Chapter Text
Biting back a groan, Rick lowered himself onto the spinning chair at his desk. His grip tight on the hard moulded plastic as he eased himself back. He refused to rest his hand protectively over his side, half sure Margaret would appear the moment he did with her wide concerned eyes and suggestion that he goes home.
Sitting is better than standing but it doesn't ease the hot pain of his side. It’s a gnawing pain, constant and unaltered except to spike high, blindingly painful when he overestimates himself.
He worked on measuring his breath and riding the crest of the wave of pain his change in position had made.
He was back at work too early, his doctor had frowned at him and lectured him for an hour when he took the paperwork in for him to sign. He’d relented in the end, with strict instructions for a light work load and a desk job.
Being back didn't mean he wasn't tired or in pain, it just meant he had to grit his teeth and push through because it was his own damn fault. Perhaps that’s why Margaret hovering annoyed him so much, but the impersonal walls of his apartment were driving him insane and he'd take the comfort of being back and the light workload over staring at them any longer than he had to.
Laughter came from the kitchenette and his eyes drifted towards the noise. It seemed louder with just the skeleton crew drifting around the station.
Rick looked at the paperwork on his desk and held back a sigh. He hadn't minded working night shifts as a rookie, but that had been in a squad car and there was a certain freedom to that. Chained to a desk until he his doctors signed off on him returning to a full workload was much more stifling.
Day shift wouldn’t have been so bad, more people around at least, more jobs to get done. But it had been his decision to take nights -avoiding the whole situation like a child instead of manning up and working with Shane.
Even as he thought it, bile rose in the back of his throat and his hands clamped down on the arms of his chair as though holding himself back from doing something reckless, something violent.
Shaking himself, he turned his attention to his desk and pulled himself forward, bowing his head and setting to work on the paperwork they'd put him in charge of. It was necessary but tedious work.
Time crawled and he pushed on, nodding goodbye to the last of the late shift as they headed home, leaving the night crew and the dim corridors of the station.
Monroe and Clarkson left for patrol and Rick looked around to see the squad room empty. Margaret was in her small cubicle manning the radios as she filed her nails and sipped at a coke, there were two officers behind the reception desk and another in the security room but for the most part Rick was alone.
He sunk back into his chair and rubbed tiredly at his face, fingers lingering over the thick stubble which crept down his throat and thought absently about shaving it off.
So many things seemed like too much effort at the moment. He tired so easily and there didn’t seem much of a point in keeping his hair short and jaw clean shaven when he was only ever going from his empty apartment to riding a desk, occasionally stopping in at the supermarket between the two. He felt satisfied that his uniform was clean, if not perfectly pressed.
Lori had always taken such pride in appearances and it had been easy to follow her lead and keep himself tidy, it was professional and he did take pride in his job, why not his appearance? He found that since the divorce he'd begun to let some things slide, he wasn't a slovenly bachelor, he was forty-three years old and had grown accustomed to order, but there was a definite relaxing of rules and he found there was a small sense of liberation that came from growing his hair a little longer, the facial hair he'd have to think about though.
“You alright for coffee, honey?” Margaret was paused in the entrance of the kitchenette, hip cocked and smile bright.
Rick cast a glance at his coffee cup and the mouthful of cold coffee left at the bottom.
“Some more would be great.” He moved to lever himself up.
“Don’t be silly, I’ll get it,” she pointed a manicured nail at Rick, “you rest.” she scolded playfully. Rick bit back an irritated huff and smiled at her as she collected his mug and made her way back to the kitchenette.
He was tired of being injured, of people being so careful around him. He knew it was ridiculous to be annoyed at people being nice, but everyone was being nice. Rick wasn’t even sure if it was the bullet wound or the divorce which garnered him the most sympathy.
He smiled and thanked Margaret when she returned. She leant towards him when she placed the mug down carefully on a clear patch of desk, the low cut of her top offering a generous view down her front. Ricks smile became pinched.
Margaret was a beautiful woman, ten years younger than Rick, who worked hard at her job and had always been friendly; but her particular brand of forthright flirtation which she’d always had, occasionally made Rick uncomfortable. He’d found, over the years, that it was easier to feign ignorance and pretend not to notice. He didn’t know if she had amped it up since Ricks divorce or if he just noticed it more now he was newly single, either way, it made him uncomfortable.
