Chapter Text
Rick likes Tuesday mornings the most. They're the days when everyone around him is buzzing with excitement. It's visitation day. Even Eddie, who hates anyone being in his personal space and will lash out to the point of extreme violence if that space is violated, gets jittery and enthusiastic when it comes time for the caretakers to groom him into something somewhat decent and give him the softer tracksuits that most of the residents put on when it comes time to receive visitors.
He walks into the room and smiles. There are several circular tables that would comfortably seat two, and the room is lined with little benches that can sit larger groups. There aren't many people here that get more than one visitor at a time, but Rick is special. Rick always gets three.
Someone to his left makes an angry, sad sound, and Rick turns his head to meet the eyes of James. James had been one of Rick's neighbors for a very long time during his stay, but then someone had spilled bleach a little too near him and he'd tried to lick it up and hadn't quite been the same ever since, and they'd moved him to the hallway of people that need more intense care. That are a little more of a threat on a day-to-day basis. Rick gives him a little nod in recognition and James' mouth twitches at the corners. His fingers curl and he leans forward as though about to try to say something to Rick, but then he jolts and turns away from him. James' mother is here, her face gaunt and pale, her hands trembling as much as her son's. She's talking about his father but the name brings no spark of interest to James' grey-blue eyes.
"Rick."
Rick turns away from James and his mother and his smile widens when he sees his caretaker. Well, technically all the staff there are caretakers for all the residents, but Rick likes to think that this man has become unofficially his.
"Daryl," he greets warmly, reaching out and letting his fingers trail across the man's wrist in a quick brush. Daryl's lips curl up and he bites the side of his lower lip, sharp eyes looking Rick up and down beneath his straight, dark hair. Rick makes a tutting sound. "You need a haircut."
"Yeah, like they have scissors in this place," Daryl says with a huff, but blows one of his stray bangs away from his face anyway. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Yer blockin' the way, Rick. Move over."
Rick ducks his head sheepishly and moves to one side, letting the people who have formed a line behind him shuffle in and to their respective guests. Daryl doesn't joke much. Rick has noticed that about him from his many months observing the many people who live here. But he jokes with Rick. He smiles around Rick.
Rick refrains from pointing out the special treatment that is Daryl's sense of humor. He knows as soon as he does, it'll be lost. "Are they here yet?" he asks. Since he was brought in he's had the same three visitors every Tuesday. There are some people who get visitors maybe once or twice a year. There are some who don't get any at all. Rick pities them. It's not right to be alone in a place like this. Humans are meant to survive together.
Daryl nods. "Gave 'em a bench in the back. Come on."
Rick hooks his fingers into the hem of Daryl's scrub top and lets the other man guide him through the room. It is one of the few connections Daryl allows from people – to grab onto his clothes when he's guiding them somewhere. Most of the residents, when they do try to touch anyone, are trying to hurt them. Rick supposes it gives Daryl enough of a gap that he still feels okay.
Daryl slows and Rick lets his clothes go, his grin widening when he sees the familiar faces of his family. "Shane, Lori," he says, his voice heavy with affection. Lori gives him a tight, toothless smile, her arm wound tightly around the shoulders of Carl, their son. "Hi, Carl. How you doin'?"
"Hey, dad," Carl says, looking up with a wide smile. He's wearing Rick's old Sherriff's hat and he's missing the front tooth just to the right of the main two. At ten years old Rick knows that Carl's at the age where the baby teeth will start to fall out, but this is the first one he can remember seeing.
"Aww, hey!" he says, nodding to it. "The tooth fairy leave you anything cool?"
"I got a dollar!" Carl replies with a grin, making Rick laugh.
"Hey, brother." Shane is sitting on the other side of the bench from Lori and Carl, and smiles when Rick turns to him. Daryl has moved away, lost to the other moving bodies within the room. Rick knows Daryl's eyes see everything, as sharp and persistent as a hunter tracking down a deer. Daryl doesn't talk about his past with Rick, but Rick can guess from observation. He's always been very good at observation.
