Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Daryl Dixon is a rough, hard-edged guy. He grew up around here, same as Rick. He’s not the most talkative partner, but he knows his job. Rick respects that. He’s not much for idle chatter either.

They’ve worked a few cases together — five, maybe six. The last two weren’t even the kind of cases under the DNR's jurisdiction, but Rick was short on people and Daryl stepped in. No questions asked.

If you need a tracker, Dixon’s the best there is. He’s strong. He can move a fallen tree off the road by himself or follow a trail a hundred miles into the mountains without breaking a sweat. Rick knows how much crap he’s endured in his life. Everyone at the station knows his family; his past is no secret. But Daryl broke out of that system, broke that image. Dixon stands on his own.

Rick likes his honesty and straightforwardness — the way he acts around him: easy, unpretentious, but respectful. Rick respects him too.

With each case, with every new meeting, Rick realizes he needs the next one. He misses the man, his silent presence in the passenger seat, the way Rick can watch him work.

Rick admires him. He’d trust him with his life. But on their last case, he found he could no longer look Daryl straight in the eye, yet couldn’t look away either.

Rick admits to himself: looks like he’s in trouble.

***

They hadn’t seen each other in almost a year. Requests for help from the DNR were now answered by other people, and Rick deliberately never asked about Daryl.

He told himself they would never meet again — and that it was better that way. He’d been learning to live with the thought like a scar: it didn’t ache every day, but it was always there, a quiet reminder.

Today Rick was waiting for a new assistant from the Department. The door creaked open and he didn’t even look up. Whoever it was — he didn’t care. He hadn’t even checked the reply. It didn’t matter.

Then he heard the footsteps. Heavy, sure, familiar enough to hurt. Rick lifted his eyes — and the edges of the world blurred.

He stopped breathing. His fingers clenched the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles went white. The room collapsed to a single face, a single figure, a single man. Standing in the doorway.

Alive. Real. Him.

And for the first time Rick saw him differently. Not just strong, not just resilient, not just the man he’d always been. For the first time Rick realized how beautiful Daryl was.

Not in the usual way — not smooth, not format, not polished. But beautiful by nature, by force. By his eyes — sharp, piercing, as if he could see right through. By his hands — a life lived on the edge. In the way he stood. Beautiful in the lines that hadn’t broken, in the scars that only underlined his path. For Rick it was a beauty that hurt, beauty that stung his eyes.

He said something routine, shook his hand, tried to behave as usual. But inside everything collapsed.

Daryl nodded briefly, as if those months, that year, were only an instant. As if he had never been gone. His palm — rough, warm, strong.

Rick tried to act normal. He talked about the case. Listened as Dixon answered with the same short phrases as always. And all the while inside him was chaos. He wanted to say everything — that he’d missed him, thought of him every day, waited for this moment and feared it. He wanted to confess these were the strongest feelings he had ever known.

And that was exactly why he didn’t confess.

The words stuck in his throat like a rusted nail.

Dixon sat opposite, leaning back in his chair. Looking calm, as if nothing had changed. But Rick knew everything had changed. Forever.

And he had no idea what to do next.

***

They stepped out onto the crime scene. Rick said something routine, explaining what had already been checked. His voice was on autopilot. The words came out by themselves but inside he was empty. He knew he was off his game, but so far it wasn’t hurting the case — all his focus had shifted to Dixon.

Daryl moved the same as always: unhurried, steady, as if he carried a map in his eyes no one else could see. He crouched over the tracks, ran his fingers lightly through the grass, rose and walked on. Rick watched the way his shoulders flexed beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the way the muscles moved, the way those strong fingers brushed each small detail as though he could read the world through his skin.

He tried — honestly tried — to look away. He was a deputy sheriff, he had a job to do, a team to lead, a head to keep clear. But everything crumbled as soon as he caught himself watching the small things: the way Daryl squinted when he faced the sun, how his fringe slid over his eyes and he flicked it back with a short tilt of his head, how his lips moved almost imperceptibly as he murmured details to himself.

A year apart had sharpened Rick’s senses so much that every gesture cut at his heart.

Daryl lifted his gaze — straight at Rick. For a second. A glance, brief and piercing, as though it went right through him. Rick looked away automatically, faster than he could think. Shame pounded in his temples, as if he were a teenager caught doing something forbidden.

- You’re not listening, - Dixon said calmly.

Rick startled.

- What?

- I said there were two of them. - he nodded at the tracks as if it were obvious. - You’re not listening.

Rick wanted to explain himself but the words stuck again.

Without waiting for an answer, Daryl looked away and went back to work. And Rick stayed standing there, burning inside from seeing that beauty up close, feeling it so vividly.

He did everything he could to keep himself in check. To make his gaze calm, his step steady, his back straight. Finally, he found his voice to speak about the case. But inside he felt dismantled, broken into pieces.

This wasn’t just another case — it was a test. He could handle anything — chases, gunfire, death. But he didn’t know if he could handle Daryl being back.

***

Night. The team had gone home; the station was almost empty. Only the two of them remained. Papers, reports, the thin blue of cigarette smoke curling out the window. A silence that suddenly felt too tight.

Daryl sat back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, a sheet of paper in the other hand. Reading. The lamp cast its light across his face — harsh cheekbones, the shape of his mouth, his hands. Rick caught himself staring. Those hands — rough, callused, palms large and strong — yet the way he held the cigarette was almost an art form. Rick had never liked smoke or smokers. He’d tried it once, never saw the point. But he let Daryl smoke right here, because watching him do it was a show of its own. Something elemental, powerful.

Rick’s gaze drifted higher. The wrist. The pulse flickering there. Up to the forearm, muscles sliding beneath rolled-up sleeves like cables under tension. His throat went dry.

Dixon asked something — his voice low, roughened by the late hour, by exhaustion, by smoke. Rick didn’t hear or didn’t understand. He’d been watching his lips instead: the way they held the cigarette, the flash of teeth.

Heat rose inside him, unbearable. Every part of Daryl he marked with his eyes echoed in him. Shoulders — a wall to lean on. Neck — sinewed, strong, built for holding. Chest — broad, breathing slow, as if he were rhythm itself. Rick caught that rhythm and his own heart beat in answer.

Daryl caught his gaze — Rick didn’t look away in time. His pupils widened for a fraction of a second, then his eyes narrowed.