Margaret paused a moment before turning on her heel with a flick of her hair and went back to her post at the phones.
Rick took a moment more to rest his weary body before he scooted forward and got back to work, shuffling the first few pages to remind himself where he’d gotten to.
Transferring old case files to a digital copy was tedious and mind numbing work. He found that once he got into the swing of it, it was easy to let the time slip away and let the repetitive motions take over.
When he heard the arrhythmic squeak of the cleaners trolley he glanced up to see the new janitor enter the main squad room.
The head of tousled dark hair was bowed as the young man maneuverer the old janitors trolley into its usual spot against one of the desks on the other side of the room. The boy kept his shoulders up and tense and there was a disinterested lope to his stride which Rick watched sometimes when his mind strayed from his work and his eyes sought any movement to lock onto.
As with almost every day for the past two weeks, the young man ran an assessing eye over Rick and ducked his head towards his chest in a nod as he set to work.
Rick returned the gesture and shifted his attention back to his work, letting the noises of the janitor going about his various tasks fill the lonely silence. It made it easier to work somehow, years spent working in a busy squad room, talking over everyone else and the ringing of phones and clatter of keyboards as well as the constant background sound of radios had trained Rick and he hadn’t even realised it.
“You want a sandwich?” Ricks voice broke the silence and sounded low and gruff to his own ears. The boy froze and cocked his head at Rick, eyes narrowing as he studied him in silence, leaning against the handle of his mop.
Rick waved the wrapped sandwich in his hand vaguely in the air. “I made it with chutney out of habit.” which was half true. He’d brought Lori’s favourite brand of chutney out of habit, and as he’d prepared his own sandwich he’d set that out as well. He’d been annoyed at himself both times and he’d gone to throw the jar out but had paused, hand hovering over the bin, and had thought of the skinny janitor who reminded Rick of a stray cat, hissing and defensive and too skinny. “I hate chutney.” he supplied when the boy didn’t move.
When that received no reaction Rick shrugged to himself and placed the sandwich on the far corner of his desk, closest to the younger man, and purposely turned his attention back to his own sandwich. “It’s yours if you want it.” he said, letting it hover in the quiet room.
After a moment of silence, Rick wilfully ignoring the other man and the sandwich, he saw the boy approach out of the corner of his eye.
He held himself at awkward angles, one shoulder raised and head bowed so he looked at Rick from under his fringe. When he paused beside Ricks desk, Rick glanced at him, a small, encouraging smile on his face as he nodded at the sandwich.
He felt a coil of satisfaction when a long fingered hand reached forward slowly and claimed the sandwich. The sleeves of his orange coveralls were rolled up to reveal strong forearms which seemed somehow at odds with how slight he was, despite the broad width of his shoulders which he kept slouched as though to hide how wide they were.
The boy moved back a couple of paces and unwrapped the sandwich. He gave it a cursory inspection before tearing a section off and shoving it in his mouth.
“What’s your name?” Rick asked, the boy licked his lips as he swallowed his mouthful.
“Daryl.” his voice was low and rough and even in the one short word, heavy with the backwoods of Georgia, Rick nodded and fiddled with his own sandwich.
“I’m Rick.” He said. The boy bobbed his head in a nod to show he’d heard but his attention was on the sandwich in his hands.
The phone on Ricks desk rang and he swivelled his chair to face it. By the time he finished the phone call Daryl was on the other side of the room, back to work, sandwich finished.
They repeated the performance for the next four days. Ricks excuse for the extra sandwich was wearing thin by the second but neither of them said anything. By the third shared meal, Daryl approached Rick’s desk with only a small hesitation and rested his hip against the desktop as he ate.
Rick saw these small developments as accomplishments though he tried not to show that he’d noticed, somehow sure that if Daryl saw him noticing the slight thawing of his behaviour, he’d clamp right up again.
They didn’t linger over their food. Daryl ate with a single minded focus, not seeming to care what was in the sandwich, or even seeming to notice that the filling changed each night.