"Shane," he says again, clapping his hand into Shane's palm and sitting down next to him when Shane scoots over. Typically, residents aren't supposed to sit in the benches, since it's safer for them to be on separate stools so they wouldn't be able to hurt someone by moving a bench, or risk being triggered when trapped against a wall or similarly small space, but that's never been one of Rick's problems. He has a level head. Too level, some might argue, but that was for therapists to decide, he supposes.
Lori has that wide-eyed, meaningful look on her face. She does that when she has something that she needs to say but is hoping that if she thinks it loud enough it'll just come to the other person's mind without her having to say it. Rick has never liked that about her, because it means she's allowed to go on the defensive immediately and twist her story to make her seem like the victim.
Rick sighs, tilting his head to one side and scratching at the back of his neck where his hair starts to curl. The large grey sweater he's wearing is soft against his wrists and contrasts with the harsh plastic of his wristband marking him as a resident (as if the outfit isn't enough).
"What's going on?" he says, trying to make sure he keeps his voice level and even. He doesn't want to scare either his wife, his son, or his best friend. They are the dearest people in the world to him that don't live in the facility. He knows Lori is nervous around him – rightfully she should be. He could snap her neck with very little effort if he ever got the idea to. She's always been a slim, flighty little thing. None of her strength is physical.
"Is there a vending machine or something that Carl could go to?" Lori asks, tightening her arm around the boy. "I brought him here right before lunch. I'm sure he's hungry."
Rick smiles, but it's a tired thing. This conversation isn't going to be fun. "I think Daryl won't mind taking him," he says, and lifts his head to try and spy the man in the crowd. Daryl is sitting next to Eddie, a respectful distance away from his bubble, and playing what looks like Tic Tac Toe on a piece of paper with a crayon while they wait for Eddie's visitors.
Daryl's shoulders tighten a second before he looks up. He's most definitely a hunter, able to sense the gaze of others on him within seconds. His eyes meet Rick's and Rick raises his hand with a smile, beckoning him over. Daryl nods, finishing up the game with Eddie and coming over a moment later.
"Hey, Rick, what's up?" he asks, giving a nod of recognition to Shane, Lori and Carl. He even reaches over to give Carl a fist bump and the boy does, grinning toothily at Daryl. Rick's family visits often enough to recognize Rick's favorite caretaker.
"We were hoping you could show Carl to the vending machines," Lori says, her voice soft and a little too rushed as she makes to stand. Carl swings around the opposite side, though, and scoots between his mother's back and the back of another visitor at the next table to come to a halt at Daryl's side. Daryl raises an eyebrow, looking at Rick. "He hasn't had lunch today and I figured a place like this must have some option?"
"…Sure," Daryl says after a second, resting his hand lightly on the top of Carl's hat. "Let's go, short-stop. I'll find you somethin' ta eat."
They leave with another wave from Carl that Rick answers, lifting his hand and letting his fingers curl in a goodbye. He smiles when he sees Daryl reach out to curl his fingers in Carl's shirt to make sure the boy doesn't stray too far while they're wandering around. This is, after all, not the safest place in the world for an unattended child who doesn't know how the residents think.
He turns back around and grins at Lori. "So, what's up?" he asks. He feels like he's trying to ask a wolf how its day was going – at best she's going to turn tail and hide behind her defensive strategies and averted eyes, at worst she's going to make Shane be the one to tell him whatever it is they need to tell him.
"Rick." She reaches out for him, her hands resting over the backs of his, and pets down his fingers like he's an agitated cat. Rick cocks his head to one side. "I had to come by to tell you…." Her eyes flash to Shane's, wide and nervous, before going back to land somewhere in the vicinity of Rick's nose. "Shane and I are getting married."
Rick blinks, his eyes automatically drawn to Lori's hands. No ring. Not even an engagement ring. He turns his hands so they're palm up and he can feel her heartbeat in his fingertips. She flinches from his touch, her fingers curling, and bites her lower lip.
