Hey guys, sorry it's been soooo long! But things have gotten super busy for me. Don't worry though, I'm not giving up. I hope you like the new chapter! God bless my darling beta, Jay, for correcting all my heinous grammar mistakes. She's the best.

Enjoy!

Chapter Five

All Hallow's Eve

"Get up and help, you brat. Stop pining about your boyfriend."

Rick's head shot up from where it was buried in the cushions of Michonne's couch. "I am not pining…and he's not my boyfriend. I'm taken." Rick let his head flop back down onto the pillow, breathing in the musty scent of the second-hand furniture.

He could hear Michonne snort from above him where she stood between his sprawled out legs, balancing with one foot on the back of the couch, trying to string orange lights above the window. "I invited you over to help, not whine about how your roommate isn't talking to you."

Rick sighed and carefully pulled his long legs up towards his body. He sat up with his back against the arm and his socked feet tucked under the middle cushion. "I'm not whinin'," he mumbled, pulling the pillow he'd had his face in into his lap and resting his chin on it while he watched Michonne. "Besides, you look like ya' got it handled. I strung up all them lights around the doorways. Also, I went and bought that dang dry ice for your deadly punch. Which by the way, I hadda drive an hour and a half to find."

Michonne didn't dignify his little speech with a response as she hooked the final light and jumped off the couch with more grace than Rick thought someone should be able to manage in the ridiculous armor she had on. She turned and looked at him, striking an impressive figure in the costuem she'd been working to complete since school had begun—authentic Samurai armor. "I've already told you; just talk to him."

"But what if he hates me?" Rick picked at a string from the pillow.

"He doesn't hate you." Michonne sat down on the bar stool behind her, propping her head up on her hand where she was leaning it against the island counter. Her armor clanked as she settled.

"How do you know that? Trying to get a read on Daryl is like deciphering Chinese."

"Drama Queen," Michonne huffed, mostly to herself while Rick shot her a dirty look. "Okay, I wasn't going to tell you this, but, he did mention you the other day."

Rick visibly perked up, shuffling in his place on the couch so that he could face Michonne more completely. "What? Why didn't you tell me? Wait—what'd he say? What'd you say?"

"Firstly, I didn't say anything because it didn't occur to me that it was important," she said, speaking deliberately, as if he were a particularly dim-witted child. "I stopped him in Lincoln Hall and invited him to the party. He asked if you were going. That's about it." Michonne shrugged and unrolled a Tootsie Roll from one of the orange and black bowls on the counter top filled with candy, popping it into her mouth.

Rick was silent for a few moments, turning over the information in his head and trying to get handle on his fluttering heart. "So, uh—is he comin'?"

Michonne raised an eyebrow at his obviously forced casual tone. "I don't know. He didn't really say. Sorry, hon."

Rick had to consciously keep his body from sagging under the disappointment of the news. Why did he care so much anyway? Of course, it had been torture tip-toeing around each other, but he'd really only been friends with Daryl for two months before Daryl had shut him out. For the past two weeks, ever since Rick's fight with Shane, it had been radio silence. Rick winced at the thought of that day. Shane and he hadn't really talked since then either. To make matters even worse, Lori was pissed about the whole affair, and fuck if he had any idea how to handle that.

What didn't make sense, though, was Daryl's avoidance of him—which was worse now than how it had been before they'd tentatively become friends. Daryl stayed out practically all hours of the day. From sun up, till sun down—and sometimes even longer—he disappeared completely. He came back at odd hours, never the same time. Usually, while Rick was right in the middle of homework, or fast asleep already. It was like Daryl could hone in on his plans, because Rick had tried several times to put off doing homework until after Daryl came home. This seemed to coordinate perfectly with the days where Daryl would return to their room after Rick couldn't stay up a minute longer and passed out on his bed fully clothed.

Even with Rick's light sleeping, Daryl was quiet as a cat, sneaking in and climbing under the covers before Rick could even register he was there. Several times Rick woke up to the sound of Daryl's sheets being pulled up over his shoulders. On these nights, Rick would turn on his side and stare at the back of Daryl's white t-shirt, trying to muster up the courage to say something in the half-darkness of their room, only to have the words stick in his throat.

