Chapter Text
In the years to come, Rick will look back on this and tell himself that he should have known from the first second he met Daryl how everything from then on would pan out. Examining it later, it’s so simple. So absolutely obvious, as crystal clear as mountain water. But in the here and now, things aren’t always so illuminated and he guesses that he’s a bit too caught up in his own life, his own marital drama and the day-in, day-out boring old grind to be able to really notice the start of everything standing right in front of him. Hindsight is 20-20. And a total and utter bitch.
The day he meets Daryl is normal enough, the only thing out of the ordinary Shane’s pissy attitude. They have desk duty and every time Rick looks up from across the room to catch Shane’s attention, Shane is staring angrily at his computer screen or his phone. Rick doesn’t think much of it, chalks it up to a bad night’s sleep or to the fact that the Braves lost their last game. He doesn’t realize the extent of Shane’s mood or the reason for it, but then again why would he? The future can only reveal all of the many things that Shane is keeping from him.
There isn’t much that morning that Rick pays attention to--the details of his drive in with Shane are fuzzy and the only thing he really notices is that Shane's jaw is set a little tighter than it usually is. Rick hardly gives any thought to the case files he’s working on, barely processing them in his mind as work. He doesn’t notice if Traci, the office secretary, is in or out, or if Leon is being a nuisance or calm for once, if their cells are empty or full.
But what he does notice is the slam of their office door that causes five separate cops to turn their heads. He pays attention to the pissed off and angry country boy storming through the line of desks like he belongs there and he is distinctly aware of his own thoughts regarding the gun at his hip and if he’ll have to use it.
Two cops stand up from their desks and Rick’s muscles bunch to push himself up as well, but by that time Shane has shot out of his office chair and has held out a hand to his fellow officers to hold down. “Daryl,” Shane says, his voice low and angry with warning.
The man doesn’t pause one second, just keeps coming hard and fast across the carpet of their office and chucks something at Shane with such force and velocity it might as well be a bullet. Rick sees it shine in the fluorescent light and hit Shane in the chest, then fall down uselessly at his feet--a necklace with the number “22” dangling from the center.
“Fuck you,” Daryl yells, letting his voice carry through the office, “we’re over.”
He spins on his heel without even letting Shane get in one word edgewise, but Shane yells his name anyway, stooping down to pick up the necklace.
Daryl twists around, but keeps walking backwards. He lifts his arms out to his sides and shrugs. “What, Shane? I don’t give a fuck if your fucking friends know,” he raises his fingers in air quotes, “you’re a fucking fag.” And then he turns on his heel again and heads back out the way he came.
As he walks, he’s forced to go beside Rick’s desk and as Rick looks up at him with wide eyes, Daryl jerks forward in that gangster manner like he wants to scare the shit out of Rick. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” he growls and then storms off, carrying anchors and pounds of anger with him.
Rick is the last one to look away from the door that bangs closed, the last one to turn and look at Shane, who is beet red and stumbling toward the front of the station himself. Rick watches him go and questions buzz around in his head like little angry bees.
***
Shane gets to Daryl’s truck before Daryl has properly pulled out of the parking lot, but he doesn’t give one little bitty tiny hard balled shit. He guns it and watches as Shane has to hop out of the way to not be plowed over and just for extra measure, Daryl throws his hand out of the driver’s side window and flips Shane the fuck off, not really caring if there are video cameras and he’s risking getting arrested for assaulting an officer. Shane would do it, too, Daryl thinks. The bastard.
Daryl is halfway to the interstate when his phone rings and he swears to god that the ringtone is angrier when Shane calls. He lets it go for the first ring, thinking that he’s not going to give the dick the honor of picking up. The second ring comes and he’s still as solid as steel. But the third ring hits and angry little phrases are boiling up within his body that just want to come out and he wants to hurt Shane with the same hard searing pain that Shane has hurt him with, so he picks up and hears “DARYL!” yelled into the phone with that way, way too familiar outburst of rage. “The FUCK do you think you’re FUCKING doing, coming into my WORK, you goddamn PRICK.”
“Serves you right, dicklicker,” Daryl says and takes the recommended 30 mph exit at around 50.
“Get back here,” Shane says, his voice low and demanding, as if he doesn’t know that Daryl locks up as stubborn as a donkey when he’s ordered around.
