl waited patiently for it to take effect, believing it only because Rick told him it was going to help the pain. He distracted himself by staring at the man, who chose to hover nearby, his hand at his brow as he looked furtively at Daryl from the corner of his eye. Almost instantly, he felt warmth bleed into him, dissolving the pain as whatever the nurse'd given him made its course through his body. He felt the heaviness of his body leave him, and, even better, his mind stopped its disturbed circuits around topics he just didn't want to think about. The white light of the room faded to a more tolerable, soft glow, and Rick's face shimmered in front of him.
"Better?" Rick asked, taking Daryl's hand in his own. Even though his mind produced the image of an angry hand reaching out to grab him, Daryl didn't flinch away. The contact sent warm little thrills of pleasure run through him, and he did his best to squeeze Rick's fingers with his limbs as rubbery as they were.
Daryl nodded in a belated response to Rick's question. His eyelids felt too heavy all of a sudden, and he had to fight to keep them open. And he did fight, because he wasn't quite willing to lose the image of Rick's face, even if it meant he could sink into the embrace of the soft, black wave threatening to swallow him up.
Rick seemed to know he was fighting sleep, because he reached down to smooth down Daryl's hair, matted with blood. This time, Daryl couldn't help but stiffen under his hand, and Rick drew back, an unbearable pain on his features. "Y'can go ta sleep." Then, seeming to read his mind, he said, "I'll be here when ya wake up."
"Promise?" Daryl asked, blinking furiously to fight sleep. He knew the sound was muffled and distorted, and he wasn't entirely sure that Rick had understood.
But, apparently, he had, because he nodded. "I promise."
Daryl looked back at him, searching for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he nodded, mostly to himself, letting his eyes close. There was a center of heat where Rick's hand was around his, and it was still sending warm tingles throughout his body. It set his body vibrating pleasantly, and as long as he didn't breathe too deeply, he was entirely free of pain. Eventually, the call of sleep was too adamant to ignore, and he let himself enjoy the feeling of Rick's warm palm against his own until he finally lost consciousness.
Daryl was lucid the next time he woke up, and the first thing that he noticed was that there was someone nearby, sitting next to him. He couldn't see who it was; the eye on that side was swollen shut. Daryl tensed up, breath hitching, fear flooding him. His eyelashes fluttered in apprehension; at this point, he was ready for whatever the world had to throw at him. Having his father beat him to death would be heaven, honestly, compared to this pain.
But then, he was suddenly aware of warmth encasing his hand. It took his mind a minute to realize that someone was holding it, and he blinked. His father'd never do anything like that; Merle sure as hell wouldn't. Whoever it was, it sure as hell wasn't either of them, and Daryl was relieved. The fingers curled around his own twitched, and Daryl instinctively grabbed at them in case they tried to leave, even though it sent pain racing up his arm. He bit back a moan.
"Hey, there," a voice said, and then its face came into view. Rick. He should've known. The man'd promised to be there when he woke up, after all.
"Hey," Daryl responded, his voice rasping. He remembered the cries and grunts and shouts he just couldn't keep from ripping out of his throat under his father's fists, and he squeezed his eye shut at the panic that filled his stomach at the memory.
"How's the pain, from one to ten?" Rick asked, and Daryl opened his eye again.
Ten, he wanted to say, but he didn't want to make Rick worry. "Maybe a seven or eight," he said, cracking a little smile. It was probably more than a grimace than anything, but he was trying.
Rick's fingers tightened around his own, and he reached over with his free hand to push a button connected to a little tube. Daryl's good eye followed the line of it to where an IV was jabbed into the skin of his arm, covered by medical-looking tape. His eyes slid shut when he felt that same warmth from before spread through him, and it was only intensified now that his head wasn't spinning nauseatingly.
"Man," Daryl mumbled. "Merle should'a just gotten himself laid up in the hospital. S'much better than weed, this shit."
Rick just laughed. "You really wanna be sayin' these things in front'a me? I am a cop, y'know."
Daryl cracked an eye open. "I was talkin' 'bout Merle, not me. But don't go 'round pretendin' ya'd rat me out."
Rick sighed, smiling sheepishly, and Daryl joined him. "You're right. I wouldn't." Daryl was just experimenting with how much movement would hurt his bruised face when Rick expression suddenly got serious. "Daryl, we need ta talk about what happened."