He didn’t express a preference for any and Rick observed him carefully, looking for any hint of one.
Each night, after they finished their late-night lunch Daryl would nod or murmur a low ‘thanks’ as he scrunched up the wrapping in his fist, dump it in Ricks wastepaper basket which he then picked up and took to his trolley to empty and get back to work.
Rick would return to his work, taking in the sounds of Daryl moving around the room. When the younger man finished up the squad room and left for other parts of the station, Rick would wave or nod goodbye and watch his figure disappear down the corridor and out of sight.
Rick had his usual two days off and returned to work tired and irritable. His side ached, his whole body ached. His physiotherapist said he was making good progress and healing very well but when he came away from his appointment, weak limbed and shaking from exhaustion, he found it hard to believe.
He’d always tried to keep a certain level of fitness; but he was willing to admit he’d let it slide a little in the last few years. He imagined it would have been worst after the divorce if he hadn’t been required to rebuild the strength on his side, and regain some of the muscle he’d lost while he was in his coma, and then recuperating in the hospital after the shooting.
He slumped into his desk chair and absently observed the sensation of lead limbs shaking from exhaustion.
Margaret had already asked him if he wanted to go home, offered him herbal tea and a back rub when he refused. He’d thanked her with a smile but hadn’t taken any of the offers. His headache blooming behind his eyes, though he tried to not become snappy or show his irritability. It wasn’t Margaret's fault he was in a terrible mood, wasn’t her fault he ached, or that he knew his dreams would be disturbed with the mosaic memories of the shooting and he’d be exhausted and irritable for the next couple of days.
When she finally left him to his work, he pushed on with his teeth gritted in determination and ploughed forward through the piles of papers that never seemed to shrink.
The squeaking wheel of the cleaner’s trolley, which was usually the only indication or warning Rick got that Daryl was nearby, was interrupted suddenly when it was still some distance off. The sudden break in the routine made Rick look up, curious at the anomaly in Daryl’s behaviour.
Margaret was talking to him at the far end of the corridor. She was pointing emphatically and a hip was jutted in an almost petulant manner. Rick watched them curiously. Daryl wasn’t reacting, though he was listening to her with his head bowed and his hands fixed on the handles of his trolley. As one, they looked down the corridor towards Rick and he realised what they were talking about.
Rick bit back an irritated growl and purposely turned his eyes away, though he knew Daryl had been the only one to notice him watching them. The squeak of the trolley began again and Rick looked up to watch Daryl’s approach, Margaret nowhere in sight.
As with every evening, Daryl ran an assessing eye over Rick and offered him the same small nod of his head before he began his routine tasks. Rick watched him absently, allowing his attention to drift between the papers in front of him and the bright orange jumpsuit which drifted around the room.
Daryl was never loud when he worked, but he seemed even quieter than usual; lowering the empty wastepaper baskets with a little more care than he usually would, and moving the chairs out of the way where usually he would knock them with a hip or his broom, uncaringly.
As he approached, Rick gave up any pretence of not watching him and slumped low in his seat to observe the younger man.
“What’d Margaret want with you?” Rick eventually asked. Daryl shrugged one shoulder and continued working. Rick licked his lips and weighed up whether he should continue or not. “She tell you to be quiet because of me?” This time, Daryl darted a look at him from beneath his messy fringe. “You don’t have to, I’m fine.” Rick continued. From under the mess of Daryls dark hair Rick thought there might have been a quirk to his mouth, but Daryl lowered his head again before Rick could see for sure.
Rick gave up and settled back to watching Daryl work, fiddling with a pen absently as the younger man slowly made his way towards Ricks desk.
For the last few nights, whenever Daryl made it to his desk Rick would offer the spare sandwich and they would eat in companionable silence. Daryl looked unsure as he closed in on him and Rick observed how he chewed his lower lip nervously.
“I have leftover Chinese tonight.” Rick opened. For a brief second, disappointment flashed across the younger man’s face and Rick felt a renewed sense of purpose at it, “I ordered way too much, there’s plenty if you want some.” Rick worked to keep his voice casual. Daryl’s hesitation was pronounced this time and Rick decided to push on. Levering himself up from the chair, he ground his teeth against a groan which built in his chest and nodded to the other man as though a decision had been made. “Good. I can’t eat it all.” He straightened up and Daryl made a faltering step, face going pinched and concerned.