“Not goin’ happen, Sweet’ums,” Daryl says. “Shoulda thought of that went you left me last night. We’re over, Shane. I mean it this time. So far, far over that I’ve forgotten what you’re goddamn name is. So go fuck yourself. In the ass. With a dirty infected nightstick ‘cause I don’t give one little fuck about you.” And then he slams the end button down on the call and chucks the phone in the passenger floorboard, lets it ring to its heart’s content.
He floors the truck and weaves in and out of the interstate traffic until he gets to the last exit for town. He pulls off at a little old gas station that he never frequents so Shane can’t fucking find him if he’s looking. As soon as the truck rolls to a stop, he flops back into his seat, bites his thumb, and stares out at the blue, blue summer sky.
The phone keeps ringing. Daryl sighs and reaches forward, digs the phone out of the floorboard and looks at the number. Shane. He answers, immediately hangs up, and then, quick so Shane can’t call back, he dials Merle’s number.
Merle picks up and Daryl can hear the TV blaring in the background. “You ain’t double Ds,” Merle says and grunts. “So talk to you later. I’m waiting by the phone, man. Baited breath.”
“Wait,” Daryl says and sighs super heavily. “Dumped Shane, man. For real this time.”
Merle grunts and the sound carries more boredom than it does surprise. “What’d he do now?”
“Was out last night,” Daryl says and groans. “At a club.”
“A…” Merle trails off and Daryl can just see the lewd hand motion. “...club?”
“No. Just a club, Merle. An average club. Having an alright time, too, I guess. Danced together once or twice.” He pauses and chews his lip. “Guy at the bar asked Shane if we were together. Shane didn’t know I was behind him, but I heard. He said we weren’t.”
“Ah, don’t get your panties in a twist--” Merle starts, but Daryl pushes on.
“Said he ‘hated that fag.’”
There’s a pause, loud in the absence of Merle’s gruff voice. “...called my baby brother a fag, did he?”
“Yeah. And then he left me. Left me, Merle. At a strange bar. Jesus! And you were out wherever the fuck you were so I had to get a cab. And then I tried to call him this morning and he said he was working and I told him it was important and he told me to stop being a little bitch.”
“You ain’t no bitch,” Merle says, consoling. “And I’m home now, so why don’t you drive back, huh? Got some Natty in the fridge. We’ll drink it on the porch and listen to good old Charlie and you can tell me just how small his dick is.”
Daryl smiles despite himself and nods, trying to blink back the water in his eyes and the sense of rage in his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll come home.”
***
Shane storms back into the police station, but the rest of the officers turn their heads, trying hard not to look like they’re incredibly invested in the drama. Shane stops at Rick’s desk and practically growls at him. “What’s the name of that flower shop you went to to get Lori flowers last month? Heart somethin’, right?”
“Heart’s Treasure,” Rick answers easily and when Shane asks, he pulls up the number on his phone.
“Little dick,” Shane mutters under his breath, “don’t even know why I’m tryin’. You think dudes like roses?” he asks Rick. Rick just raises his eyebrows and shrugs since he has no idea how to handle this conversation. Shane grunts and continues. “Doesn’t matter. He’s a little bitch either way.” He dials the number Rick gives him and listens for someone to pick up. “Hey, yeah. I need two dozen roses,” he says into the phone. “What? That much. Ah, fuck it. Make it one dozen. Yeah. To Daryl. No, with a ‘y.’ Who the hell spells it with an ‘e’? Yeah, okay.” Rick listens to him give out the address. “Tag? Sure. Say ‘Sorry’. Yeah, thanks. Cool.” He hangs up and shakes his head. “Sixty bucks. Ain’t even worth it.” He lets out a hard breath.
Rick blinks up at him. “Hey,” he says slowly. “Um...doesn’t matter, to me. You know. That you’re--”
“Don’t,” Shane says, cutting him off. “Ain’t. Slut’s just under my skin.” He rubs at his jaw and then closes his eyes, sighing hard before stomping back over to his desk.
For the rest of the day, Rick leaves Shane alone, partly because he doesn’t know what to say and partly because when he tries to engage Shane in conversation later that afternoon, Shane just snaps at him that he’s not in the mood for any bullshit.
Their shift ends at six and he’s thankful that Lori is there to pick him up as he doesn’t want to ride back home with Shane. Shane seems equally grateful as he peels out of the parking lot and heads off in the opposite direction of his house. Rick sighs and slips into the passenger’s seat of the white SUV, going immediately from the fiery hostile environment of his work to the ice cold stillness of his marriage.
