Chapter 16: All I Have Is One Last Chance; I Won't Turn My Back On You

Rick scrubs his hand over his beard before he even opens his eyes, knowing all too well what he'll see once he does. He's putting that off as long as possible, though he knows he can't hide behind closed lids forever.

The sound of a throat being cleared sounds from somewhere close by, and Rick has to work to hold back a chuckle. Murphy is being much more than impatient today, but he'll just have to suck it up and deal with it, because Rick doesn't feel like rushing himself right now.

It's a process for Rick to wake up lately. First he has to adjust to simply being aware, because he's still a little fuzzy around the edges when he thinks. Second he has to open his eyes; the light is always much too harsh and bright and that causes him to squint, plus Murphy is often hovering somewhere in his line of sight, and that just makes him want to shut his eyes again. Third he has to move. Whether he's tilting his head slightly or actually rising to his feet doesn't matter; pain wracks his body in waves with every infinitesimal movement he makes. He tries to keep moving to a minimum, even though he knows he'll have to push his body eventually, break it in past its limits once more. He's done it before, and he'll do it again.

Finally, Rick slowly opens his eyes, and of course Murphy is standing above him. Murphy's eyes are wide with concern that he's not even trying to hide, staring down into Rick's own like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life. Rick huffs, but Murphy doesn't move even a centimeter, much to Rick's dismay.

"Can't get up if you're standing in my space." Rick says, his tone mired with sleep and not nearly as sharp as he wishes it could be.

Murphy just grins and stays where he is. "Actually ye can't get up without my help, so I'll just pretend that's what ye said instead."

Rick grinds his teeth together. It's going to be another long day.

Rick sits on the couch with a paperback in his hands, trying to ignore the upbeat Irish handful sitting across from him at the kitchen table. The book isn't something he ever would have picked up pre-apocalypse, but it's actually pretty good given the circumstances. He can't seem to lose himself in it, though, and that's only partially due to the fact that he can barely focus on the words with his still somewhat swimmy vision.

Murphy is cleaning his guns again, wiping down the barrel with a small, stained rag. He does it every day, at least two or three times a day. He never really focuses on the guns as he takes them apart and puts them together, looking everywhere but at the shiny metal as he polishes the separate pieces. Those guns haven't been fired since the showdown a few days ago, and Rick wonders why Murphy's bothering to clean them so much, but he never asks as much.

But even so, Rick can feel Murphy's eyes burning a hole through him, and it's making him lose his precious little focus. Without sparing the young man a glance, he says, "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Murphy chuckles softly, but the sound is grim, a shadow of what it once was. Rick can tell without even looking that there is no humor on the other man's expression, and that his eyes are hooded and dark. "Not really."

"Then would you be so kind as to go clean your guns somewhere else, and maybe stop staring at me so much?" Rick glances up then, his eyes meeting Murphy's, giving him a glare.

Murphy is unfazed by Rick's look, or his tone. He simply shakes his head and begins putting the gun back together. "Gotta watch ye, t' make sure ye ain't about t' go into convulsions 'r something. That asshole beat ye pretty good."

Rick grumbles something unintelligible, and returns his eyes to the lines on the pages in front of him. "I'm a grown ass man, and I don't need your help."

"Really? 'Cause if I hadn't intervened ye'd be dead right now."

Rick lets the book fall from his hands and slam down on the table, where it slumps on its side and closes with a soft ruffle of pages. His eyes narrow and he levels Murphy with a vicious glare, which Murphy matches with an intensity Rick is almost surprised by.

"I had the situation under control." Rick tries to keep his voice calm, but the anger is leaking through, infusing his tone with a hard edge.

"No, ye didn't." Murphy retorts, no bullshit. "That guy had his hands wrapped 'round your throat, an' he wasn't gonna stop squeezing 'til ye stopped movin'. Ye were pretty close t' blackin' out as it was."