“I’ll get it,” his voice was as low as always and once again, it took Rick by surprise. Rick opened his mouth to argue, feeling the same irritation he’d felt at Margaret flare up. Daryl seemed to read it on his face because he huffed a derisive noise and seemed to square himself, challengingly. “You’re old and tired.”
“I’m not old.” Rick burst out before he could think. Daryl’s eyebrows rose and Rick huffed, pursing his lips. He was tired of being coddled, tired of Margaret and everyone else walking on eggshells around him. He squinted at Daryl and supposed he wasn’t exactly being gentle about helping him. The irritation mellowed a little and he crossed his arms defensively over his chest and frowned at Daryl “I’m forty-three.” He said. A small smile quirked at the corners of Daryl’s mouth which he hid by ducking his head.
“And you look every day of it. Sit the hell down.” Daryl said as he turned away. Rick did as he was told and felt his own lips quirk up. Feisty and blunt was a good look on the younger man, it suited him. He was so often wary, tense and defensive, the more relaxed side of him was interesting.
Rick settled back in his seat and tried to relax his muscles, tensed with exhaustion and pain, like his physio told him to do, as he listened to Daryl in the kitchenette. He was silent when he moved and Rick only knew he was still there by the sound of the fridge door opening and closing, the rustle of the plastic and the opening, closing and whirr of the microwave.
Daryl returned with the boxes of Chinese food and dumped them unceremoniously on top of the papers on Ricks desk. He thought about moving them, but accepted the fork Daryl thrust at him and picked a container at random. He watched Daryl pick one up and poke at its contents before digging his own fork in.
“You can sit down.” Rick said, waving his fork vaguely at the chair beside his desk he’d sit people as he took their statements. Daryl shot the chair a dark look but didn’t say anything, simply tucking into his food. Rick didn’t press it and after a minute of quiet eating Daryl leant against Ricks desk, beside Rick, legs kicked out in front of him as he worked his way through the container of food. Rick swivelled his chair wordlessly so the younger man had more room and he wasn’t pressed against the hard arm of Ricks chair.
It was the closest he’d been to Daryl and he observed him as he ate, being careful not to make him feel scrutinised. He was young, somewhere in his mid-twenties, finely boned and strong looking despite how thin and half-starved he looked. There was something about him which drew the eye, he wasn’t traditionally attractive but there was something pleasing about the way his features sat together.
Rick sighed around his mouthful, feeling some of the frustration and annoyance slip away with the food and quiet companionship. He was lonely, he missed his wife and his best friend, missed the bustle of the station and even his neighbour who mowed the lawn too early on Ricks day off.
He was tired on the constant, nagging pain of his healing side and the heavy feeling of betrayal and loss which had taken the place of his wife and friend in his chest.
He’d spent the weekend with Carl, two days where he got to be close to his son. He’d tried to ignore the times Carl had bitten back some story or switched part way through; eyes darting guiltily away in a way which Rick knew meant Shane had been involved in some way. He let Carl hold on to the childish delusion that by not mentioning the other man, they somehow kept him from intruding on their time together.
Rick couldn’t help but feel a sick anger at the other man, couldn’t help how his guts burned with the knowledge that he was spending time with Ricks son, was sleeping in Ricks house, kissing his wife, ex-wife. It made him angry in a way he couldn’t articulate to think of how Shane had stepped into Ricks life.
Pulling his attention away from where they would spiral downwards, he realised he had finished his food and was holding an empty container. Daryl was looking at him from under his fringe, hand raised as he chewed on the cuticle of his thumb. When he saw Ricks attention had returned he reached for the container without a word and put it in his own before dumping it unceremoniously in the wastepaper basket as he rose and returned the forks to the kitchenette.
He paused beside Ricks desk, shoulders tense and hunched defensively. “You need anything?” Daryl asked, voice low and eyes on Rick. Rick smiled brightly and felt the anger and sadness he’d felt growing in his guts disappear as though blown away. He shook his head and let the smile settle down into a pleased curl of his lips and thought absently about how he could feel the skin beside his eyes crinkle. It had been a while since he’d smiled and really meant it.