Michonne had been a godsend lately, listening while Rick talked her ear off about one theory or another as to why Daryl was avoiding him. Her response was always: "Talk to him." Advice he never really listened to. But she paid attention to Rick anyway, despite her increasing annoyance with him. Rick had spent so much time trying to puzzle out why Daryl had been treating him like he was diseased, he hadn't give much thought to why he'd been fixated on this. It wasn't like he really needed Daryl, he had plenty of friends. Yet, something felt empty and hallow, now. Without Daryl.

He missed Daryl's half-snort, half-laugh, as if he was trying to hide his amusement, like he was surprised every time Rick cracked a joke. Rick missed Daryl's own dry, sarcastic humor, which had made him split his sides laughing more than once. There was something so simplistic about Daryl's friendship, despite the complexity of the man himself. Daryl's affection and loyalty ran deep and true. Rick was often times humbled by the trust that Daryl placed in him. There where moments when his various walls and guards were laid aside and Rick got glimpses of the soul beneath.

Yet, he had shattered those diamond moments like they were sheets of glass, and he had no idea why. And it bothered him. More than Shane's firecracker anger, which was explosive yet most likely to be short-lived; Rick figured by the end of the night they would be drunk and singing Christmas carols together, like every other Halloween since they were old enough for Shane to break into his father's liquor cabinet. It bothered him, even more than Lori's simmering resentment that he felt boiling to the surface every time he touched her skin.

Rick was snatched from his thoughts by the sound of knocking at the door. He looked around the living room and kitchen combo. Michonne was nowhere to be found. Getting up off the couch Rick rubbed at the back of his neck, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning. When he opened the door it was to find Andrea standing on the porch with her arms full of two filled brown paper bags.

"Hey," Rick greeted her as he plucked one of the bags from her arms.

"Hi, Rick," Andrea replied, following him inside the house.

He heard the door close behind him, while he set his bag on the counter. The contents clinked together as they settled. Curious, Rick peeked his head over the edge of the paper, inside were two bottles of Jack Daniels. Andrea was shuffling around behind him and he turned to see her carrying a bottle of vodka and another of tequila in either hand.

"Michonne already made punch, and there's beer in the fridge," Rick pointed out with an amused smirk as he rested against the cabinets, crossing his arms as he watched Andrea organize a bar-type situation at one end of the counter.

"I know, but she wasn't sure how many people were gonna show up. Better safe than sorry. Would you mind handing me those?" Andrea asked distractedly, waving her hand in the general direction of the bag he'd carried into the apartment.

He took out the bottles and gave them to her. He watched as she lined one of them up with the rest of the alcohol before taking the remaining bottle of Jack and cracking the seal. Rick raised his eyebrows and didn't say anything as Andrea poured two shots each into red solo cups.

She passed one to him before raising hers into the air. "You looked like you could use a drink," Andrea explained nonchalantly, though her eyes were sparkling with knowing.

Apparently Michonne wasn't quite as tight-lipped with her bedfellows as she was with the rest of the world. Not that he minded, he actually liked Andrea quite a bit; sure, her spitfire attitude left him a little overwhelmed and confused sometimes, but she was great for Michonne, and that was really all that mattered to him. So, he raised his glass to hers, clinking the plastic together before tipping the contents into his mouth. It burned going down, warm and slow. His eyes began to water slightly, and he couldn't help but cough once to try and dislodge the uncomfortable feeling of the alcohol moving down his throat.

Andrea tossed him an amused look from where she was already pouring herself another shot. "Where's your costume?" She asked, paralleling him by leaning against the island counter top. She sipped on the whiskey in her cup.

"Haven't put it on yet."

Andrea glanced over his head at the microwave behind him. "Well, it's almost ten, you should probably get ready. I saw a few people headed this way while I was at the store."

"I'll leave you to it then," Rick said, giving her a wave as he walked over to where he'd thrown the shopping bag with his costume inside of it.

"What is that?" Andrea asked when she saw part of the grey fabric poking out from the bag.

Rick just smiled at her and kept walking, his heart picking up a few paces in giddy expectation as he laughed to himself. In the bathroom, it turned out to be much harder than Rick thought to pull on the costume. As he struggled into his outfit, he could hear the front door opening and closing as people began arriving. Despite the spacious layout of the apartment, Michonne's bathroom was like a closet, and Rick was thankful that the growing sound of overlapping voices was now muffling his struggle in the bathroom.

Finally, he managed to pull the grey synthetic fabric up over his jeans and zipped it up in the back, pulling the hooded part of the costume up over his curls. It hung down relatively low over his eyes so he pushed it back some, letting the felt teeth lay against his forehead and cheeks. After one last look in the mirror to straighten up the fabric he laughed again, shaking his head at his own amusement before unlocking the door and stepping out.