Now that he thinks about it, she hasn't worn a wedding ring since he got sentenced here. He supposes that makes sense – there was a reputation to uphold back home. She couldn't be seen to remain loyal to someone like him.
He cocks his head the other way, breathing out. He isn't surprised. Of course he's not surprised. Shane is his best friend and Rick is…well, Rick isn't getting out of here any time soon, that's for damn certain. He's insane – at least, that's what everyone seems to think. Rick is insane and locked up here for the foreseeable future, and Shane is a good guy, and he's attractive enough for Lori, and Carl needs a somewhat available father figure, and Lori is probably hurting for money since she doesn't work and Rick's pension isn't nearly enough to keep up their kind of lifestyle.
"Rick." That's Shane's voice, low and quiet. He doesn't sound nervous, which is good, but he doesn't sound calm either. He sounds hurried, like Rick's reaction is the grand finale he came to see and he's getting impatient to see it. "C'mon, brother, say somethin'."
Rick closes his eyes and opens them again, before he draws his hands away and rests his fingers on the edge of the table. Lori pulls back, too, folding her arms across her chest like a shield.
"Do you have papers?" he asks, lifting his eyes finally. Lori blinks at him. "For us, you know?"
Lori nods, hesitantly.
"They ain't gonna give me a pen in here," Rick says, scratching the back of his neck again, "but I'm sure they'll think of somethin' so I can sign 'em."
"Rick -."
"You should buy her a ring," Rick says, nodding at Lori's hand as he looks over at Shane. He thinks he might be smiling, but he's not sure. "Lori deserves a nice ring."
Shane presses his lips together, one hand rubbing over his mouth. "Yeah, brother, I know. I'm gonna."
"Are you guys still gonna visit me?" Rick asks, looking between the two of them. He can't help the sadness that creeps into his voice. "I'd really miss ya if you stopped. And Carl, too. If you still want to come…"
"Of course." Lori reaches out again, brushing her fingers across Rick's, and he smiles. "Rick, I still love you. Of course we're still going to visit you. I just…didn't want to pretend anymore. Or make you think that this situation was one thing and it wasn't -."
"I get it." Rick laughs softly, sheepishly, smiling in that lopsided way that makes him look boyish and young. He spies Daryl and Carl's hat crossing the threshold of the door and back into the room. "Carl know?"
"Yeah," Shane says with another sigh. "Told him this weekend. He's seemed okay with it so far."
"He loves you," Rick says, nodding. There's no jealousy in his voice, no anger sinking low in his heart. He has had months of therapy and group sessions meant to combat the root of anger and try and break apart the building blocks of aggression that land most of the residents here, but that has never been Rick's problem. He has too much of a cool head, they'd say. He's dangerous, sure, but he's not angry. That's the part they can't figure out.
"Hey, dad!" Carl chirps, a smear of chocolate around his mouth when he runs up to Rick and throws himself into a hug. Rick grins, shoving his hat back so it dangles by the string around his neck, and kisses the top of his head.
"Carl," Lori scolds, her eyes wide. "Please tell me you didn't just eat chocolate."
Carl pouts. "Daryl said I could!" he says, putting his hat back on and clambering onto the bench beside his mother. Daryl gives an unapologetic shrug, immune to Lori's disapproving glare.
"Visitin' hour's almost over," he says. "You guys stayin' for lunch?"
"No, I gotta get back to the station," Shane says, his voice heavy with apology. Rick smiles as they all stand and he pulls Shane into a one-shouldered hug for a moment, before patting his back and letting him go. Lori hugs him quickly, too, and gives him a light peck on the cheek before she herds Carl away, Shane bringing up the rear.
Rick watches them go, memorizing the way Lori's hair shines in the fluorescent light and the way Carl's hat swings back and forth, too large for his head. He catalogues the stretch of Shane's shoulder muscles in his shirt, the way Lori's ring-sized tan-line looks on her hands, the way Shane's neck is red at the back. He makes sure to remember Carl's laughter, and the way his grin looks missing that one tooth, because he is sure at that moment that he will never see all three of them the same way again.