“Thank you.” he said shaking his head, Daryl shrugged one shoulder awkwardly and turned away, back to his routine. Rick watched his back for a moment, taking in the lingering smell of reheated Chinese food and cleaning fluids before turning back to his own work, shoulders feeling looser and head calmer.
Ricks late night meals with Daryl became his favourite time of day. It made the long hours of his shift slip away easily and he enjoyed the younger man’s company. Once he relaxed around Rick he was bright, witty and prone to snarking cleverly in a way which betrayed how smart he was.
Margaret disapproved, she’d made a point to mention that Daryl was doing community service in lieu of prison time. She had admitted, when pressed, that she didn’t know what for, but her expression said plainly enough that the crime itself didn’t matter.
Rick had no way of knowing, but he thought she might have said something to Daryl about taking up Ricks time. Daryl had retreated back into himself and had seemed hesitant in a way he hadn’t for a while when Rick set out Daryl’s portion of food. Rick had made a point of not noticing or pushing but had been relieved all the same when Daryl’s hesitancy disappeared and didn’t return the next night.
Even if Margaret or any of the other night shift had said something about it to Rick, there wouldn’t have been any cause for complaint. Daryl’s jobs were always finished and the squad room was always neat and tidy by the time he left. Rick himself found it easier to work with the younger man bustling around and he felt calmer and more focused after their shared meals so he saw no reason to regret his decision to feed the younger man.
Rick wasn’t sure if Daryl liked him or just humoured him because Rick fed him, or if Daryl was as bored as Rick was and conversation was better than terse silence and being ignored.
His week passed quickly, time slipping away with little change in his routine. The only bright spots in his days were his late night meals with Daryl and the occasional text from Carl as they planned for Ricks days off, they were small comforts but Rick allowed himself to enjoy them.
The first night back after his days off were always hard. Rick was antsy, left feeling impotent and lonely with Carl returned to Lori. The week of long night shifts seemed to stretch ahead of him on that first day back, an insurmountable obstacle in front of him before he could see his son and he could feel relevant again.
Rick rested back into his desk chair and absently assessed how his muscles ached after his appointment at the physiotherapist, pleased to note he didn’t ache as much as he used to and could even believe his physio when he said Rick was improving.
When Daryl entered, Rick shifted his attention to him, not feeling in the mood to concentrate on the dull work on his desk.
They exchanged their usual silent greeting and Rick settled back in his worn chair and watched Daryl as he went about his tasks. Daryl was aware of his scrutiny, glancing at Rick from beneath his fringe occasionally, as though checking he still had Ricks attention, though he looked lost at how to interpret it.
Rick wasn’t sure himself. He just knew he was bored and antsy, and that watching the boy’s progress around the squad room quieted the buzzing in his head and made it easier to sink into the placidity he needed to get through this week, particularly as he knew he wouldn’t get the whole two days with Carl this week, just a few hours before he went on a camping trip for his best friend’s birthday.
Carl had barely talked about anything else, his blue eyes so bright with excitement as he told Rick about all the things they had planned. Rick had smiled and let him talk, happy that his son was happy, even if it meant giving up his time with him.
Daryl was moved from desk to desk, emptying the wastepaper baskets one at a time,
“I spent all yesterday helping my son with a book report.” Rick wasn’t sure why he told Daryl that, some desire to fill in the silence perhaps.
He had never been much of a talker, it was what drove Lori away in the end, but he’d always been surrounded by conversation. Shane ran his mouth whenever there wasn’t food in it, and always had. Over the years Rick had gotten used to the noise, the familiar comfort of people around him. He liked the quiet, liked how he and Daryl didn’t need to talk to enjoy each other’s company, but he did miss it sometimes.
Silence was such a part of his new life. His impersonal apartment was empty and quiet and he only seemed to be out when everyone else had gone home and settled in for the night. He’d realised the other day that he was at nodding acquaintance with two other late-night regulars to the supermarket he frequented every other night after his shift. He wondered if that was nice or just sad.
