Warning: confusing POV skips, language, slash, silly men being silly.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own the Walking Dead, its plotlines or characters. It's all in good fun, love.
The Walls.
Chapter Two: The same old illusion.
Great, now that I've killed my best friend and my wife hates me, I can solidify my position as dictator. Rick thought coolly, nearly face palming at his own stupidity. He was beginning to sound like a lunatic and already felt like one. He'd stormed away form the group after his award winning performance and managed to get himself turned around in the woods. Not that I really mattered, Lori wouldn't let him sleep in their tent anyway. Where had he come in at? This had to be the way back, he was almost certain.
Through the tree beak ahead he could just see two splotches of random white. He squinted his eyes trying his best to identify the familiar white patches. Angel wings? Rick's brow drew together in frustrated confusion until he realized it was actually Daryl sitting in front of him wearing his biker vest. He had to admit that the wings suited the hunter in the way he was always able to disappear, escape whenever he wanted. A bird flying just out of reach. He was about to walk up to him and steal the open space next to him until he remembered all the biting glares he'd been on the receiving end of that day. At the best of times Daryl was unapproachable, but now that he was angry? Rick feared for his life. Daryl remained silently perched on the stone, a living gargoyle, his heavy sigh being the only thing breaking the silence. It was a good idea to leave him alone, Rick mused, turning around with one last look to the dingy feathers on the broadly muscled back. His traitorous feet had other plans snapping across twigs of all sizes in sound recreation of a cheap western film. Daryl, the diligent soldier, had already popped up, his crossbow ready to fire and a scowl on his face.
"What the hell, Grimes?" he huffed, lowering his weapon to rest against his thigh, his arms bulging against his cobalt blue shirt. "You make it a habit tah scare people half tah death?"
"Ah, sorry," Rick waved his hands in apology hoping to sooth the twitching, hyperactive man in front of him. Daryl had a tendency to snap over little things, especially privacy invasion and destruction of personal peace. At the quarry Daryl had literally kicked Glenn in the ass for interrupting his 'Zen time' among other offenses like borrowing one of the Dixon's knives without asking. "I was just," he flailed his arms a bit, a strained smile twitching at his lips as he pointed at the nature around him, "taking a late night walk." even to his own ears it sounded questionable and almost as if her were asking Daryl for confirmation. The younger nodded in understanding and plunked back down to his seat on the stone barricade. Rick felt a little flutter of joy when he realized that Daryl trusted him enough to show him his back. Weeks ago the huntsman was a jumpy mess whenever people were around him, scrambling to keep track of them all, always fearing a knife in the back that wouldn't come. Was he finally adjusting to living with their colorful new family? A lot had changed in a few weeks though. Shane had started going off the deep end a long time ago, slowly becoming unreliable and dropping a lot of his daily duties to go off on whatever paranoid venture he decided was more important than his responsibilities. Daryl and Rick had stated to spend a lot more time together since Daryl had been drafted to pick up schizophrenic maniac's slack. Many hours were spent planning out searches that would be fruitless, rationing out chores to unwilling survivors, and skinning dead things. Rick felt it was criminal for Daryl to have all of Shane's jobs along with going hunting nearly every day. He'd slowly built enough courage up to help the hunter. They could almost have a decent conversation together now.
Daryl had this secret charm that he kept bottled up. Sometimes he'd let it slip out into his crystal blue eyes and little, knowing smirks. It all drove Rick shithouse nuts. Really, he didn't know his own asshole form a hole in the ground thanks to all those sparkling, pearly whites Dixon kept hidden under his tight lips. He sort of wished that the dark haired man would smile more, but knew that would drive him further into insanity, doing backhand springs towards the loony bin, more like. In all the awkward, hushed conversations they'd had, Rick had really gotten to know Daryl. Not as well as he'd like to, but in the general sense. Where he'd first slapped a "white supremacist racist hick" label on Daryl and filed him away, he was starting to realize that he couldn't have been farther from the truth. Daryl's brother had been frightening, a starving pit-bull with a too tight collar, just waiting to take a chunk out of the next piece of fresh meat. he had assumed the younger would be a cookie cutter version of the older. A druggie and a burden. Daryl wasn't any of those things, and it seemed like his only similarity to Merle was the sleeve aversion. He did have a real potential at be dangerous though. A pit-bull puppy that could grow up mean and vicious or sweet and protective. Someone just had to be there to pat and love the little guy so he wouldn't feel all lonely and worthless. Rick already had his resume in hand, rallying to fill the position.
Gingerly, Rick inched forward, unsure if the other man had dismissed him or invited him to stay. With Daryl it was a coin flip either way. "Mind if I sit?"