Rick’s breath stuttered. The silence hummed, charged like static. He heard his blood drumming in his temples. Another second and he would lose himself.

He wanted to touch him. Wanted to run his fingers along his arm, over his shoulder, feel that strength against his own skin. Wanted to lean into him, into that body that called to him stronger than anything he’d known. He understood he had crossed a line long ago. This wasn’t admiration, or respect, or trust. This was desire — searing, tearing. Desire for his body, his touch, his strength. Desire to give him everything left.

And for the first time, he couldn’t stop himself.

Rick stood too abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor. Daryl watched him, eyes sharp, wary. Rick took a step, then another. Before he could think, he grabbed Dixon by the shoulders and pulled him close.

Their lips met.

A heartbeat — an eternity. Hard, dry, hot. Daryl froze. He didn’t push. He didn’t answer.

Then it broke, and the world split into before and after.

Daryl jerked back, slammed his palm against Rick’s chest hard enough to knock him off balance. Shock and confusion flashed across both their faces.

- Jesus, - Rick breathed, his voice breaking. - I’m sorry… I… damn…

- Man, this… this isn’t mine.

Dixon shot to his feet and almost bolted. The door banged shut, and Rick was left alone.

The air around him was thick, dense, drowning him. His heart hammered as if it were tearing apart, already frayed.

His lips still burned. And it was torture. Because he knew: never again. He had crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Killed the trust. Killed whatever had been between them.

He feared seeing him again. Feared the look that would hold disgust.

Rick wasn’t a fragile man, but he didn’t know how to live on if Daryl thought him some kind of deviant.

***

The next day Rick couldn’t work. He pretended everything was normal — giving orders, filling out reports, scanning evidence. But his thoughts were only of him. Of that instant when he’d reached for him. Of the moment their lips met. Of how Daryl had pushed him away.

And still, he longed to see him. Because if Rick didn’t see him again, he would lose himself completely.

When the door opened and Rick lifted his eyes, it hit him like a punch to the chest all over again. But Daryl walked in calm, as usual. No anger, no contempt, no disgust. Just Daryl.

Silence stretched between them, heavy as syrup.

Rick stood, not knowing what to do with his hands. His fingers were cold, and he shoved them into his pockets.

- Listen… - he began, - about yesterday… that was a mistake. I shouldn’t have…

Daryl looked him straight in the eye. No rage there. Only weariness, and something like understanding. He stepped closer. Rick froze, heart thudding in his temples.

- Let it go. It happens… It’s just not my thing — relationships. Any of them.

His voice was steady, even. The words fall like stones.

They hit harder than if he’d yelled. Because there was no emotion, no deliberate cruelty — only simple honesty. Not a rejection. A void.

Rick looked away. His chest tightened.

- Daryl… - he started.

- It’s fine. We work together. There’s a case. That’s what matters.

Daryl was the same as always — restrained, quiet, focused. Rick clung to that strength and calm now just to survive the day, the week. And for a while it worked. They closed the case together, leaving only the paperwork.

Rick understood there would be no salvation. They would work, talk about the case, walk side by side. And what burned inside him would stay where it could never find a way out.

***

Rick walks down the corridor and stops, catching familiar voices.

A woman. And Daryl.

They’re laughing — quiet, friendly laughter. A kind of laughter Daryl has never shared with him.

Rick freezes. Words blur, their meaning slips away, but the tone remains — that low, rasped edge of Dixon’s voice, a little softer than usual, and a woman’s laugh in answer. Each note of it drives into him like a blade.

Jealousy and hurt hit at once. He doesn’t want to, but the picture forms instantly in his head: they two alone after the job. Daryl’s rough hands undoing her blouse — hands that could be tender when he chose. His palms sliding over her skin, his mouth on hers, slow and deliberate, the way Rick had felt for only a heartbeat.

The thoughts race on.

The woman in his arms, beneath him. His shoulders bowed, his chest pressed to hers. He breathes hard, she whispers his name. The strength Rick had only seen in a fight now poured into her pleasure. The same iron endurance bent toward bringing her to the edge, making her cry out.

Rick shuts his eyes; his palms are damp. His heart beats in his temples. He knows this fantasy will tear him apart, yet he can’t stop.

He sees that body — strong, supple, powerful. Sees those hands, the same hands that could break, now touching with care. Imagines them belonging to her. Imagines her feeling what he himself aches for until it drives him mad.

His chest tightens until it hurts. Jealousy and passion knot together, burning, unbearable. He wants to storm into the room, tear apart their voices, rip the picture itself to shreds. And at the same time, he wants to stay — to listen, to imagine, to burn in the fire.

He turns away, presses his forehead to the cold wall.

And he understands: this torment is also part of his feeling. Jealousy, hurt, desire, hunger — all of it now bound to Daryl Dixon forever.

The wall steadies him, and Rick finds the strength to keep walking, locking the fantasies and the jealousy away in a corner of his soul until the day is done. He has a job.

He has responsibilities.

***

Later, eating dinner alone at home, he accepts it: Daryl has the right to anything he wants; he owes Rick nothing.

Rick’s desire is stronger than his jealousy. Stronger than his hurt.

He stretches out on the bed, closes his eyes and returns again to what he heard, because it’s all he has.

He returns to the woman’s laughter. To Daryl’s voice, low, a little growling.

And his imagination carries him further than he wants to admit.

He sees a room. Dim light. The woman dissolving into shadow. Only her hands remain, touching him where she wants. But Rick’s gaze clings to one thing — to him.

Daryl. Naked.

Broad shoulders, taut muscles, scars no longer hidden. Strength carved by struggle and survival. His chest rising with breath. His stomach, cut like stone.

Rick’s eyes slide greedily lower. Over his thighs, strong, cords of muscle pulled tight, ready to spring. Over his butts that move in a rhythm that dries Rick’s throat. His body alive, working, real — built not for show but for use — and that’s exactly why it’s beautiful.

He imagines the woman’s hands on him, her fingers sliding over the places Rick longs to touch himself. Her lips on his neck, his chest… and him answering with steady movement, power, heat.

But in the picture, she fades, and all that’s left is him.

Daryl tilts his head back, a bead of sweat sliding down his neck, the muscles of his back and arms tightening. His body belongs to the moment completely.

