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Swallowing sorrow had side effects.
Daryl had learned that a long time ago. It was why the nightmares changed their shapes and themes, why his heart raced and his palms sweated for no reason. It was why on dark nights he'd find himself staring at nothing, for hours, numbed by the depression always lurking beneath the hum of activity in his mind.
But if you hid the side effects well, no-one knew you were sick. If no-one knew you were sick, no-one asked you about it. If no-one asked, he could pretend you were fine. He found this worked quite well.
So he'd been surprised when he'd caught Rick staring at him across the dinner table, wondering if he'd acted odd, or let something slip. Rick did it twice more that night, and Daryl tried to ignore it. He hated eyes on him unless he'd purposely brought them there, so he doubled his well-practiced guard.
He raised his bottle to salute at the proper moment, mocked the pizza boy he thought was an ok guy, rolled his eyes at Shane's douchebaginess and retired to his room, thrilled to have a working toilet so close to a comfortable bed.
Wasn't that a treat.
Now Daryl sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the shitty abstract picture on the far wall, the world spinning with the alcohol. He could hear laughter and giggling outside as people prepared for bed, going through dead folks closets, reading their books, eating their candy.
What should he do? Socialize? He was tired of pretending to be normal. He took another swill of alcohol, wincing at the burn as he swallowed. The alcohol was a world of its own. Best just to drink so much he blacked out, he decided.
There was a knock on his door. Daryl wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "What?"
"It's Rick, can I come in?"
"Wha' youwanninGrimes?"
Well, that wasn't as articulate as he'd planned.
"...excuse me?" To Daryl's consternation Rick opened the door, his stubbly and very red face peeking in.
Daryl stared at Rick, not sure what to think. "You need somethin' done?" He asked, concentrating on articulating this time.
"No, just came over to say hi."
"Shouldn' you be off fuckin' yer wife?"
Rick, instead of leaving, stepped into the room. "Well, that's blunt. I think you might be drunker than I am."
"Ain't drunk. Not yet, 'nyways."
"Uh huh." Without even asking, the cop sat right next to him on the bed. Daryl glanced at him sideways and saw Rick giving him that weird look again, a subtle probing gaze, like he could see right through all Daryl's defenses.
His thought process was interrupted by nausea. Daryl got to his feet, the ground undulating like a damn roller-coaster and made his way to the bathroom. He paused at the door. Then he spun on his heels and made back for the bed.
"False alarm," he quipped, the mattress bouncing under Rick as Daryl flopped back onto it.
Why was Rick still on his bed? Daryl stared at the man suspiciously, and then reached for the whiskey bottle he'd put on the bed-stand. He was about to take another swill, shocked when Rick's hand appeared on the bottle, holding it still.
"Why don't you take it easy."
"You don' need me ta do somethin' so wha's it matter, huh?"
"You'll get sick and be miserable, that's what matters."
"Pff." Daryl raised another eyebrow then he took another swill, forcing the burning liquid down. One more sip and he leaned forward to put the bottle back on the nightstand, almost missing it and bumping it into the alarm clock. Then he reached for the bunched up pillow and blanket near the foot of the bed and pulled them up, lay on his side away from Rick and curled up on the bedding.
He lay there, furrowing his brow against the nausea. It would go down here in a bit, then he could drink a bit more.
"Daryl?" Rick asked quietly. Daryl jolted, surprised to see the man still there.
"You mind? Case you didn' notice, I'm tryin' to black out," Daryl slurred, too irritated and tired to bother lying.
"...why?"
"So I don't have to think about my damn brother, why you think?"
"..."
Daryl sighed in exasperation and flopped his head back on the pillow, looking at the wall. His brain wasn't working so well.
When there was a long silence, he managed to remember Rick was still there, rolling onto his back and lifting his head to squint at him. Rick met his gaze, guilty as a sheep dog.
"Look, will ya shtop?" Daryl demanded. "The whole point is not dwellin' on it, if you think about than I will. Why don' you jus' leave, huh?"
Rick shrugged, a clear no.
"Well if yer wife ain't puttin' out I ain't a willin' substitute!"
Rick cracked up, and Daryl grabbed the pillow, drunkenly whacking it into the back of his head. "Hey, what the hell was that for?" Rick protested.
"Go service your wife."
"Stop it, I'm not going anywhere - "
That earned him another pillow whack, Rick grinning despite himself, grabbing the pillow and trying to wrestle it out of Daryl's hands, hoping he wouldn't get punched instead.
Daryl claimed the pillow, wrenching it out of his hands with an expression of warrior success, when the door creaked open.
Rick glanced back and saw Jacqui peering through, her smile glowing in the soft yellow light. She didn't say a word, just readjusted the blanket on her shoulders and raised an eyebrow at them.