"Good morning, Rick. How are you feeling?"
Rick scratches at the back of his neck, grimacing when his wristband gets caught on a curl and he has to twist his hand to get it loose.
He's always hated the color orange, and although the grey tracksuits aren't much better, at least they're a lot less offensive to the eyes. The orange color feels like it's more than just a color on the fabric, but like there's an extra layer of slime clinging to it as well. It makes him feel dirty.
"Alright," he says because he realizes it's been a few moments and he hasn't responded. He lifts his eyes to look at the kindly face of his main therapist. There is another woman who runs the group sessions but this man is where he goes for one-on-one time. If Rick were to ever face release, this man is the man he would go through to get that evaluation. His name is Doctor Woodmore. Rick likes him. His wife makes excellent chocolate chip cookies. "Signed the divorce papers this morning, so." He shrugs.
Doctor Woodmore makes a soft, sympathetic humming noise. It's completely unnecessary, Rick thinks, but he allows the man to think that he's being comforting. "I'm sorry to hear that. How long were you married?"
Rick shrugs one shoulder. "I, ah, we dated since high school. Married her about twelve years ago. We have a boy. He's ten now. Carl." Rick manages a smile, looking down. "He's a good kid."
"I know you're very proud of your boy, Rick," Doctor Woodmore says with a smile. "From what I've heard about him, you should be. Seems like a bright kid." He looks down at his little notebook, tapping a pen against the edge in six short, rhythmic taps. Always six times. Rick realized that about their third session in. "Are you worried how he'll take the news?"
Rick shakes his head. "He already knew when they told me. And his new dad's my best friend, he's always been around, so I don't think the transition will be hard." He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. "Which is, y'know. Good. I'm sure he already gets it rough at school 'cause'a me. Don't need him feelin' shitty about a new dad, too. Shane will be a good dad, and he'll make Lori happy, and be a damn better provider than I can. So that's good."
Doctor Woodmore regards Rick, his green eyes calculating. He's an overly-friendly looking man, with a well-fed beer gut and a clean-shaven face. He has a receding hairline and black hair around his ears. His fingers are thick and pale, his cheeks red like he's always warm. If the facility celebrated Christmas, he'd be the guy you'd want to play Santa.
"Rick, if you're not feeling good about this, you can tell me," he says, setting his pen down after another six quiet taps. His eyes are concerned and caring and Rick bears his gaze steadily. "Since you came to us I've sensed that you have trouble expression your emotions. You're a very level-headed man, Rick, which is great in your line of work, but I don't think that's very healthy considering your current situation. I can't help you if you don't open up to me, at least a little."
Rick smiles. It's lopsided, the left side of his mouth lifting higher than the right. "Doctor," he says, his voice level and steady, "you don't get it. I'm not mad. I get it."
Doctor Woodmore sighs. "Your best friend is marrying your wife, scarcely months after you were sentenced here. And let's not forgot how you wound up here in the first place, Rick. It's perfectly understandable that you might feel some anger, some anxiety, some loss of control -."
"I don't," Rick replies crisply, his smile widening. He rests an elbow on his thigh and puts his chin in his hand, twisting his head until his neck cracks, before straightening up again. He lifts his eyes to the cabinet above Doctor Woodmore's head. There's a bottle there, unlabeled, but Rick knows it's got whiskey in it. Daryl told him one time. More importantly, though, he can see the reflection of the clock in it. Doctor Woodmore doesn't like his patients to see the time, because he thinks that it makes them feel anxious or rushed. But Rick can see it because Rick's not a fucking idiot. "Our time's about up, now, isn't it? I should go."
Doctor Woodmore nods. "I'll call for someone," he says, standing as well.
Rick hums, remaining seated where he is on the comfortable couch in Doctor Woodmore's office. It's one of those classic lounge couches, the ones that you might expect to see in a copy of Psychiatrist Chic Weekly, and the fabric is a deep red like old blood. Rick remembers blood, vividly. He knows what it looks like, what it smells like, how it feels when it coats his hands, how it tastes when picking it out of his fingernails days later.