Rick breathes heavily, as if he’s there. His pulse hammers, his fist clenches and drifts down his belly. He wants only one thing now — to stand beside him and watch. Watch until he’s full. Watch until he breaks. Watch until he dies from the force of that desire and shatters into pieces.

And even as he comes, he knows: this is only fantasy. He’ll never touch. He can only watch — even in imagination.

And that’s what burns the most.

He lies with eyes open until his heart slows. Then he goes out onto the porch and inhales the darkness. Even one fantasy like this can launch him to the stars. He can’t stop thinking what it would be like in reality.

***

The case is closed, filed away. He and Daryl said goodbye, shook hands.

Rick still can’t grasp what he’s feeling. That fantasy now always lives inside him. His salvation. His genie out of the bottle.

He will keep “seeing” Dixon the next day, the next week.

That same night Rick wakes — in the blackest hour.

A lamp clicks on, barely lighting his side of the bed. Shadows blur into shapes. Rick closes his eyes, and the old picture returns — but the woman is gone.

In her place now it’s himself.

He sees himself as if from outside. His own body under Dixon’s hands, under his weight, under his strength. His hands pinned to the sheet tightly and his mouth open in a helpless breath. And above — it's him.

Daryl.

Strong, dark in the half-light, every motion full of power. His hands hold so there’s no escape. His chest hot, solid, pressing down. His hips moving with relentless force, driving into Rick in a rhythm impossible to resist.

Rick sees Daryl throw his head back, hears his breath — heavy, low, ragged. Feels each motion of his hips breaking him apart and building him again.

And from outside it’s a sight that steals his breath. To watch himself in those hands, to see how completely he belongs to him.

Surrendering, yielding, dissolving.

He drinks in every detail — the lines of his back, the muscles swelling, the palms gripping his body, the force he wields but doesn’t let go. This body is all-powerful, and it’s his.

Rick feels fire in his chest, low in his belly — heat with no escape. He wants Daryl so inexorable that he trembles, barely touching himself; in the end his fist closing on his dick until it hurts, until the release tears through him.

Rick understands: in this fantasy at last he gets what he’s always craved. No substitutes, no surrogates, no peeking. Just himself.

To be in his hands. To be the one he holds tight. To be the one he breaks apart, makes forget the rest of the world.

***

The next night Rick knows exactly which fantasy he needs. He closes his eyes and the picture comes clearer than ever.

Not just him next to Daryl. Not just their bodies together.

He’s no longer the watcher. He’s underneath. He’s given over.

In this fantasy Daryl holds him even tighter. His palms on Rick’s wrists, pinned to the sheet above his head. And in that grip there’s not just restraint but a promise: I won’t let go.

Rick feels every movement — deep, strong, leaving no chance to run. And that’s what drives him mad. Not pain, not roughness — but the fact that he lets it happen. He gives himself. Freely.

His body twists, arches, breathes in rhythm. And the more he yields to that rhythm, the clearer he understands: this is his truth. Not to fight. Not to argue. Not to play at being the strong one. But to lie under him, to give him everything.

He’s seen himself in those hands from the outside — and he never thought of humiliation. He felt release and gratitude.

As if he no longer had to hold up the world on his shoulders. No longer had to be the one who always decides. In Dixon’s hands he could simply be. Breathe. Belong.

And that is the core of his desire. His need.

His eyes travel greedily over Daryl’s body from this new angle. Over the tense neck, the chest, the stomach, the thighs moving with power enough to splinter bones. This body was built to command, and he wants it to command him to the end.

He realizes he doesn’t just want Dixon. He wants to belong to him in these moments. To be the one held, the one who receives all that strength, the one it dissolves into.

In the dark Rick opens his eyes, breath ragged, heart hammering so hard it might burst. He’s sticky and wet, his hand cramped with tension.

And for the first time he says to himself honestly: I want him to be my truth. My freedom.

Chapter Text

A new case comes up almost immediately—faster than Rick could have imagined. But now he’s not sure if it’s for better or worse that they’re seeing each other again just ten days after saying goodbye.

In Rick’s fantasies, Daryl answers him, wants him; but in reality it isn’t like that.

They’re in the car. Night. The road stretches endlessly, the headlights catching fragments of asphalt. The radio is silent. Only the engine’s hum, the tires on the pavement, and their breathing.

Rick grips the wheel, but his gaze keeps slipping sideways.

To Daryl.

He’s sitting next to him, half-turned toward the window. His hair falls over his eyes, chin tilted slightly forward, arms folded across his chest. A streetlight slides across his face, cutting out his profile—and Rick feels the same pull he does in his fantasies.

A rough kind of beauty. Not magazine-perfect, uneven, but all the more searing for it. Broad shoulders, powerful forearms, strong wrists, the shadow of veins. His mouth is tight, lips dry, and all Rick can think about is touching them again.

His eyes travel lower. The rhythm of Daryl’s breathing makes his chest rise and fall. His thighs in worn jeans—something painfully real. Every detail strikes heat and ache low in Rick’s stomach.

He stares, unable to stop. Only then does he realize he’s been looking too long.

Dixon turns his head. Their eyes meet.

Rick flinches, his heart stumbling. He jerks his gaze back to the road, clamping the wheel until his knuckles whiten. Inside, everything screams: “Damn, he noticed!”

The silence grows heavy. Fear and excitement swell in his chest at the same time. He can almost hear his own blood in his ears.

But Daryl says nothing. Just turns back to the window, as if he hadn’t noticed at all.

And Rick remains in his private agony. His pulse thunders, desire presses against him, the road in front of him blurs. He knows now there’s no hiding it. He’s looking at Daryl differently, and he can’t control it.

The only question is when Daryl will realize it and say, “Stop. Stay away.” Or simply walk away without a word.

***

They’re together in an old house on the outskirts, checking evidence. The rest of the team has already gone; the collection is over, and once again it’s just the two of them.

Rick bends over the table—just to finish a line of the report, full of stupid abbreviations—and suddenly feels movement behind him.

He turns—and Dixon is already too close. Looking from under his brow, his sharp blue gaze unreadable.

- You were staring at me, - he says in a low voice that only makes Rick hotter.  - Back in the car. All day after.

He says it without accusation. Just as a fact.