The first person he ran into was someone dressed as a T-Rex, who was obviously waiting for the bathroom. They look slightly pissed at first—no doubt because Rick had taken an extraordinarily long time in the restroom—but the expression disappeared when they noticed Rick's costume, which looked like it was made the same way as their own.

"Rough time?" the T-Rex asked, motioning to the costume.

Rick huffed dramatically. "Tell me about it."

The dinosaur laughed before skirting around him and heading into the bathroom. With another chuckle, Rick walked down the hall and into the throng of people that had appeared since he had gone to change. Rick wandered over to the island where people were making drinks and taking shots. He got in on one round, taking a shot of vodka that was thrust at him. After tossing it back with the random partygoers, made himself a glass of Michonne's deadly fruit punch, which was a shade of red that looked alarmingly like blood. Michonne had turned the overhead lights off, bathing the room in an orange glow that made some people's costumes look downright terrifying.

Rick scanned the crowd as he leaned idly against the wall and sipped on his drink. He kept telling himself that he wasn't looking for someone but it was hard to deny that every time the door opened his head snapped towards it in anticipation. Another one of those moments had just passed, leaving his palms sweating slightly, when he heard someone obviously addressing him.

"What're you wearing?"

Rick turned to see Lori standing there, with her hands on her bare hips and looking at him with an expression one shade away from pissed. He looked her up and down, taking in her bare stomach, covered in some sort of glitter. She was wearing a bra that she had meticulously glued shells onto and a shimmering dark green skirt. She must've been freezing, but at the moment she looked as if touching her might give him third degree burns.

Rick's eyes flicked behind her to Shane, who was standing with his arms crossed, wearing a football helmet and a jersey over jeans—a different version of the only costume Shane had ever worn.

"What do you mean?" Rick asked easily, his eyes sliding back to Lori with a smile he couldn't contain creeping into the corners of his mouth.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Lori snapped, looking behind her at Shane and gesturing like she couldn't believe his outfit.

Rick felt the smile slip from his lips. "I'm a shark?" He voiced it like a question.

"I can see that."

"Okay…" Rick said slowly, his eyebrows dropping down in confusion. "Then what's the problem?"

"Don't act like you don't know." Lori flipped her curled hair, adorned with seashells and starfish, over her shoulder in irritation.

Rick flicked his gaze towards Shane, pleading for some help, but Shane's face was hidden behind his helmet, he stood as still and silent as a statue.

"Do I embarrass you?" Lori whispered harshly, looking around to make sure no one was listening. Her voice sounded tight, and, behind her green and blue eye make-up, Rick could see her eyes beginning to shine with tears.

He took a step towards her and put a hand on her shoulder, cocking his head to the side, mouth frowning seriously. "'Course you don't." The alcohol was making his stomach churn unpleasantly. He leaned down to kiss Lori's forehead, but she stepped back out of reach, his hand falling from her shoulder.

"Then…why? You—you promised we'd go as a couple."

"We are here as a couple, Lor!" Rick's voice raised slightly in his frustration. His plastic cup caved under his grip.

"Don't shout at me, there are people looking at us." Lori cast her gaze around pointedly before staring at Rick again, hurt and embarrassed.

"No one is looking at us," Rick sighed. He peeked up at Shane, who wasn't making any noise but had shifted so that Lori was easily within stepping distance, as if he thought Rick was going to come after her. Rick put a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Lor, this is all I could find. It still goes with the theme," he reasoned with a half-hearted shrug.

"Sharks eat mermaids, Rick!" Lori hissed, looking absolutely furious.

"I'm sorr—"

"Save it, Rick, I don't want to hear your excuses." She turned on her heel and stomped away, easily getting lost in the sea of people.

Rick looked helplessly over at Shane, whose face he couldn't see. They stared at each other for a few moments before Rick heard Shane sigh heavily and drop his shoulders, moving past Rick and following Lori into the crowd. Rick watched the spot where they'd disappeared for a moment before looking down into his drink before tossing the rest of it back. He made his way back over to the kitchen area, intent on forgetting the whole conversation that had just taken place, like if he could just drink enough he would be able to relax and enjoy himself. With that mindset, it wasn't long before he was on his third glass and the world had started to blur at the edges.