When he talked with Margaret he felt like he had to tread carefully with everything he said, unwilling to do anything to encourage her but didn’t want to be rude. He liked her, she was nice and thoughtful and deserved someone to appreciate her, but Rick knew he wasn’t the right man to do it and didn’t want to somehow give her the wrong impression.
So he was left with Daryl, the quiet, wary boy who cleaned the station at night and barely spoke some days.
Thinking about what he’d said, Rick wanted to laugh at how dull it was. It was strange to realise that he had nothing more interesting to say, that the best part of his week had been such a small, dull little thing. Daryl glanced up at him, shoulders held in a tense line as he continued to work, his attention drifting from his chores to Rick.
“You have a son?” Daryl said to the floor, mouth barely moving as he formed the words. Rick hummed an agreement, watching as Daryl moved the mop back and forth with strong, controlled and strangely fluid movements.
“He’s thirteen now.” Rick murmured, as if reminding himself. It seemed like a week ago that they’d celebrated his ninth birthday at the waterpark, Lori beautiful in the sunshine and Carl small in his arms as they wrestled in the water.
Rick shook the thought away, bringing his attention back to the room and caught how Daryl chewed on his lip as he worked, brow furrowed as he darted another look at Rick. “He lives with his mother. I see him on my days off.” He didn’t know why he shared that, but he caught Daryl’s eyes when he glanced back at him and smiled tiredly when Daryl sucked his lips into his mouth and hunched his shoulders a little.
Rick continued, just filling the space as Daryl worked. “He’d read this terrible book, really dull stuff, all about some old gardener...” Rick rambled absently as his eyes strayed to the cleaner’s trolley where he’d seen various books tucked away behind some bottles along with a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He’d never paid much attention to them, just noting that they changed every week or so but the brand of the cigarette never did.
“What’s your favourite book?” Rick asked, returning his attention to the lean figure. Daryl started as though surprised; his broad hands flexed around the handle of his mop and when he darted a look at Rick his face looked confused and vaguely amused. He shrugged one broad shoulder, letting it drop as he cocked his head at the ground and kept working. Rick waited.
“I guess…” Daryl shrugged again, his voice low, “I guess Call of the Wild, maybe.” he darted a look at Rick as though checking it was the right answer. Rick smiled and felt his face light up and he nodded at the younger man.
“I haven’t read that since I was young.” he said, his mind drifting to the book he’d enjoyed so much when he’d read it, thirteen years old and longing for adventure.
Daryl nodded, the corners of his mouth curling up as he continued working. When he ducked his head down, hiding his face behind his hair Rick thought there might have been a flush on his high cheeks, but he couldn’t be sure.
When Daryl had worked his way around to Ricks desk he slumped down onto his now usual place on the edge of the desk, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the heavy-booted ankles.
Rick swivelled his chair to give him room and handed him a sandwich. His knee knocked against the underside of Daryls and when the younger man didn’t react, he let the contact linger.
It had been a long time since he’d touched so casually. It seemed like the only person that had touched him recently was his physio and that touch was professionally clinical, and hurt as much as it healed.
“Some guy’s been looking at gay porn in the mens.” Daryl said after he’d made his habitual inspection of his sandwich and taken a large bite. His tone was conversational, eyes on his fingers as he pushed a slice of tomato back between the slices of bread.
“What?” Rick asked around his mouthful. Daryl shrugged one shoulder.
“Found it, They’d thrown it in the bin there.” Daryl said, attention fixed on his sandwich.
“It might have been confiscated or something.” Rick offered, Daryl looked at him.
“Do you throw confiscated items in the mensroom trash?” his eyebrows rose in question and Rick bowed his head.
“No.” Rick admitted and Daryls mouth curled upwards.
Rick bit into his own sandwich and chewed it as he thought. He could imagine Daryl finding something like that, he could picture it all too clearly in his mind. The long, lean line of Daryl, one hip cocked as he leant against his mop, flicking through the pages with an amused twitch of his thin lips and his eyebrows riding high. Maybe he’d blush, sharp cheeks blooming pink as he looked at the figures on the page.
“You find much weird stuff in the trash?” Rick asked, Daryl shrugged and recrossed his legs.