Rick freezes. Words catch. His heart drops into a dull roar. Now. Right now, he’ll lose him. He wants to stammer out something—an excuse, a denial—but doesn’t get the chance.

Dixon lunges forward, grabs his shirt and slams him against the wall so hard Rick loses his breath. Their faces are inches apart. Before Rick can open his mouth, Daryl’s lips crash onto his. Hard. Fierce.

It’s a kiss that breaks the world apart. Not gentle—hungry, furious, passionate. Teeth, breath, a rasp in the throat. Rick moans, clutching at his shoulders, feeling the muscles tighten under his hands.

- Fuck… - Rick breathes into the kiss.

Daryl doesn’t let him finish. Pushes harder, pins him to the wall, his hips pressing against him. His hands are strong, rough, hot, as if made of stone; they tear at his clothes and grip hard enough to leave marks. A light pain that only underlines who belongs to whom.

The kiss isn’t a kiss—it’s fire. Lips press, breathe heats, teeth bites. Rick moans, not recognizing his own voice. His body trembles as if discovering for the first time what it means to be alive.

Everything he dreamed at night, everything he imagined in agonizing fantasies—suddenly real. Daryl exactly as he imagined him. Could this be? Rick’s body burns, his mind dissolves. He feels only him—his strength, his heat, his taste, his smell. His shirt is already on the floor, scraps of fabric hanging off his shoulders.

- Daryl… - escapes Rick.

He answers not with words but with movement. Rough, powerful, the kind that makes Rick's knees weak. Daryl slides his palm lower, squeezes his dick, spreads his thighs with his knee, makes him feel every facet of his power. Pain cuts into his body, and in it is pleasure, wild, new.

Rick arches, seeking more contact, pushing back against him, losing control. His body is on fire, every cell screaming. And the rougher Daryl’s movements, the deeper a pleasure is born inside Rick that he has never known before. It is painfully sweet, burning and light.

At some point Rick stops thinking. He dissolves completely—in another body, in another strength, in another will. And in losing himself he finds the inexpressible bliss he’d only ever dreamed of lying alone in his bed.

He feels each flash of pain turning into pleasure until it becomes one unbroken wave, as the past breaks inside him and everything before disappears.

Daryl owns him completely. Rick has no way to resist or to think—only to accept what is happening.

And Rick accepts. With catharsis, because he suddenly understands: everything he had before was nothing. A pale shadow. No comparison. What he feels now is more than just sex, more than closeness. It’s power he surrenders to with moans of gratitude. It’s revelation—through pain, through heat, through the steel grip of another’s hands.

It’s a new birth, and he lets out his first cry.

***

Even fifteen minutes later Rick still can’t believe he’s breathing. His whole-body aches, muscles answering with pain, bruises already blooming on his wrists—but inside the pain there’s sweetness, because his body still carries the memory of another’s hands. His heart won’t slow; it thunders as if afraid to stop.

The door creaks.

Dixon comes back from the bathroom. He stands in the doorway, the lamp’s shadow cutting across his face, eyes narrowed—but there’s no challenge or smugness in them.

- Well… - his voice is hoarse, breaking, searching for words. - Did you… did you get what you wanted?

Rick freezes: the words land like a blow.

He hears disappointment: he didn’t like it. And his heart drops somewhere low.

- I… - he starts, then gives up. - If it wasn’t right… I’m sorry.

Daryl frowns, steps closer.

- “Wasn’t right”? Damn it, Rick, - he exhales sharply, - I haven’t felt so… so alive in a long time.

The world around Rick vibrates.

- Seriously?

A rare crooked smile flickers over Dixon’s lips. He blushes.

- Rough, wild. But… exactly what I needed. I wasn’t sure I hadn’t gone too far.

Rick trembles with all the words he wants to say about how it was exactly what he needed too. But the words won’t line up yet.

He steps closer and just kisses Daryl, hoping it says it better.

It works.

***

They drive back to the station in silence. The road, familiar down to the last pothole, now seems different to Rick, as if the whole world had changed after what happened.

He’s at the wheel, glancing at the passenger seat from time to time. Dixon sits tense, as if afraid to move. His gaze fixed out the window—jaw clenched, fingers sliding over his thigh as if looking for somewhere to put the excess energy.

At the station everything is as usual: paperwork, calls, questions from colleagues. But between them the air crackles.

Rick catches himself listening not to conversations but to Daryl’s breathing. His eyes drift again and again to the man’s neck, shoulders, hands—the same ones that had held him so firmly just hours ago.

And Daryl avoids his gaze. Focused on his report, checking his carbine—doing everything to avoid meeting Rick’s eyes.

Rick grows restless.

When the shift ends, he doesn’t go straight home. He sits in his car, staring at the station door—without knowing why.

And he’s almost not surprised when the door opens and Daryl slides into the passenger seat.

- What’s up? - Rick asks quietly, a half-smile at the corner of his mouth.

- Just… - Daryl, head tilted stubbornly, looks at the windshield. - We need to talk.

In silence they drive out of town, where the road disappears into darkness and there’s no one around. Rick stops on the shoulder, leaving the engine running so it’s not too quiet.

- About what happened, - Rick begins, turning to Dixon. - I… don’t regret it.

Daryl’s tense, his fist drumming on the seat. He seems about to say something harsh, but gives up.

- I don’t regret it either, - he says quietly, almost inaudible. - But I… damn it, I don’t know how to do this.

- Do ‘this’?

- Relationships. - Daryl exhales sharply, as if dropping a weight. - I’m better off alone. I’m good with weapons, hunting, fighting. But when someone gets close… I jam up.

He falls silent, and Rick feels his heart expanding, filling his chest completely: he’s thinking this could be something more than just one time.

- I’m drawn to you, - he says honestly, without hesitation. - I never thought you… that you were actually like this.

- Like what? - Daryl finally turns to look at Rick, and there’s a flicker of fear in his eyes.

- Real, - Rick holds his gaze. - I thought it was just my fantasies. That I’d made it up. But you… you turned out to be exactly that.

Daryl jerks his eyes away, but Rick sees the faint flush on his cheeks and the tremor in his lips.

- I wasn’t planning… I didn’t think. I never planned for this.

- I know, - Rick answers softly. - But it happened. And I’m glad it’s with you.

The engine keeps up its low purr. The cab feels hot, the air thick.