He splashed punch onto the counter as he tried refilling his cup. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, though it must've been louder than he thought because next thing he knew someone had taken the ladle and his cup way from him. He looked up to find himself staring into big, pretty blue eyes.

"Need some help with this?" Carol asked pleasantly, already spooning the dark liquid into his cup and handing it back to him before he could respond.

"Thanks." Rick smiled at her and began gulping the cool liquid like a dying man. When he put the cup down, empty, onto the counter he looked up at Carol's face, darkened by the dim lighting. She was wearing a slightly pinched expression but doing her best to hide it.
"Rough night?" Carol asked sympathetically.

"No—yes…no. Well, yes—rough week." Rick's body was vibrating pleasantly and he was pretty sure he was grinning stupidly at Carol.

"Excuse me," someone dressed as Luke Skywalker interrupted, trying to reach around Carol to get to the punch.

"C'mon," Rick offered her his hand, which she took, and they walked away from the counter over to a spot on the wall where Rick had a good view of the front door.

"So, what's wrong?" Carol asked.

Rick couldn't decide if the concern on her face was genuine or if his mind was playing tricks on him. He swallowed thickly. "Nothin'."

Carol raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, all right." Her big blue eyes were assessing him, he could feel them roving over his face with care. "Is this about Daryl?"

Rick's eyes snapped to hers. "Whadda know?"

Carol shrugged and hid a small smile behind the rim of her cup. "Enough."

Before Rick could begin interrogating her, the sound of the front door swinging open distracted him. And, sure enough, as soon as he looked over Carol's shoulders, there he was: standing in the doorway, looking at Rick with his hands in his pockets.

"Close the door, man! You're letting all the cold air in!" the T-Rex from earlier complained.

Daryl visibly jumped slightly, obviously startled that someone was addressing him, but he made quick work of shutting the door and moving away, disappearing into the crowd, before Rick so much as blinked. The conversation with Carol had dropped off as she watched the scene unfolding with a pensive expression. Rick could feel her eyes on him, cataloguing his every reaction. It was making his skin crawl, and he kept swallowing, pushing down the pressure of anxiety that felt like it was going to explode out of him.

Finally, Daryl reappeared through the crowd, holding a Budweiser and making his way towards them. As he approached, it seemed to Rick as if everything in the room had been slowed down, and Daryl was the only thing in focus. Daryl's eyes were wide, and Rick noticed that the can he was holding beginning to dent slightly under the pressure of his grip. Rick's heart was beating profoundly, drowning out the sound of the music. His tongue peeked out between his lips, licking them nervously, tasting the sweetness of Michonne's punch. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Daryl's eyes flicker down to the movement. Rick took a step forward. Daryl looked like he wanted to run, but Rick couldn't have that. This was his opportunity. He had something he needed to ask Daryl, something really, really important. Yet, what came out of his mouth was: "You're not wearing a costume."

Carol giggled behind her hand, and Daryl's eyes slipped over to her for just a moment before he blinked, bright blue eyes hidden for just a split second of shock before his lips quirked in a small smile and he huffed a breathy laugh. "Yup."

"Hey, Daryl," Carol greeted him, smiling sweetly.

"Carol," Daryl said, his voice soft and warm. Shockingly different than the tight way he had answered Rick's statement.

Carol looked from Rick to Daryl before clearing her throat. "Well, I'm going to go find Michonne…I haven't seen her yet."

Daryl nodded and touched her shoulder gently as she passed him. They both watched her go before Daryl returned his focus to Rick, whose brain was buzzing with too many thoughts. He couldn't really grab onto what he wanted to discuss with the man standing in front of him, poised back on his heels like he was gearing up to run.

"You have to wear a costume." Rick knew that wasn't what he should be saying, but he couldn't stop it from coming out; it was the first thought in his head—a piece of information solid and real that he could cling to.

"I don't do costumes," Daryl replied, still smirking. He took a swig of his beer and seemed to relax a little bit more, leaning against the wall. He looked Rick up and down, making Rick's stomach churn, which Rick stubbornly blamed on the alcohol.

"But—" Rick trailed off, furrowing his brow and trying to find the right words.

"But wha', Jaws?" Daryl snorted, seemingly amused by something that Rick couldn't figure out.

Rick tried to lean against the wall next to Daryl, but misjudged the distance and stumbled sideways. Daryl's hand shot out to steady him, grabbing on to his upper arm, covered in the ridiculous grey felt. Rick looked at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, feeling more grounded than he had since two cups of punch ago. Daryl dropped his hand from Rick's arm and took another sip of his beer, looking out over the crowd of people mingling in the living room.