The couch is familiar and friendly and Rick rests on it in a comfortable slouch until there's a knock on the door and his head perks up. He can see dark hair through the little window in the door and then the door is opening, revealing Daryl. He's wearing light blue scrubs today, his eyes a darker, complimentary shade as he nods at the doctor and then sets his eyes on Rick.
"Ready to go?" he asks, jerking his head back and Rick smiles, scrambling to his feet like an excited puppy, and holds onto the edge of Daryl's shirt as the man turns around to lead him out of the office.
"See you later, Doctor Woodmore!" Rick calls cheerfully as they exit, earning a snort of amusement from Daryl. He lets go once they round the corner and fall into step next to each other, Daryl standing slightly ahead on Rick's left. Doctor Woodmore's office is far away from the rest of the facility. In fact, it's in another building, and the walk back to the main rec room takes a solid seven minutes if they hurry. So, he hums and settles into a slow amble, knowing that Daryl won't hurry him.
"How's your day goin'?" Rick asks, running his hands down the side of his thighs. He keeps forgetting the jumpsuits here don't have pockets. Damn inconvenient, but after last month's incident with one of the cooks and Old Ken he can see why they don't take chances giving people places to hide things.
Daryl snorts again, looking up and over his shoulder to fix Rick with a disbelieving look. "Really?" he asks, shaking his head with another huff. "'How's your day goin'?"
"Just makin' conversation," Rick says with an unapologetic shrug. He reaches out to trail his fingers along the waist-high belt of green paint lining the walls. "They say it's important to remember small talk. Never cared about small talk much. But, boy, do polite society love it."
"Ain't that the truth," Daryl says with a roll of his eyes, his shoulders shrugging as though pushing off some heavy thought. "Well, fine, my day's the same old as every other day. How about you?"
"Well." Rick reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. "I ain't married no more. So there's that."
At that, Daryl stops and turns to face Rick, his expression quietly sympathetic. "Shit, man, I'm sorry. That sucks," he says, his eyes averted and downcast like he's hoping his words will cover for what his face isn't saying. Rick knows Daryl never liked Lori, or Shane. Of course, he's too polite to say anything and has too strong a survival instinct to risk insulting a dangerous inmate, but Rick had always known.
Rick smiles, reaching out, his fingers curling just shy of touching Daryl's cheek. He knows that's not allowed. Daryl lifts his gaze, his eyes hidden and his face unreadable in the relative darkness of the hallway. Rick smiles and lets his hand drop.
"I understand why," he says instead, turning and continuing their trek down the long hallway that will lead to the outside. Daryl is quick to fall into step next to him, this time walking just behind Rick, on his right. As though he is merely following. Rick smiles to himself and doesn't comment on it. "The money she'd be getting from my medical discharge isn't nearly enough to support her, let alone Carl, and Lori's not the kind of woman who gets a job. Shane's paycheck will keep them in the house, at least. Keep them nearby."
Daryl gives a non-committal grunt of agreement. "Guess that's one way to look at it," he admits. "Don't know how I'd react to findin' my guy's been fuckin' someone else behind my back."
Rick stops, turning to Daryl with a curious look. It's the most honest, open piece of information Daryl has ever given him about himself. "You have a boyfriend?" he asks, his voice neutral. He hopes it doesn't come across as condemning – throwing stones over apparent homosexuality. That'd be a trick – a murderer judging a sodomite.
Daryl's face goes red, and then white as he realizes what Rick has figured out. "Well, no," he admits. "I don't have a boyfriend. Don't really want one with these kinds'a hours. But…I'm just sayin', in your situation, I'd be pissed."
Rick laughs, and this time he does touch Daryl – he lets his hand rest on Daryl's shoulder, just for a moment, squeezing and then letting go. "Oh, Daryl, trust me. There are a lot worse things than having your best friend shack up with your wife," he says, his voice bright with humor. "I feel no possession over Lori. She is an adult and can do as she pleases. Free will. Isn't that the name of the game?"