They sit side by side, not touching, yet the tension is heavier than if they were back in the room where they’d lost their minds hours earlier.

Rick craves more. He wants to be in those hands again, to feel that strength, to surrender again. He’s ready even here and now. Why not.

But he watches Daryl closely, catching how the man’s fists tighten, the muscles in his arms shifting under an inner fight. He understands: this is his moment to reach out, not to demand.

- Daryl, - he says carefully. - I want more. Not just sex… but more with you.

That “with you” lands differently. It underscores that this isn’t about the body, not about random passion, but about the person next to him.

Daryl draws a sharp breath, as if punched in the chest. He turns to the window, voice breaking, rough:

- You don’t understand. I just fuck and leave. I don’t kiss. I don’t call back. My whole life’s been like that. I don’t owe anyone, and no one owes me. And now… - he cuts himself off, swears under his breath. - I’m a total zero at this. I don’t know how to be gentle, or truly close. Only rough sex. That’s all.

- That’s what I want, - Rick cuts in, a faint smile is at the corner of his mouth. - Exactly that.

- You serious?

- More than serious, - Rick answers firmly. - I want you exactly as you are. With all your strength, with that beast you’re holding inside.

Daryl stays silent for a long time. The engine seems to roar louder, the silence growing thicker between them. At last, he decides:

- If I let myself… I won’t be able to stop. Do you understand? I don’t know how to be soft. I don’t know how to build… relationships. I’m scared I’ll break you, or lose control.

- I understand, - Rick nods. - And I still want it, however long it lasts.

Daryl covers his face with his hand, curses, then softly, almost inaudibly:

- Fuck… okay.

And that’s enough.

They don’t kiss like in a cheesy movie, don’t even hug—they just sit next to each other, both embarrassed, both carrying hope inside.

- Dammit, let’s get out of here, - Daryl finally laughs hoarsely, and Rick couldn’t have dreamed of anything better today.

***

The next day stretches out as usual: calls, people, new leads. Part of the day they’re apart, but after lunch they’re side by side again, caught up in routine. But for Rick nothing is usual anymore. Every small thing connected to Daryl now carries a shade of something new, almost intimate.

He sits at his desk watching Daryl across from him. The man has his weapons spread out—a familiar ritual. Everything that once seemed like routine now fascinates Rick.

Daryl moves methodically, calmly, with a focus Rick has rarely seen in others. Daryl’s fingers are rough, calloused; he disassembles his USP with confident, sharp but unhurried motions. Every part slides through his hands as if it knows where it belongs.

Oil glints on the barrel, cloth whispers as it wipes away invisible traces.

Rick loves that certainty. The quiet that always follows Dixon. The skill of working without wasted words.

He loves his shoulders, broad and strong, as if built to carry any weight.

He loves how he frowns, bent over a small detail, and then, finding a solution, gives himself the tiniest nod.

Rick watches and feels his chest tighten, the heat build low in his belly. Those hands had held him not long ago—with the same strength, the same confidence. The thought that they could again, right now, makes his heart race.

With each motion, each scrape of metal, Rick feels his desire growing. He can’t look away: at the hands, the neck, the curve of his back as he leans over the table.

He tries to focus on paperwork, but the letters blur.

At one point Daryl looks up. Their eyes meet. It lasts only a second—but it’s enough. There’s a spark in his gaze, and Rick knows: he’s thinking it too.

But instead of words, Dixon just returns to his work.

And Rick is left with his heart hammering and the fierce desire that only grows with every passing minute.

Inside his chest— is a fire, demanding just one thing: again, again, again.

Chapter Text

Toward evening Rick keeps catching Daryl’s glances—quick, sharp, as if he's checking whether something has changed. And every time their eyes meet, Rick’s heart starts beating faster, a smile creeping onto his face.

The whole shift drags on longer than usual—and it’s Rick’s fault. If he could focus, they’d have wrapped up on time, but it doesn’t really matter, because Daryl’s still here, and Rick can see the war raging inside him.

Yes, they talked yesterday, but after a decision like that you don’t just wake up different. Watching him, Rick feels a strange mix: desire and patience. They were right not to stay together last night. If they’re talking about something real, rushing won’t help. Dixon has to arrive at his own decision.

- Come to my place. We’ll have a proper dinner—not from those damn vending machines, - Rick offers, and he truly means just dinner. Maybe a little more intimate, but not necessarily with a sex.

Daryl shrugs as if it’s nothing, but in his eyes Rick catches the flicker of something he’d hoped for: he’s been waiting for this invite.

That’s when Rick knows he’s doing it right. Here and now, he who leads.

The drive passes in silence—not cold, but stretched, each second thick with tension they both want.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Daryl steps forward sharply. His hands—strong, rough—grab Rick by the collar, and his lips crash down on him like he’s afraid of losing his chance, afraid of changing his mind.

The kisses are greedy, uneven, with a hint of fury and hunger.

Rick grips his shoulders, nails digging in, answering with the same heat, feeling the fire explode in his chest.

But suddenly Daryl stops. His breathing is heavy, eyes fever-bright.

- Rick, - he rasps, still gripping Rick’s shirt. - Tell me… how do you want me right now? What do you want?

There’s uncertainty in his voice, almost fear. Like he’s afraid of taking the wrong step, afraid of breaking what’s just begun.

Rick holds his gaze for a few seconds, staring into those blue eyes with wide pupils.

In front of him stands the same Daryl he’s seen in his fantasies: ready to take and dominate. But also a man who needs direction.

- I want you, - Rick says firmly. - I want you to be yourself. Don’t think I need anything else. I want exactly you.

Daryl’s gaze drops, then returns to Rick’s eyes.

- Me… like last time? - he asks quietly, as if checking he’s heard right.

- Yes, - Rick replies. - That beast.

Rick doesn’t search for synonyms; honesty is what Daryl needs most. He’s already told him once about the beast inside and shown he’s not afraid—he welcomes it.

And then Daryl’s eyes flash with that same dark, wild flame.

- All right, - he says hoarsely, pressing closer. - You asked for it.

They come together again in a kiss—hungrier, more commanding, but without fear this time. This is their shared choice.

They stumble into the living room, still locked together.

Daryl pushes Rick against the wall, kisses rough, broken, laced with desperate thirst. His hands roam Rick’s body harshly, squeezing as if testing its limits. His teeth scrape skin.