Rick silently fumes. Murphy is right, and he knows that, but the stubborn side of him doesn't want to admit that. He's trying to think of a good response to what Murphy's just said, but his mind is drawing a blank.

So he just says the first thing that pops into his head. "Why did you help me, anyway?"

Murphy just shrugs, seemingly unaffected by the question. "Was the right thing t' do."

"Don't give me that crap." Rick barks out something resembling a laugh before continuing. "You left everyone behind and came charging across the field to help me. You left your brother fighting next to people he probably couldn't give two shits about. You even left Daryl behind. All just to help me. You could have easily left me there to die, called it a casualty of war, and let it slide right off your back. No one was going to fault you for not darting out to save me when they wouldn't have done that either. So, again, why did you help me?"

Murphy huffs, his cheeks burning a soft pink color. Rick takes notice of the blush, liking the way it rests on the other man's pale cheeks, remembering when he used to be able to make Daryl flush that way. But Rick snaps himself out of that line of thought before it gets any worse, returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"I did it for Daryl." Is Murphy's short, yet profound, answer.

Rick's eyes narrow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Murphy shakes his head, more at Rick's stupidity than anything, and continues. "Daryl loves ye a hell of a lot more'n he'll ever love me. Yeah, I coulda stayed behind, fought with the others, an' tried t' keep me, my brother, and Daryl all together in the aftermath, and let ye die. But if Daryl had known ye died then he would've died, too. He would've made sure 'a that. So I saved you for him, for when the day comes that we all reconnect I could give ye back to him and make sure he's happy."

Murphy rises from the table and leaves, taking his guns with him. Rick stares after him, his mind trying to process the new information, his chest filled with too many mixed emotions to even attempt to sort.

Rick pants in short, heaving breaths as he thrusts into Murphy once more before finishing. His ribs hurt like hell and his heart feels like a jackhammer in his chest, but it's worth it, in a weird sort of way. Part of him understands why Daryl strayed so often to the man underneath him.

They are on the couch, Murphy on his back on the cushions with his hips propped up by a pillow or two, Rick in front of him with one foot planted on the floor and one shoved so far into the cushions he's sure he's made a permanent indent into the padding. Rick is just barely managing to hold himself up by gripping the back of the couch with hand and forearm, and Murphy doesn't dare move a muscle until Rick decides to adjust, because even a flinch could make the ex-sheriff fall and hurt himself.

Rick flushes heat, suddenly embarrassed and ashamed, and tries to avert his gaze away from Murphy. But Murphy's eyes are just too captivating, and they draw him into their warm waters, coax him into staying there.

And that makes something inside of him flare anger. Is this what Daryl saw when he would finish with Murphy? Is this what made Daryl turn his back on Rick?

Rick wants to hit something, wants to hit Murphy, but he has a much better idea.

Rick reaches down and swiftly pulls his Colt from its place in his holster on the floor, then swings his arm up and points the gun at Murphy's face, the barrel not even an inch away from the man's nose. Murphy doesn't even blink.

"I could kill you right now. Take Carl with me and leave your dead body here to rot. No one would ever find out. I could tell the others that we got overrun in a herd, that they tore you apart before I could save you. Everyone would give me their condolences, but they wouldn't condemn me. And after a while they wouldn't care about you anymore."

Murphy doesn't speak, simply stares up at Rick with unwavering eyes. Those eyes are challenging Rick, their expression practically screaming at him "do it!"

Rick's lips press into a thin line as he regards Murphy, his arm falling just slightly. "Don't you have anything to say to that?"

Murphy shrugs then flicks his tongue out, drawing it up the length of the gun's barrel. He keeps his eyes locked on Rick as he does this, playing seductress and flirting with death all at the same time. Because he knows Rick won't pull that trigger, not now that he's got a taste of what Daryl so pined for.

Murphy flicks the tip of the Colt once more before drawing his tongue back into his mouth.

"Tastes like you, only sweeter."