"Ya' haveta get a costume," Rick said, though his voice lacked any real conviction.

Daryl's blue eyes slid towards him, and he sighed. "I'm already here," he pointed out. "And I ain't goin' back home to change."

"Well, you could be—be a…" Rick trailed off as he squinted at Daryl. He'd completely forgotten that this was the first conversation that they had had in half a month. He was fixated on the fact Daryl wasn't dressed up, he was the only one at the entire party to come without a costume, and it had thrown Rick's befuddled mind into a frenzy.

"An angel!" Glenn popped out of doorway, as if he'd been there the whole time.

Daryl figured he probably had been, the nosy bastard.

Glenn was followed by Maggie, who was leaning into his shoulder and giggling.

"The fuck you on about, plumber boy?" Daryl growled at Glenn, who was dressed in a flamboyantly red shirt and pair of overalls with a huge red hat.

"Your vest," Maggie pointed out through her breathless laughter. Her cheeks had a rosy, alcohol tint to them, which matched her pink Princess Peach dress.

Glenn, on the other hand, looked relatively sober, and was smiling wolfishly.

"An angel," Rick mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Yes…yeah. Tell everyone you're an angel." He nodded his head enthusiastically, blinding Daryl with his exuberant grin.

Daryl turned to make a smart comment at Glenn and Maggie but they had wandered off, disappearing back into the crowd. He was left alone with Rick's beautiful smile, which, it seemed to Daryl, was lighting up the dark room. It began to feel too heavy in the crowded space, like the walls were closing in on him. The music and the voices were pressing against him like weights, he couldn't breathe properly.

"I've gotta go," he managed to wheeze out, while his hand shook around his beer. He watched with fascination as Rick's face fell, as if all the happiness had been drained from it.

"Oh." Rick cleared his throat and looked away from Daryl, obviously trying to hide his disappointment.

Even if Rick was sober, Daryl could've seen right through his act—but, drunk, it was painfully obvious. Daryl tried not to let the fact that his departure affected Rick so deeply go to his head. He was already being crushed from the way Rick had looked at him when he'd walked through the door, like he held the answers to the universe. No one had ever looked at him like that.

"It's because he's drunk," a voice, which sounded suspiciously like his brother's, whispered through his thoughts.

Daryl pushed the cruel voice out of his head, even though it was too late. His gut was already twisted with disappointment. This was why he'd been avoiding Rick for the past few weeks. He couldn't fathom the idea that someone cared about him.

That someone wanted to protect him. That someone would stand up for him. To have someone who didn't question when he needed to bolt from the room to calm his breathing, and who was so attentive to his fucking insane inability to function normally around others. All without any indication that he wanted anything from him. There was a sense of loyalty to those actions that Daryl didn't quite know what to do with.

"I didn't mean goin', goin'. I'm just…goin' outside for a smoke." Daryl surprised himself with the revision to his earlier statement, since he did mean exactly what he had said. He wanted to leave so badly it felt like his whole body was magnetized to the front door. And, despite that, he'd essentially said he was going to stick around, and all for the way that Rick was smiling at him again, which made him feel warmer than the scarce amounts of alcohol in his veins.

Rick nodded at him vigorously. "A'righ', I'll be here when you get back." As if to prove his point, he settled back against the wall with his arms crossed.

"A'righ'," Daryl agreed softly, despite himself. He took one last look at Rick, looking way too enchanting in the oversized lump of shark costume, before skirting around the crowd and opening the sliding glass door, slipping out into the cool night.

He breathed deeply, letting his lungs expand fully before stepping out onto the grass from the small patio. He wondered idly, as he lit his cigarette, who exactly Michonne had to kill to get such a nice apartment. The backyard alone was a major selling point, closed in with a small picket fence and about ten square feet, a good size for right off campus. And, as was indicated by the amount of people mingling in the living room-kitchen area, the whole apartment was spacious.

There were a few other people scattered around the yard. A couple girls smoking cigarettes in lawn chairs were eyeing him curiously, giggling when he cast a glance their way. He shivered slightly, passing it off as a chill from the cold night air on his bare arms, before he looked over at the other group, where the scent of weed drifted over to him. He took a few steps closer to that group, hoping that the cloud of the drug would keep the girls from deciding to approach him with the help of their friends and a little liquid courage. That was really the last thing he could take right now.