Daryl just appraised him blankly, not reacting to his words in the slightest. Rick looked tired, his usually clean-shaven face shadowed by the beginnings of a beard. He was still in uniform, and Daryl got the feeling that he really hadn't left his side. "How long I been out?" Daryl asked.
"'round thirty-six hours," Rick replied, furrowing his brow at the random subject change. In response to Daryl's blank look of shock, he said, "Ya got a concussion." The memory of smashing his head on the kitchen counter when his father had forced him down to the ground hit him, and the dulled pain in the back of his skull intensified. Well, at least it explained why his brain seemed to be surrounded by cotton wool that he just couldn't expel.
"You been here the whole time?"
Rick nodded, rubbing at his eyes, and gestured to a cot next to Daryl's hospital bed. He was just noticing now how tired the man looked, and the glaring, fluorescent lights of the hospital room weren't all that flattering, either. Still, Rick looked beautiful to him. He felt a thrill of pleasure run through him despite everything, because he could say—well, think—that now.
"They let me stay. Mostly 'cause they thought ya'd start panickin' again if you woke up and I wasn't there."
Daryl flushed, biting deeply into his lower lip. "I was real out of it, wasn't I?"
Rick nodded, face tight. "You kept callin' the doctors 'Dad'. Told 'em ta get away from you," he responded, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
Daryl swallowed. So he knew. There was no way he could try to tell him that it'd been someone else, maybe one of the jocks Daryl'd offended by kicking the shit out of their pack leader in defense of Glenn. He averted his eyes, choosing to stare instead at the brace on his arm. Looked like his old man'd sprained his wrist when he grabbed him.
"There were some of us staked out at your house, waitin' for your dad," Rick told him, and Daryl flinched infinitesimally at the mention of the man. "He came home yesterday morning. They arrested 'im."
"Daryl, ya can't go back there," Rick said when Daryl remained silent, and he continued to ignore him. "If your neighbors hadn't heard ya yellin', you could'a bled out."
"They should'a let me," Daryl muttered. "You should'a let me."
"That's crazy," Rick said firmly, but his voice was still gentle. "I care about you, Daryl. My ma cares about you. Hazel, too."
At the last mention, Daryl looked to Rick. "Hazel. . . I was supposed ta come with ya to pick her up from school," he recalled guiltily.
"S'okay, Ma took care of it. She knows what happened," Rick responded, reassuring him fractionally. "I'm gonna go over and tell her what happened later, since you're awake."
When Daryl opened his mouth to protest, Rick quickly amended, "I won't tell her any details. Ma doesn't even know any of them. Just that you're hurt and you might be in the hospital for a while." He paused. "She's probably gonna wanna come see ya, though. Same with my ma. You gonna let 'em?"
Daryl didn't want to be seen like this—broken, bruised, hardly able to move on his own. He didn't want Mrs. Grimes or Hazel to worry and cry like he was concerned they would. But he knew they cared about him, for God knew what reason. He figured they'd only be more worried if he refused to see them, so he nodded slowly. Rick gave him a little smile that told him he knew exactly what was running through his mind and he was glad that Daryl hadn't given into his insecurity.
"I'm gonna get goin'," Rick said after a few minutes of sitting there with Daryl chewing at his lips. "Rest up, you hear?"
"Yeah, yeah," Daryl responded. "When can I get outta here?"
"Maybe a day or two, since you ain't got any broken bones, and your ribs are only fractured. You're still a minor, but I can sign ya out," Rick said. "I already got it cleared with a judge I know for you ta stay with me till we got this all sorted out."
"'Sorted out?'" Daryl asked, dreading the answer.
Rick didn't beat around the bush this time. "Daryl, your father beat the shit out of you, and, from the way you're actin', this ain't the first time."
Daryl cringed, but he rose his one eye to glare at Rick. "Listen, sunshine. I been dealin' with this for almost seventeen years now. I don't need no one's help—least of all yours."
Rick returned his glare just as vehemently, but Daryl could see the hurt flickering in his eyes. "If that were true, ya wouldn't be lyin' here right now!"
"Get the fuck outta here, Grimes," Daryl hissed, turning his face away pointedly.
"Daryl, that's not what—"
"Go on!" The effort of raising his voice sent pain ripping through his ribs in spite of the painkillers pumping through his veins. "I don't want ya here."