Daryl nods, falling into step behind Rick as he starts walking again. "I guess."
"Now, if they ever take Carl from me…" At that, Rick grows solemn, his voice getting rough and dark. "That'll be a different conversation. But they promised."
"I'm sure they won't," Daryl says quietly, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the bare skin of Rick's arm. "Seemed amicable enough, right? They got no reason to keep your boy away."
Rick smiles, his shoulders relaxing, and he nods to himself. "Yes. I suppose you're right," he concedes, mostly because he knows that if he doesn't the worried, dark shade of blue in Daryl's eyes won't go away. Daryl has expressive eyes, a myriad of shades of them to match the ocean. Rick knows most of the emotions in them by now. He wonders if Daryl can read his in the same way.
They break out into the open air. The sun is shining, birds winging above their heads, trilling brightly. Rick takes in a deep breath, and sighs.
It's ten minutes before lights out. On Thursday nights, it's a movie night, and tonight it had been one of his favorites, the Disney version of Robin Hood. That rooster bard always gets him; he doesn't know why.
Daryl leads him back to his room and gives him a lazy salute as he walks inside. Rick grins as the door locks behind him. His room is sparse and clean, a cot in one corner and a toilet and sink in the other. At one point he'd tried putting a splash of color on the white walls but he guesses the idea behind this place is that you're not meant to be here forever. They want you to get better. They frown upon personalization or any attempt at settlement in this place.
He goes over to the sink and twists the tap, whistling the rooster's tune to himself as it fills with cold water, and bends down to splash some on his face before he turns the tap off. It drips down into the little pool of water at the bottom of the metal.
Drip.
Drip.
Rick braces his hands on either side of the basin, his eyes falling closed as he listens to it.
Drip.
Slower, now, as the water stuck on the edge of the faucet runs dry.
Drip.
He opens his eyes, looking at how the water ripples with each disturbance. It ripples out to the edge in fine lines and reminds him of blood running along wood. He opens his mouth and breathes out, before he spits into the basin. His fingers curl on the edge of it.
Drip.
He should stop biting his nails. His fingertips hurt where the metal is cold.
"Five minutes, people! Lights out in five!"
Rick sighs and lifts his head as the water starts to drain. They don't allow mirrors in the cells, not real ones like he had at home. They're too easy to smash and attack with, he supposes. But they do have sheets of metal, polished to a shine and bolted to the wall. He can see enough of himself to tell it's him.
He blinks, the frost biting at his fingertips running up his arms. His skin pebbles with goosebumps, his neck starts to get tight as the cold slithers up his spine. In the mirror, the darkness of his iris spreads out, overtakes his eye, sucks in the shadows around his face. They pool in his eye sockets and his mouth. His teeth show more prominently in his reflection, gleaming and bleached like bone on sand.
Drip.
Hello, Rick.
Rick blinks, and smiles at his reflection.
"Hello, Death."
You look thin, the mirror says, and Rick cocks his head to one side. The black shadows follow his eyes and he grins, baring his teeth when the black maw in the mirror widens as though snarling. You look pale.
"I look like you," Rick replies. "I am you."
Yes.
Rick smiles again.
It is soon. It will happen soon. You must be ready. Do you understand?
"Yes," Rick says quietly. His heart aches at the thought of all the horror that is yet to come, but he is prepared for it. He knows his mission. He's cut all ties that he can afford and he's ready to go back out into the world and do what needs to be done. The mirror nods at him, face impassive as ever. "I'm ready."
Abruptly the lights go out, snapping the sight of his reflection away like a rubber band breaking. Rick gasps, shoving himself away from the sink, and warmth returns to his limbs like a heavy gust of wind, slicing through him so that he shivers. He turns away from the mirror, feeling anxious and hot in the pit of his gut. He's antsy, now. It's coming, it's coming soon.
Drip, drip.
Drip.