The familiar sensation of nicotine entering his blood was calming, and he was able to relax, even striking up small conversation with the group of stoners. They were kind of boring, but that was fine with Daryl, because, besides his name, they didn't really ask him anything. People were too damn nosy at parties half the time. The only girl in the group was tucked under the arm of a guy dressed as Einstein and paid him little mind at all, allowing him to loosen up from the anxiety that he had felt inside.

He was on his third cigarette and in a semi-interesting conversation with some guy in a full suit of armor about the growing process of marijuana when he heard his name being called. He looked up and saw Rick walking towards him in a slight zigzag fashion.

"You—" Rick poked a finger into Daryl's chest when he reached him. "—were supp—supposed to come back," he slurred.

Daryl felt his stomach drop. He had completely forgotten about Rick waiting for him while he was outside; the idea of the crowd inside caused his palms to sweat even now. "I lost track of—"

"Are you smokin' weed?" Rick cut him off, whispering the last word harshly. The question was directed at Daryl, but the girl who was currently holding the bowl smiled and nodded, extending her arm out to him from across the circle.

"Ya' want some?" she asked, smiling prettily at him.

Rick looked from Daryl to the glass piece, which was still smoking slightly, and back to Daryl and then narrowed his eyes. "Sure." He reached out and took the bowl, putting it up to his face.

Daryl tried to pry it out of his fingers, but he was holding on tightly. "Rick, I don' think tha's such a good idea."

"Fuck you," Rick snarled angrily, ripping away from Daryl, and turning so his back was facing him. "Since when do you care 'bout me?"

Daryl gritted his teeth, but the words stung more than he let on. Of course Rick would think Daryl didn't care, he didn't know that the precise reason Daryl had spent the last unbearable two weeks avoiding him was because he cared too much. But Rick didn't know that, Rick could never know that. No one could. "Fine ya' dumbass. I ain't gonna clean up after ya' when ya' get too cross-faded and puke all over yerself."

The stoners were watching the exchange with various degrees of interest and amusement. Daryl heard the click of the lighter that one of the guys handed Rick and then the sound of the herb crackling as Rick inhaled. Daryl sighed through his nose when Rick turned back around and handed the bowl off to Prince Arthur.

"Aw, he fucked up the rotation," Einstein began to complain, which spiraled into a heated bickering match about whose turn it was.

Rick observed the exchange with an unfocused gaze. Daryl was watching him like a hawk, waiting for him to hold his gut and puke all over the shoes of the group. After a moment, he saw Rick sway slightly and he stepped towards him, putting an arm around his waist loosely.

Rick's head snapped around to look at him, eyes wide and slightly bloodshot.

"C'mon, let's go, Jaws," Daryl commanded softly, nudging Rick gently with his hip to get him to turn around.

Rick nodded dumbly, staring at Daryl in a way that unnerved him, like he could read every thought flickering through his head. Rick tripped over his own foot as he tried to turn back towards the apartment and probably would've fallen flat on his face if Daryl hadn't tightened his grip, bunching his hand into the baggy grey fabric in which Rick was encased. Rick threw an arm around Daryl's neck and leaned into him. Daryl dragged him through the glass door, looking for Michonne. He didn't see her, but he found the snappy blonde that had taken to following her around—what the fuck was her name? Aubrey? Amy? Oh, hell, it didn't really matter.

He tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around, smiling slightly at the sight of his inebriated roommate dangling from him like some sort of dead fish. "I'm takin' him home, let Michonne know will ya'?"

"Sure thing." She flounced off in her short secretary skirt before he could say anything else, but she seemed pretty sober, and that was good enough for him.

He scanned the crowd half-heartedly for Lori, but he couldn't spot the brunette anywhere—not that it broke his heart any. He managed to get Rick out of the house and up into his truck, making sure he buckled his seatbelt and didn't have any limbs hanging out before he slammed the door and went around to the driver's side. The ride back to the dorm was silent, since Rick had fallen into a sort of stupor, though he never went to sleep. Whenever Daryl glanced over he could see the reflection of streetlights in Rick's eyes.

Daryl managed to maneuver Rick successfully up the front stairs of the dorm building and into the elevator with only a suspicious glance from the security guard, who he nodded to as he passed. Once they were in the elevator, Daryl propped Rick against the hand rail and reached over to press the button for their floor, keeping a hand on Rick's chest, not trusting him to stay up right on his own. They finally made it into their room, and Daryl practically tossed Rick onto his bed before bending down to untie his shoes.