He heard Rick hesitate for a moment before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the hospital room, and he could hear the sound of his boots against the floor fading. Daryl felt his rage seep out of him, leaving him feeling sick and dizzy in its wake. He flexed his arm, twisted his torso, just to get some kind of pain that would distract him from how fucking guilty he felt, having Rick leave him so angrily. But the morphine was strong, and he couldn't feel anything but a bit of uncomfortable pressure in his side. Hissing angrily, he reached over and ripped the IV out of his arm, automatically holding his hand over the site to prevent any bleeding. He didn't need their painkillers; he didn't need anything from anyone. It was about time people started realizing that—especially himself.
Rick felt the irritation at his friend flood out of him the minute he left the hospital room. He understood where Daryl was coming from; that boy had no reason to trust anyone, least of all people he'd never even met. It still stung that Daryl didn't want his help, though, after how close they'd gotten. And the fact that he had to find out what was going on at home with Daryl like this made Rick wonder if he knew Daryl as well as he'd thought.
He left the hospital at a brisk pace, but he realized that he didn't have a ride. Shane had taken their car when he'd gone into the ambulance with Daryl. Rick hissed in frustration. Just his fucking luck.
When Rick went back into the hospital, he saw the receptionist look up at him like he was a madman. He shrugged and scratched at the rugged beard setting in, figuring it was well deserved.
"Can I use your phone?" Rick asked, trying to smile.
The receptionist returned it, but her eyes still spoke of alarm at his appearance. She place it on the counter so that it was within Rick's reach. He pulled it over and dialed the number quickly, pressing the receiver to his ear.
"Hullo?"
Rick sagged in relief when Shane's voice came through over the receiver. He'd been reasonably certain that he would be home, but his mind was still all over the place from everything that had happened in the last two days. "Hey, Shane."
"Oh, God, Rick. It's good to hear from you, man," Shane said. "How is he?"
Rick cocked an eyebrow at the concern in his voice. "He's pretty beat up, but he's gonna be okay, thank God," he replied.
Shane swore under his breath, but it was more of a relieved sound. "Jesus Christ, Rick, if I'd known. . ."
Rick shushed him. Maybe he could have told Shane that it didn't excuse him being a total douchebag to Daryl in the past, but his friend just sounded so damn guilty. Nearly as guilty as Rick himself felt, he thought. "I didn't know either. You helped me get him outta there, Shane. God knows I was in no state ta take care of it. You don't have ta say anything."
His friend hesitated, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should go on despite Rick's assurances. But he just sighed and asked, "What'd ya need?"
"I need a ride to my house. You took our car last night."
"Right," Shane said at the reminder. "I'll be there in five or ten minutes, 'kay?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
Rick waited till the line went dead to hang up the receiver, giving the receptionist a look to let her know that he was done. He gave her another more genuine smile and said thank you.
"Anytime, sweetie. We'll take good care of your friend," she said, her eyes soft with pity. It was a small hospital, and Rick assumed that hearing his limited description of Daryl over the phone had told her exactly who he was here for.
"Thank you," Rick whispered before turning away to head out of the hospital again.
He stood on the curb, Daryl's angry words from before echoing in his head. He cringed. It'd been months since Daryl had just shut him out like that. And now, when he really, really needed Rick, he wasn't going to let him be there. Rick knew he'd support him, anyway, but it would be god awful if Daryl fought him the whole way. What Rick couldn't work out was why he was so averse to help. He'd been living with his monster of a father for seventeen years, and, now, he just had to give a little cooperation to get away from him forever.
But then he thought of the kind of hell Daryl'd been living in. How could he trust anyone when his own father did this to him? Rick suddenly understood the full fragility of any sense of trust Daryl possessed, and how he'd lashed out at Rick just a few minutes ago should have been expected. He sighed. He wouldn't push Daryl like that again. He'd wait until he had a real solution to offer, and then he'd make his case.
Rick was tugged out of his thoughts by Shane pulling up in front of the hospital. Rick returned the wave his friend sent his way and clambered into the passenger seat, smiling tiredly at his friend. "Thanks for this, Shane."
"No problem, man. Why you goin' home?" Shane asked, seeming to sense Rick's urgency as he quickly pulled out of the parking lot and began driving towards Rick's mother's house.
"I gotta tell Hazel and my ma what happened." He took a deep breath as his mind began to ponder his kid sister's reactions. "Ma only knows he got hurt, and Hazel doesn't even know he's in the hospital."