Rick gasps but doesn’t push away. Instead, he grabs Daryl’s neck, drags him closer, matching fury with fury.

- Fuck, - Daryl breathes. - You really want this…

- I do, - Rick rasps. - Exactly like this.

They move in a messy but strangely coordinated rhythm. Daryl tears at buttons, rips fabric as if afraid clothes will block him. Rick laughs through ragged breaths, helping, tugging off Daryl’s shirt, unbuckling his belt.

Their clothes scatter across the floor, trampled underfoot, but neither cares.

And then Rick finds himself backed against the sofa, calves brushing the armrest. Daryl stands before him, the most beautiful creature Rick’s ever seen, eyes burning with a wild fire.

- You know I could break you? - he growls, as if giving one last chance to change his mind.

- I know, - Rick smiles, reaching for him. - And that’s exactly what I want.

He’ll confirm it as many times as needed; he won’t back off.

Daryl pushes him down, his weight pressing Rick into the sofa. Hands grab his wrists, pinning them to the armrest. In that gesture lies both warning and promise: now you’re mine.

Kisses trail down to his neck—rough, almost painful. Teeth leave marks as fingers explore and open him—and Rick moans louder.

And when Daryl finally takes him, sharply, with authority, Rick realizes—this is it, the real thing. Not fantasy, not a fluke of the first time, but a conscious choice by them both.

It’s wild, powerful, without restraint. Daryl moves like he’s trying to drive out everything Rick hides inside. Each motion is like a strike—and at the same time, proof: he’s here, real, taking and not letting go.

Rick cries out, clinging to his back and shoulders, leaving scratches, biting, but never asking him to stop. The thought doesn’t even cross his mind. His body burns, pain entwined with that other feeling—release, exaltation.

- That’s it… - he whispers, breathless. - That’s it, Daryl…

And the beast in Daryl’s eyes blazes brighter.

Rick comes first—surprised it didn’t happen sooner, that after the whole charged day he’s held out this long. Long, but not longer than Daryl. It takes him a few seconds of hard thrusts—and Rick receives them with gratitude and awe, clinging to the sweat-slick, burning body.

When it’s over, Daryl hangs over him, breathing hard. Still heavy, still powerful, he mutters almost guiltily:

- Told you… I don’t know any other way…

And Rick, exhausted, grins:

- That’s what I was counting on.

As if absolved, Daryl collapses beside him.

Rick turns his head and meets his gaze. And for the first time all day, Daryl doesn’t look away.

***

Rick wakes to the light slipping through the blinds. Thin stripes of sun slide across the walls, the floor, the sheets — and in that still picture the emptiness suddenly aches.

He reaches out — there’s cold fabric. The sheet beside him is wrinkled but long empty.

His heart drops.

Gone after all.

Rick jerks upright, heart thudding fast and low. Disappointed — not in Dixon, but in himself for thinking one full night together meant they’d start living their “happily ever after.” Life doesn’t work like that.

He stands, pulls on his pants, picks up his shirt from the floor — then tosses it aside, half its buttons gone. He trudges toward the kitchen — but then hears a dull thud, the sound of a mug against the countertop.

- Damn coffee… - drifts to him.

Rick freezes.

One heartbeat — and something inside him clicks back into place. A smile spreads across his face on its own, as if his body decided for him. He exhales, shoulders loosening, and walks into the kitchen.

There’s Daryl. Hair mussed, fringe falling over his eyes, T-shirt twisted off one shoulder. One hand holds a mug, the other a plate of something you could call breakfast only out of politeness: scrambled eggs and a couple of charred toasts.

- Your toaster’s crap, - Daryl mutters, setting everything down in front of Rick. Then he sits with an identical plate. - You thought I’d bail? - he asks hoarsely, squinting as he reads Rick’s confusion.

Rick looks away. His lips tremble — the smile comes out guilty.

- Fair enough, - Daryl nods. - I did tell you myself…

He pushes the mug across. Rick takes it — and in that instant their fingers touch.

Just a second, a small gesture, but proof he’s here, real.

- It was… fucking amazing, - Daryl adds almost under his breath, but Rick still catches it and can’t help a crooked grin.

- More like perfect, - Rick says aloud, sitting down and reaching for a fork. - But I’m willing to hear your arguments.

***

Rick and Daryl creep along the peeling wall of the old warehouse, step by step edging toward the doorway where shadows move. The air is heavy, every sound sharpened. On the far side a couple of other cops move in tandem, but the only door is on this side. Daryl isn’t supposed to be here — but he is, just like before, when nothing had yet happened between them.

Rick feels two opposing pulls at once: the instinct to shield him, and the quiet awe he can’t quite suppress.

He could have ordered the ranger to stay by the car. But he couldn’t order Daryl. Not because of whatever’s between them now, but because he respects his stake in this.

Rick keeps his Python ready, feeling the familiar chill of metal in his palm — an old friend he’s taken through a lot. His breathing grows shallow, his movements smoother, everything in him narrowing to the coming rush.

Daryl moves behind him, eyes hard and catching every flicker of light beyond the windows. His steps are silent. He looks different than he does in the woods: there he’s a predator, a shadow among trees — but here something else emerges.

The black silhouette of his gun glints in the dim light, and Rick’s gaze lingers a heartbeat too long.

His USP is honest, straightforward, without frills or show — but so reliable you don’t expect it to fail. Strict, restrained, like Daryl himself. Practically unbreakable in action. Rick finds himself thinking the weapon suits him the way his brute strength and quiet persistence do.

When they reach the doorway and Dixon takes the opposite side, Rick feels the shift: this is no ranger, no hunter used to deer and brush. This man is ready for anything. He moves as if this too is his natural terrain — short steps, corners checked, shoulders tense, gaze razor-sharp. No hesitation.

- Ready? - Daryl mouths without turning his head.

- Always, - Rick nods back, soundlessly.

They step inside.

Dust, hot metal and old wood cling to the air. Weak shafts of outside light leak through the roof slats, enough to outline three men around a rough table, weapons spread across it.

Rick doesn’t even get to start the ritual “You’re under arrest” before the men grab their rifles — and he and Daryl fire in unison. Almost unison: Daryl is a fraction faster, gets a second shot off, and the third man drops with a shredded arm, his rifle clattering.

Rick knows Daryl doesn’t miss.