Rick stirred for the first time on his own since they'd left Michonne's, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Daryl behind half-lidded, sleepy eyes. Daryl swallowed before tugging off his second sneaker and tossing it behind him.

"You're gonna make a mess," Rick pointed out in a gravelly voice that went straight to Daryl's groin.

"Ya' can clean it tomorrow," he responded keeping his voice low. He clamped his hand around Rick's ankle, probably harder than he needed to, as he stood up from his crouch next to the bed.

Rick didn't seem to notice; he was tracking Daryl as he moved around the room that felt strangely tiny in the moment. Daryl filled up a glass of water, then rummaged around in the one half of their closet shelf that they'd turned into a snack pile. He got a hold of the saltines he was looking for and headed back over to Rick. He sat down on the edge of the bed, since Rick had managed to pull himself up into a sitting position and made room.

"Eat this," Daryl demanded, shoving a handful of saltines into Rick's palm.

To his credit, Rick didn't protest, immediately beginning to munch on the crackers—though, he didn't take his eyes off Daryl. He began to cough when he practically inhaled the last one, struggling to swallow around the dryness in his mouth, and Daryl offered him water with an amused smirk. Rick looked up at him over the rim with gratitude, greedily gulping the contents down and handing the empty cup back to Daryl. He took the proffered cup and went to stand, but Rick was too quick for him, his hand shooting out to clasp around his wrist. Daryl looked down at where their skin connected, and then up at Rick, who was watching him steadily, though his eyes were shining in the light of the moon outside the window.

"Are you still mad at me?" Rick asked firmly, his voice sounding more sober than it had in the past hour.

Daryl sighed heavily and Rick released him from his grip, though his eyes held him prisoner. Daryl rubbed a hand over his face and glanced down at his shoes, unable to meet Rick's eyes. "I wasn't ever mad at ya'," Daryl found himself admitting.

There was a long moment of silence, filling up the room like smoke, heavy and thick. "Then…why?" Rick's voice trembled slightly, and Daryl flinched to hear it.

He knew he'd caused the insecurity lacing through Rick's normally strong and sure tone. He brought his thumb up to his mouth, chewing on the cuticle to avoid answering. He wished Rick would just pass out and forget that any of this had happened. How could he even begin to explain why he'd been ignoring Rick? He'd never be able to tell him the real reason, and, right now, his brain was too tired to find a suitable lie. Instead, he just shrugged his shoulders, glancing up at Rick beneath his bangs.

Rick was wearing a confused expression, his eyebrows drawn together and his full lips, dyed dark red by punch, slightly pursed. "Are we good now?"

Daryl tipped his head slightly, but he knew Rick's keen eyes would pick up on the movement.

He did, and his worried lines in his face smoothed out, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He nodded once. "Good," he whispered, almost more to himself than Daryl. "Hey, no more runnin', alrigh'? Friends talk when they have issues."

He wanted to tell Rick all his problems right there, drop to his knees and confess. Rick's immediate forgiveness did nothing but make him feel worse about the whole situation. Yet, all he could do was nod and swallow back the declarations on the tip of his tongue. The moment was broken when Rick scooted down on the bed, taking his pillow with him, stretching out and rolling onto his side with a sigh. Daryl shook his head with a soft smile and turned away, going into the bathroom to change.

When he came back out, he was sure that Rick was asleep. He could hear his even breathing from across the room. He was curled on his side, still in his ridiculous shark costume, and shivering slightly. Daryl went over and took the quilt, knitted by Rick's mother, off the end of Rick's bed and unfolded it. He threw it over Rick, making sure that all of his long limbs were covered by the wool. He stood over Rick for a second, looking unabashedly at his roommate's peaceful features.

Suddenly, Rick stirred, and, even though he didn't open his eyes, he spoke, soft but clear: "You really are an angel, Daryl."

Daryl snorted; Rick was still drunker than he had originally thought. "G'night, ya' drunk," Daryl replied, turning to crawl into his own bed.

"My angel," Rick sighed, pushing his face further into his pillow.

Daryl froze in the middle of lifting his covers, heart pounding. He looked over at Rick, who slept on, peacefully unaware of what he'd just said. Daryl lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, refusing to look over at his roommate's side of the room.

My angel.

The two words echoed around and around in his head.

God, he was so fucked.