“Don’t look or nothing, but yeah.” He waved one hand behind him to the row of offices on the far end of the squad-room. “Like, used condoms in one of them offices.” he expanded, Ricks eyes drifted towards the offices.
“Which…” Rick started before shaking his head and tearing his eyes away. “Don’t tell me.” he decided firmly.
When he looked at Daryl, the younger man’s eyes were bright and he looked like he was biting back a smile as he chewed on the remains of his sandwich
“You ever find anything weird in the desk opposite mine?” Rick asked after a moments silence. Daryl’s chewing slowed and his eyes narrowed as they darted a look over his shoulder at the empty desk butting up against Ricks.
“Should I have?” he asked, voice low. Rick slumped back into his chair and sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.
“No, don’t know why I asked.” Ricks voice was low and tired, even to his own ears.
“You’ve got boring trash, man.” Daryl said, breaking the silence which had crept in. When Rick looked at him, the boy was smirking at Rick from beneath his hair. “Unless you been leaving it in the mens room trash.” his narrow mouth was pulled into a teasing smirk, one corner of his mouth raised up, drawing attention to the small beauty mark above his lip.
Rick laughed, head falling back and the sound coming from deep in his chest. Shaking his head, he smiled at Daryl who looked quietly pleased with himself. Rick lifted one hand to rest on Daryls knee and squeezed it once as he chuckled again. The limb under his hand was solid with muscle and warm through the thick material of his coveralls and Rick had to pull his hand away.
“No, no secret porn stash. At least, not recently.” Rick was awarded with a small huff of laughter escaping Daryls mouth as he smiled, ducking his head to watch his large hands fiddle with the empty sandwich wrapper.
Rick felt lighter after Daryl left, some of the restless tension eased from his shoulders and he turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk with renewed interest. When he finished up for the night, nodding a weary greeting to the first of the early shift as they entered, he was pleased to see the pile of work still to do had shrunk, just a little.
On his way home he stopped at his usual supermarket to buy a few things that were easy to prepare. He wandered the familiar isles, the bright fluorescent lights harshly white and eliminating any suggestion of the unreasonable hour.
Just by chance, Rick found himself in the small book section near the candy. Looking at the surprisingly large assortment of books, Rick rubbed the sleep from his eyes and let them drift over the titles. His eyes landed on The Call of the Wild and he paused.
Picked up a copy, he hefted the weight in his hand and studied the cover. Without thinking too hard on it, he put it in his basket amongst his few groceries he’d picked out and didn’t think about the fond curl of warmth he felt when his mind linked the book with Daryl.
At home, he set the book to the side as he put his groceries away. When he made his way into the bedroom he carried it with him, putting it beside his bed before he undressed and crawled under the covers and sunk into an exhausted sleep.
The next evening, Daryl set down two cans of Orange Crush after he’d finished his initial chores and settled into his usual place on Ricks desk. Rick toasted him with one as thanks and opened it with a hiss or carbonated air.
Daryl looked pleased as he took a swallow of his own, setting it to the side and opened the container of pasta Rick had made before work that afternoon. They ate in companionable silence, Ricks mind drifting from the young man beside him, to the work on his desk, to his texts with Carl earlier that evening.
The night was quiet, there was an easy feeling between them and Rick relaxed back comfortably into his chair savouring the way his body moved easier than it has in a while. Taking a large mouthful of pasta, Rick watched as Daryl shovelled food into his mouth.
“What do you do when you’re not here?” Rick asked when he swallowed. Daryl shot him a look, shrugging his shoulders as he chewed his bulging mouthful.
“Hunt mostly.” He said around the pasta in his mouth. Rick felt his eyebrows raise.
“What, like trophies?” he asked, digging the prongs of his fork through his food, searching for a mushroom. Daryl snorted.
“Hell no.” he said as he swallowed, “That dick-waving ain’t for me.” He shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth. “Hunt for food or don’t hunt at all.” he said and it sounded like a mantra or something, a rule he lived by and had been taught to him.
Rick thought about how he attacked the food when Rick gave it to him, shovelling it in and eating anything given to him, the way his cheekbones were so pronounced, a little less now than they’d been two months ago, but still suggesting he was far thinner than he should be.