The wounded one reaches for his weapon, but Dixon is faster. His stride is lightning-quick; he catches the man’s good arm and presses his gun to the back of his skull.

- Think twice, - he growls.

Other cops flood in. Rick, his Colt still up, sweeps the room to be sure it’s contained. His ears ring from the gunfire, adrenaline still roaring, but his eyes and mind drift back to Daryl.

Rick stands by the wall, spinning the Python’s cylinder, checking rounds — motions ingrained. Dixon leans nearby. Medics take the wounded man out; he’ll face court, and then - judgment. It’s good, but… it’s also bad.

- Daryl, - Rick calls.

Daryl notices his look, raises a brow.

- Don't you dare do that again, - Rick mutters, snapping the cylinder closed. - No vengeance is worth that risk. Don't you dare. Not with me, and sure as hell not without me.

Daryl snorts in reply.

They head back to the cars. The night is deep, darker beyond the headlights than it should be, the air damp with the scent of trees. Daryl scans instinctively, eyes flicking over treetops, moon position, the shadows at the base of the hill, making sure nothing moves wrong. Even now, with the job done, he’s still tracking the world.

Rick waits in the car, unsettled — but not by the shadows.

Finally the car tilts under Dixon’s weight, the door slams, and they drive home.

***

They step into the house and Rick stops in the entryway without even switching on the light.

- Daryl, I have to be able to trust you, - he says, not turning around.

Dixon mumbles something that might be a “hmm.”

Silence stretches; anger coils in Rick’s chest, mixed with fear.

- You realize one day this is going to end bad? - He turns, locking eyes with him. - You planning to tell me you missed?

Daryl stays quiet, looking from under his brow, lips pressed tight.

Rick takes a step.

- Daryl?

A rough exhale. Eyes down. He looks like he wants to snap back, but instead he rasps:

- I got you.

Rick, exhausted, still angry, also feels a strange relief. He shrugs off his jacket.

Then a low, almost mocking voice:

- You done?

- What?.. - Rick doesn’t get to finish.

Daryl yanks him forward, slams him against the hallway wall, his weight pinning him. His mouth crashes down on Rick’s neck — hard, feral — making him gasp. Fingers dig into his shoulders, a thigh shoves between his legs, and everything inside Rick lights up at once.

That sudden shift — from bowed, silent obedience to animal attack — hits harder than any words. Rick understands: he needed this too, to shed his burden as a leader; today he barely dragged it home. He clutches Daryl’s shirt, meeting kisses and bites with equal heat.

Daryl drives him toward the bedroom. Rick stumbles over the edge of the rug, grabbing for the strong neck but it doesn’t save him — he’s pinned to walls, closet doors, whatever surface Daryl finds.

Daryl’s jacket hits the floor; boots end up wherever. Rick can’t remember how the buttons of yet another shirt go flying. Everything is fast but not sloppy: every move deliberates, sharp like a gunshot. Daryl’s palms burn through fabric, bruise the skin beneath, leave marks. He bites Rick’s lips hard enough for blood, which only fires him up more.

- Do you want…? - Daryl whispers into his mouth, low and raw.

- I do… - Rick gasps.

No more words. Only fire.

Daryl rips off what little is left on Rick, doesn’t give him time to breathe, throws his weight over him, presses him belly-down into the mattress until he can’t move. His hands are shackles, his hips a battering ram. He pushes into him hard, rough, without softening — and Rick realizes it’s exactly what he needed. Tonight, this way — perfect.

Pain blooms instantly but inseparably from pleasure. Every powerful thrust is a white flash behind his eyes, a wave rolling through him, erasing his sense of self. His whole universe shrinks to one body, one force, one beast holding him down.

He moans, cries out, loses his voice, arches back into it, demanding more. His hands claw at the sheets, tearing fabric; he wants it to last forever, even if his body can’t.

Daryl moves with a fury, as if trying to drive every other thought out of him, leave only himself behind. His teeth find skin — neck, shoulder, nape — every bite a mark. Fingers clamp down hard enough to promise bruises tomorrow, dark and clear.

This time Daryl comes first, his release coinciding with a bite; he growls into Rick’s neck as he finishes, not letting go of the wounded skin. It detonates Rick from the inside, makes his toes curl, leaves him shaking.

Dixon collapses beside him. Rick’s still trembling, barely breathing, his body aching as if from a fight. The sheet beneath him damp, hot, sticky — but inside him there’s that fierce empty freedom.

A hand lands unexpectedly soft between his shoulder blades.

- Now I’m done, - Daryl says, his crooked smile audible in his tone.

- Asshole, - Rick mutters back.

***

Morning greets them with the memory of last night — and with the need to file reports, separately. Of course they don’t even have to coordinate: in the official version of the shootout two suspects are dead, a third wounded. No one expects perfect precision after gunfire like that. Only the two of them know the truth.

Rick will die with it. No question.

His reports are longer — it’s his station’s case. Daryl finishes faster. He walks into the office, shuts the door, perches on the arm of the chair near it, but stays silent, rolling an empty soda can between his palms.

- What is it? - Rick asks, glancing up from his papers for just a second.

- I’m leaving.

Rick freezes.

- Leaving?

- The investigation’s not mine anymore. The rest is yours. Nothing for me to do here. They’re calling me back…

He says it calmly, but his eyes flick around.

They knew it wasn’t forever. Still… it hurts.

- When?

- Now.

- Fuck… - Rick mutters quietly, rubbing his forehead.

- Yeah, - Daryl answers shortly.

And that’s it.

No explanations, no promises. Just a fact.

Chapter Text

His truck is parked in the lot. Old, beat-up, but reliable Hilux.

Dixon throws his bag into the bed, props the rifle in place. He lingers there, just standing, staring at the asphalt.

Rick steps closer.

- Listen… - he starts, but the words stick.

Daryl lifts his eyes. There’s an unreadable storm in them.

- Rick… I don’t know how this works. Relationships, all that shit, - his jaw tightens. - I don’t know… Don’t know a damn thing.

They fall silent, because there are no words left that fit. They can’t even shake hands the way they used to—because now it’s something else.

Rick nods. Just nods, feeling hollow, even though Daryl is still standing in front of him. He doesn’t notice right away when Daryl turns, climbs into the truck, and starts the engine.