He looked down at his wrinkled uniform, his shadowed eyes and scruffy face. Rick rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Man, I could use a shower."
"Sure could," Shane said, wrinkling his nose painfully. Rick gave him a halfhearted smile in return.
They drove in silence for the next five minutes until Shane pulled to a stop in front of Rick's mother's pale blue house. Rick rubbed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself before opening the car door and stepping out. He leaned down again to address Shane before walking off. "Thanks, Shane. I'll keep you updated."
Shane nodded gratefully, and Rick shut the door, giving his friend a playful salute before walking up the path leading to the white door of the house. Once he stood there, he knocked on the door, listening with a fond smile when he heard the clamor of what was undoubtedly Hazel sprinting down the stairs.
"Ricky!" she shouted when she opened the door, jumping up to hug him.
Rick caught her instinctively, swinging her up into his arms. "Hey, sweetie." He looked her over with a critical eye, raising an eyebrow at the paint splattered all over her clothes and face. "What's goin' on?"
"Nothin'," she replied happily. "Mama's just helpin' me paint a pretty picture for art."
The woman in question quickly appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister to see who was at the door. "That you, Rick?"
"Yep, it's me," Rick responded, walking into the house and reaching to pull the door closed.
His mother came down the stairs quickly, and Rick swallowed at the thinly veiled worry in her eyes, knowing that he couldn't say anything with Hazel in the room. Rick tried to tell her with just his gaze that Daryl was stable at the moment, that they hadn't found anything life threatening to worry about. Right now, Daryl's refusal to help himself was the biggest problem, and they could talk about that later.
"Ricky, where were you an' Daryl yesterday?" Hazel asked abruptly, bottom lip pushed out in a pout.
Rick ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at his sister. So much for easing into what he came to tell her. "That's what I came to talk ta you about, honey. Ya think you can take a break from your picture?"
Hazel nodded, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Rick ignored that as he carried her into the living room, setting her down on the couch gently. He took the seat next to her, angling his body so that he was facing her. His kid sister automatically did the same thing, his much larger knee brushing against her own. His mother had followed them and hovered at the doorway, pressing her knuckles to her mouth as she watched them.
"Hazel, I want ya to try your best ta stay calm, okay?" he began, lifting her face up so he could look into her eyes. "Ya think you can do that for me?"
Hazel nodded, setting her jaw in determination. Rick took strength from it, inhaling deeply before attempting to continue. "Daryl's hurt, sweetheart. He couldn't come pick you up 'cause he's in the hospital."
A look of horror came over her face, and Rick prepared to launch into an explanation. While he wasn't about to lay the heavy information of Daryl's abusive father on his kid sister, he already had an alternative story planned out to tell her.
"Was it the scary monster? The one in his house?" Hazel whispered before he could even open his mouth, tears welling up in her eyes.
Rick sat straight as if shocked, story dying on his tongue. He looked from his mother to Hazel, seeking any kind of answer. There was just no way Hazel could know about Daryl's father. For God's sake, Rick hadn't known until two days ago, and he considered himself to be Daryl's best friend. His mother just looked back at him with an equally stunned expression before they both fixed their gazes on the little girl sitting beside Rick.
"Did he say anything like that ta you?" Rick asked urgently, putting his hands on his sister's tiny shoulders.
Hazel shook her head, and he could hear her gulp back her tears. She raised one of her tiny hands to wipe away the wetness building up behind her eyelids. "He won't ever tell anyone, but he's scared'a his house, Ricky. I think there's a monster there. Lots worse than the one that was under my bed. S'why he never wants to go home."
Rick felt moisture well up in his eyes, and he sniffled, trying to force them back. He put a hand to his brow, attempting to get his mind around how fucking blind he'd been. Tears, hot and slick against his cheeks, crawled down his face, and he didn't even try to wipe them away.
"Ricky, why're ya cryin'? Ricky?"
He just pulled his sister close and hugged her, and she didn't fight him, despite how confused she was. "Remember when I made that monster under your bed go away?" Rick asked her, his voice thick with tears.
"Uh-huh," Hazel said. "You chased him away real good."
Pressing his face into her paint splattered hair, he told her, "Well, I'm gonna do the same thing with the monster in Daryl's house. I'm gonna make sure it knows it's messin' with the wrong people."
