Chapter 10: Can't See The Silver Lining Down Here On The Floor

Daryl storms out of the cell he and Murphy were sharing, his footfalls from A Block to C Block matching the sound of thunder. His heart is pounding furiously in his chest as he thinks about what Murphy told him.

Part of him doesn't believe that Rick really pulled a gun on Murphy. Part of him knows that Rick is a reasonable, level-headed individual who wouldn't do something that rash just he was upset.

But at the same time he can still very clearly remember Rick attacking Tyreese, hitting him again and again at the drop of a hat. He remembers how he had to restrain Rick, use a good portion of his own strength just to pull the sheriff off the other man. He knows that Rick isn't all there anymore, and that he could snap at any moment.

That's why Rick's been spending so much time in the garden, staying out of the internal affairs of the prison. He needs the calm of slow-growing vegetables and fresh air in his lungs, not the constant struggle and bickering of the council they've formed.

Daryl huffs as he enters C Block, slipping silently through the open gate and up the steps to Rick's cell. He's ready to just burst in there like a raging storm, demand an explanation from Rick, but what he sees in the cell diffuses him like he's just been doused in warm water.

Rick is on the bed they share, curling into himself. He's clutching Daryl's pillow in his sleep, his face pressed against the fabric so he can breathe in Daryl's scent while he dreams. He looks like a child, a child with a raggedy beard, and Daryl can't bear to wake the man up and yell at him, not now.

Daryl stares at Rick for a few moments, just because he can. He rarely gets to see the sheriff this way, without his unbreakable façade in place. Rick is usually always trying to hide the fact that he's breaking inside with fake smiles or a mask of neutrality, but here in his sleep he doesn't have to hide, and Daryl can see every sorrow etched into his furrowed brow and frowning lips.

Daryl hates to see the man like this, at unease even in dreams, but at least he's getting some rest. Daryl kneels by the bed, strokes a hand across Rick's bearded jawline. It's a miracle that Rick doesn't wake up instantly, since he's been sleeping about as light as Daryl lately, by the doesn't, and that makes Daryl repeat the motion. The stubble is scratchy under his fingertips, but he doesn't really mind that.

Daryl smirks slightly, though it doesn't touch his eyes. He's fucked up so bad this time, and even if he left Murphy completely, never spoke to the other man again or even looked at him, it wouldn't do a damn thing to fix his and Rick's broken relationship.

And Rick's so willing to hang on to him, so willing to let bygones be bygones and forgive everything he's done with Murphy. Rick's too afraid of losing him to do anything but pull him closer, or try to scare off the competition.

It makes sense why Rick would pull his gun on Murphy, really it does. Daryl probably would have done the same thing if he were in Rick's position, except the gun would have been a crossbow and the person would already be six feet underground. He can't fault Rick for what he's done, because that would be hypocritical, and Daryl's anything but a hypocrite.

Daryl feels tears prickling his eyes, and he wants to let them fall. He wants to just breakdown right there on the floor, sob out all of his pain. But he doesn't know how to be anything but strong, and besides he can't go into a fit with Rick and the rest of the group asleep right next to him. That would wake everyone up, and then they'd all know his shame.

So he does the one thing aside from crying that he absolutely hates to do: he runs. He runs from his and Rick's cell, runs from his problems, runs from the tears trying to force their way out of his eyes. He runs until his breath hitches in his throat and his sides cramp up and his legs feel like they're burning, and then he runs some more. He runs until he can't run anymore, finally tripping and sprawling in the dirt and grass of one of the fields.

He doesn't know where exactly he is, didn't have a particular place in mind when he started his mad-dash throughout the prison grounds. But somehow he isn't all that surprised when he looks up and realizes he's in the group's makeshift graveyard.

And for some reason that hits him harder than anything, and he breaks down right there in the grass. He manages to scramble to his knees, his hands holding him up and his head pointed downward, the tears hot and unceasing against his cool cheeks. He sobs so loud the walkers at the fence line groan at a volume that drowns him out, but still he can't stop.

Something inside of Daryl has finally snapped, like a bridge breaking during an earthquake, and it's dragging him down with its wreckage. His chest heaves and his cries get caught in his throat, choking him and sending him sputtering back into the grass.

Daryl curls into a ball as his cries start to ebb, his eyes fixing on the few wooden crosses he can see from that vantage point. For some reason his thoughts stray to Merle, and he briefly remembers that there is no cross for his brother, nor will there ever be. That sets him to crying again, though not as hard this time.

Daryl cries himself to sleep, remaining in the grass for the rest of the night.

Daryl wakes to someone gently pushing his hair back from his face. For a split second he thinks it's Merle, probably on account of the dream he had about the man. But then reality crashes down on him once more; Merle is dead, and the only two people in the world who have touched him in such a caring manner are Carol and Rick.

He knows instantly that it's the latter who's here beside him; Carol has no business being out by the graves, and she would never think to look for him over here, anyway.

"Rick." Daryl mumbles, a soft smile curving his lips.

"Daryl." Rick replies, his voice gentle and sweet.

Daryl manages to pull himself into a sitting position, finding Rick a lot closer than he expected. Rick is just inches from his face, once he's all the way up, his blue eyes shining with sleepiness and something close to joy.

Daryl stares at Rick, knowing he should say something, but not knowing what that something should be. And then he doesn't have to speak, because Rick closes the gap between them by placing a tender kiss on Daryl's lips.

And that makes Daryl want to cry all over again, but he controls himself; he just can't make himself kiss Rick back.

Rick pulls away, stunned by Daryl's lack of returned affection. "Are you alright, Daryl?"

Daryl sighs, not quite sure how to answer that question. He's the one who's been cheating on Rick, the one being a complete asshole and fucking up their relationship. He shouldn't be feeling sorry for himself or crying, he should be alright. But he isn't; he's not alright.

Daryl looks up at Rick, and Rick can tell that he's been crying. Rick can see every bit of turmoil and sorrow in the redneck's perfect blue eyes, and his heart clenches painfully, because he never wants to see Daryl look that way ever again.

Daryl doesn't break contact with Rick, just burns a hole through his eyes with that haunting gaze of his. Daryl has to ruin yet another moment between them, has to know the answer to the one question that's been running through his mind since he left Murphy's cell last night.

And then, so quietly Rick can just barely understand the words, Daryl says, "Why would you point your gun at Murphy, Rick?"