Daryl lifted his head from the pile of blankets, eyes half-lidded, hair sticking wildly in all directions. "Hey Jacqui."
"Hi sweetie, just checking up on you."
"I'm fine."
"Ok. Don't go full redneck and drink yourself silly, ya hear?"
"Ah will."
"Daryl."
"Ah won't."
"Good." Jacqui gave both of them an odd little smirk, closing the door again.
Daryl stared at the closed door for a time, all his fight gone. His head flopped back to the mattress, starting to work the pillow back into his nest of bedding. "She's a nice lady," he slurred absentmindedly.
Rick wanted to comment on how Daryl didn't seem like the racist pig his big brother was, but kept his mouth shut. There was movement, and he realized Daryl was reaching for the whiskey bottle again. Rick hopped to his feet, snatching it out of reach.
"Hey!"
"Just wait a little bit, ok?" Rick said, crouching and placing it out of reach on the floor.
"Ain't smart to interfere in another man's whiskey night, Grimes!"
Rick sat back on the bed, Daryl looking completely discomfited as Rick settled on the mattress next to him. He crossed his ankles, sinking into the mattress as he crossed his hands on his stomach.
"This better not be some...I dunno, city folk cuddle thing."
"Yeah, 'cause it'd go over real well if I got in bed with my wife smelling of Daryl Dixon."
"Corpse, squirrel gut, 'n whiskey, it's a distinctive cologne." Rick scoffed, Daryl propping himself up on an elbow. "Why you really here, Grimes? Just say it like it ish, or 'll punch ya." Daryl's eyes almost blurring shut belied that.
"You looked sad at dinner," Rick said, quietly and simply.
Daryl's brow furrowed.
Rick shrugged, almost sheepish. "And lost. I know, you probably don't want to hear that, but I'm stupid when I'm drunk."
"Yeah?" Daryl growled, sounding both defensive and wholly un-intimidating. "Well you fuckin' blame me, huh? My rother just..." Seeming to realize he was about to open up on the forbidden topic, Daryl's mouth clinked shut, eyes flitting aside.
Rick was instantly flooded with guilt. "Hey, look..."
But Daryl's mood had changed, fast as the Georgia weather in springtime, and he was spinning on the mattress, treating Rick to nothing but creaking springs and the view of Daryl's broad shoulders.
Wine-bolstered elation gone, Rick propped himself up on his elbows, looking at Daryl. Apparently his wine-bolstered recklessness, however, was still doing fine, because he decided to ignore the cue to leave.
"Daryl," he started quietly, pulling his leg up and leaning in. "Please, talk to me about it."
Probably the cheesiest, girliest way to open a conversation with another man he could think of, but Rick wasn't going to blame himself. Not since his free-time had become Lori's domain instead of Shane's.
Daryl, amazingly, still hadn't punched him, so Rick put a hand on Daryl's shoulder, leaning further to see his face.
Daryl looked...dead, almost. Not literally, of course, but his eyes seemed numb, like he was blocking something out. Rick had a sharp pang of recognition, a sudden moment of deja-vu.
He and Shane had taken part in a bust on a meth house outside Cynthiana. The place had been a disaster, junkies just a few binges from death living in disease and squalor. Even worse there had been kids, young ones and teenagers. Rick had been in charge of them while CPS arrived. And there'd been no life in their eyes, as they'd huddled in blankets. Just a bleak survival.
"Daryl, you have a place here," he blurted out, surprised by the quiet earnestness in his own voice. "I know...I know it ain't my place to say squat about this, because I had a part in what happened to your family. But you've been good to us. We're here for you. I'm here for you. You don't have to...shut it all away, you hear?"
His speech exhausted, Rick waited for a reaction. At first, nothing, then Daryl rolled slightly back to look at him. The man's eyes were bloodshot and tired, but always piercing in the directness of his gaze.
Rick smiled, trying to set Daryl at ease.
That was when Daryl shoved him. Hard, enough to have Rick flailing back. He was equally unprepared for the foot to the stomach, Rick cursing. Pushed too far over the end of the bed, Rick fell in a jumble of limbs, his back striking the linoleum with thud.
"Ow! You kicked me!" Rick gasped, too stunned to move.
"That's what you get for actin' like a pussy, Rick Grimes!" Daryl pronounced from above him on the bed, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. "What you think I am, huh, some twelve year old girl? I don't need fuckin' Merle, I'm fine without the bastard, I have been my whole goddamn life. I don't need this surrogate family bullshit, go shove it up your ass!"
With a scowl, Daryl disappeared again, Rick wincing. Well, he had to give himself credit for trying.