It takes them three stop lights before either one of them speaks and, frankly, that’s a better track record than usual. Lori clears her throat and asks overly politely if Rick has had a good day. Rick nods and automatically says he has, the words out of his mouth before he even thinks about Shane. He asks Lori about her day and she says it was fine, mentions grocery shopping and how the store was out of Honey Nut Cheerios, so she got him Lucky Charms. Rick nods and reminds her that payday is tomorrow and that he’ll mail the bills. She responds with a reminder that he needs to make sure to add their quarterly water bill to the list.
And then silence, the only noise the rush of the tires against the highway and the passing of other cars. Rick lets it go for another stoplight and then he reaches forward, presses the button on the radio. Lori takes in a sharp hard breath, but holds it, like she doesn’t want Rick to know it’s a sigh. Rick sets his jaw and lets her have her little victory, tries too hard not to think of the time so long ago when he would have said they were happy.
***
Carl is staying at a friend’s house since it’s Wednesday, which is supposed to be date night according to their therapist. Rick suggests that they go out to a restaurant, but Lori insists that it would feel more intimate if they cooked, so Rick just nods and helps her wash vegetables, cut them up and add them to a stir-fry. They move around each other like bumper cars, constantly getting in one another's way and flinching back when their elbows touch or their sides collide. Rick can’t remember a time when he touched her softly and she didn’t tense under his hand, when his calloused fingers didn’t feel like fire burning the life out of her. In one of their sessions, she had told him how she hated him touching her uninvited and he had simply nodded and said he would do as she wished and start asking. He asks. She says no.
They fix the stir-fry together and it comes out very well, almost professional in the subtlety of its flavors, but the small victory between them means nothing in the face of the silence around the dinner table, in the way Rick’s fork keeps hitting the plate and scraping it loudly, in the way Lori pushes her food around and doesn’t eat. Lori fills her wine glass for the second time and takes a long and thorough drink. Rick wonders what he has ever done to make her hate him.
“Shane,” he starts, because what other conversation can he use, “was acting weird today.”
“Oh?” she says, staring at her fork in boredom.
“Did you know he was dating someone?”
“Colleen, right?” Lori asks and finally looks up at him, her brown eyes dulled, reflecting Rick’s.
“No, um...didn’t look like Colleen,” Rick says and takes a bite of his food.
“Probably dyed her hair,” Lori says and Rick’s skin bristles with her distrust, with her inability to acknowledge that Rick might be right.
“No, definitely didn’t look like Colleen,” he says and then pauses. “It was a man.”
Lori scoffs. “Shane isn’t gay,” she says and stands, picks up her mostly full plate and takes Rick’s as well, even though he’s not finished. “You must have been mistaken,” she says and walks into the kitchen, starts scraping the food into the trashcan.
Rick stands and follows her. “Bought him a dozen roses,” Rick says, defiant. Lori pauses and then gives one final push with her fork to knock off the last of a strip of chicken.
“Well, probably a phase then.” She sits the two plates in the sink and turns on the water, picking up a sponge.
“I know what I saw, Lori,” Rick insists.
Lori turns to him, her eyes snapping quick into a burning kind of righteousness. “I never said you didn’t.”
Rick sighs, heavy and loud. “Why do you keep doing this? Why can’t we have just one nice night together.”
Lori widens her eyes and shakes her head, spinning back around to the sink. “We can. We were. Nothing wrong with tonight.”
“Yes, there was,” Rick says and watches her tense and angrily scrub at a plate.
“I can’t read your mind, Richard,” she says. “If you would just say something, if you would just tell me when you’re upset--”
“I’m not upset!”
“Then why is your voice raised?” she asks, turning and putting her hand on her hip.
“Well,” Rick says, faltering. “I wasn’t.”
“See,” Lori says and points a finger at him. “This. This is what I was talking to Dr. Tanner about. You can’t acknowledge your feelings, Rick. You refuse to deal with them. Yell at me if you want to yell at me. It’s that simple. Stop shutting everything down.”
“I’m not--”
“I can’t do this tonight,” she says and walks to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “I’m going to bed.” She shuts the kitchen light off, leaving Rick in the dark, listening to her footfalls getting more and more distant.