He tried to imagine the young man in the woods, tracking prey. He found it easier than he expected once he changed the bright orange coveralls for some more muted clothing in his mental image.
Daryl’s footsteps were always silent, and he held himself in a way which suggested a greater awareness of his surroundings than he let on. Rick chewed thoughtfully and found it was surprisingly easy to picture the younger man as some half-glimpsed figure in the woods. There was something wild and uncontainable about him which suited it.
“So you’re good then?” Rick asked, a teasing smile curling at his lips. Daryl shot him a glance as he lifted his can of Orange Crush and shrugged, shooting Rick a smirk as he closed his mouth around the lip of the can and took a few heavy swallows of it.
Rick watched him absently as he returned to his meal, attention drifting down Daryl’s throat to his large hand which fiddled with the fork he was holding, twirling the utensil around his strong fingers.
Rick let his eyes wander down the long line of the younger man’s body, taking in the dramatic V of his torso, the narrow hips cocked casually and the way his eyes were heavy-lidded over blue eyes.
Rick was surprised to find that he wanted. It was a hunger in him he hadn’t felt in years, a selfish, jealous want that demanded he claim the boy in front of him, to make him his and not let anyone else look at the strong lines of his body, the delicate angles of his face under shaggy brown hair which Rick wanted to push away from his face. He wanted to keep the remarkable young man who seesawed between wary, shy awkwardness and cocky, brash and snarky with an ease that made Ricks head spin. Daryl was an unreal figure who had wandered into Ricks world when he was near rock bottom and had become a beacon and a shining moment of goodness in his dull, dreary life.
The moment seemed charged. Daryl's thin lips were loose and inviting, his hip cocked where it rested against his desk looked provocative, drawing the eye and Rick imagined he was holding his body as though poised, inviting Rick to look at him.
Rick swallowed thickly, grinding his teeth together and bit back a sigh, suddenly tired. He breathed deeply, shaking the thoughts from his mind.
The hard clicks of Margaret's shoes approached and Rick looked up to see her entering the squad room. She cast a disapproving glance at Daryl who made a point of relaxing back against Ricks desk, Rick found his eyes lingering on the way it thrust his hips forward and drew attention to the slim waist.
Tearing his eyes away, Rick looked towards Margaret, smiling warmly.
“Do you want a coffee, honey?” she asked, her dark eyes were warm and she kept them trained on Rick. Rick raised the can of Orange Crush in his hands and shook his head as he thanked her.
She paused before she turned around. When she spoke, her voice was sweet and laced with concern. “You look tired. Are you doing alright?” Rick felt a hot coil or irritation curl in his guts and he warred with it, pushing it aside.
“I’m fine. Thank you, Margaret. You take good care of me.” he said with a smile. She glowed at his words, smiling brightly at him before disappearing into the kitchenette. Rick ignored Daryl shifting at his side and watched absently as Margaret re-emerged, throwing another bright smile at him as she passed.
As she walked away, Daryl let out a quiet snort of amusement. “She wants you so bad.” he said lowly. when Rick shot him a glance he was looking towards where Margaret had disappeared.
“That’s just Margaret, she’s always like that.” Rick explained, Daryl rolled his eyes and absently hollowed his cheeks as he bit back whatever he was thinking of saying. Rick shook his head and finished the last mouthful of pasta at the bottom of the container.
“You really got no idea when someone's into you, do you?” Daryl asked, his voice light and curious. Rick shot him a look.
“I was married for fifteen years.” Rick said as though that was answer enough.
“And no one's ever hit on a married man before.” Daryl with an amused twist to his mouth. With a fluid roll of his body Daryl stood up from his slouched pose against Ricks desk “Thanks for dinner, Officer.” He threw over his shoulder as he took the container from Ricks hand and retreated to the kitchen to dump it and his own; before crossing the room and retrieved his cart, jostled it off its breaks and headed down the corridor.
Rick watched him go, eyes tracking the small swagger to his steps and his loping stride and he forced the cart on ahead of him. When he disappeared from view Rick turned his attention back to the paper in front of him,