When Daryl finally drives off, Rick realizes his fists have been clenched so tightly his nails cut the skin. He stands on the station porch, watching him go, while his insides twist, while the phantom traces of the night are cooling on his body, the bruises from Daryl’s grip are turning yellow and the bites from his teeth are healing.

Only one thing remains in his chest: the pain of parting, and the searing memory of the beast marking him in the dark.

That first night he doesn’t let himself think too much. Just a beer, a movie, and a tired sleep on the couch.

The routine at the station the next day helps too. He no longer gets distracted by watching Dixon; his productivity even goes up. And yeah, his toaster is a crap, so after his shift he goes out and buys a new one. Another night on the couch. Tomorrow’s a day off, and Rick already knows it’ll be bad.

He has Daryl’s number. But he doesn’t know what he’d say if Daryl actually answered. If he answered. They never promised each other anything—Daryl had warned him, honestly, that he didn’t do relationships, and three times sure as hell don’t count as one.

Maybe even tonight he’s fucking someone else. The thought stings—but it feels true. Rick knows Dixon’s needs are big; he felt that himself. Rick wishes he could go back to a couple of weeks ago, when he could think and then let go. But he can’t anymore. Now he’s addicted. To these thoughts. To needing Daryl.

Suddenly, he catches himself imagining: somewhere out there, in some nameless town or roadside dive, Dixon’s standing at a bar. Same shirt, hair falling into his eyes, and some woman smiling too wide at him.

Yeah, it’s a woman. Easier to find. Women are always bottom.

Rick sees Daryl lean closer, lips brushing a stranger’s ear. His breath catches. He can’t switch the image off: they leave together, she opens a motel room door, and he shoves her inside—just like he shoved Rick.

From there the fantasy turns into torture. He sees her against the wall, shirt ripped down, Daryl tearing the rest off. Those same rough, strong hands grip her body. She moans, and Rick hates the sound—hates it—but his cock hardens anyway at the thought that it’s Daryl making her moan.

He imagines him sliding into her—hard, deep, so she claws at his back. And every moan feels like a knife under Rick’s ribs. His fist tightens, his palm sweats, his breathing falters—and he realizes he’s already jerking off to the scene.

He hates himself for it. But he can’t stop.

At some point, the woman dissolves—the face disappears. All that’s left are Dixon’s hands, his body.

It’s exactly as it was before, as if reality had never intruded.

Rick watches his shoulders, his hips, the way he moves inside another body. He jerks off furiously, jaw clenched so hard his cheeks ache, whispering into the dark:

- Fuck, Daryl…

The orgasm crashes down heavy, brutal, folding him in half, his forehead pressed to his shoulder. Sticky cum coats his hand, but it brings no release. If anything, it’s worse. Because he knows: out there, Daryl could be fucking anyone. And Rick has no right, no power to stop it.

***

Morning breaks with rain, the smell of wet earth still in the air when he gets called to a scene. A house in the middle of nowhere, several bodies, blood, the stale air where fear and death linger. Rick walks through the house, colleagues’ voices buzzing around his ears.

He’s seen plenty of death—still, it hits fresh each time. Glassy eyes, signs of struggle on the walls, blood smeared like brushstrokes. Rage, fear, desperation. Rick records each detail, issues orders, works. In these moments he becomes a machine: all personal life switched off, only the cop remains.

And yet there’s something new: he catches himself wanting an excuse to call in DNR. But there isn’t one—no signs pointing to the Department’s jurisdiction. The victims are familiar, the motive plain. Within half an hour the dogs catch the killer; he hadn’t even made it five miles. He confesses outright.

Rick is frustrated. And angry at himself.

Another case without Dixon. And there will be more—no telling when he’ll get a reason to request him again. Maybe by then Rick won’t even want to. Maybe Daryl will have quit. Or left. Or just be on leave. He’d already been gone for a year once, and Rick never did find out what he’d been doing.

Rick can’t keep bouncing case to case, inventing reasons to pull him in. He has to calm down. The pain will fade—once before, it had.

But it doesn’t. It curdles into sticky, gnawing jealousy. He goes home, collapses on the couch…

The more he thinks, the hotter it burns. He falls asleep imagining Daryl fucking someone else, and wakes hard, aching, because he dreamed it again.

He grabs his cell phone a dozen times, typing a simple “Hey,” only to delete it. Damn it, he’s no schoolgirl. In every past relationship, he led without hesitation. But with Daryl it’s different. He doesn’t know how to handle him. He’s afraid of pushing too hard, afraid of wanting too much—after all, Daryl told him straight: this isn’t his model.

Their work dynamic is simple—deputy commands, ranger follows. They tested it, it works. Sex is clear too—blinding, explosive. But everything else? Dark water.

And tonight, the fantasy turns darker, too. Out of nowhere, as if his own brain is out to break him. He imagines Daryl not with a woman—but with a man.

He sees him in a bar: some guy sitting there, solid but lighter than Dixon. Yeah, like Rick. Daryl sits down beside him. A couple words, a glance, and they’re in a dark corner. In Rick’s head, the scene unfolds fast: strange hands on Dixon’s waist, hungry kissing, then—motel room.

Inside, the guy fumbles at Daryl’s belt while strong hands shred his clothes. Dixon flips him over, slams him face-first into the mattress, and drives into him without a word. Rough, hard, with the same feral fury Rick knows all too well. The man moans—but with pleasure.

Daryl grips his throat, growls in his ear, each thrust hammering into Rick’s skull like betrayal. He sees the man’s back arch, sweat shining, Daryl owning him completely.

And Rick feels himself about to come just from the thought. His fist jerks harder, desperate, until the picture drags him over the edge. He growls through his teeth:

- Not him… not him…

The orgasm rips him apart, leaves him collapsed, sticky, spent—and hating himself for finishing to that.

***

A week passes in fog, in pain, in identical evenings where all Rick can think of is Daryl with someone new. An obsession. Unfair, maybe. But Rick lacks the real thing, so he feeds on substitutes.

He tries to think of Dixon the man, the colleague, the person. He remembers clearly where his liking began. But at night, in the dim of his bedroom, the memories twist. From forest images, his mind slides into what he’s seen firsthand.

Daryl. Naked, hunger in his eyes, in every line of his body.

Beautiful with that raw, masculine beauty that needs no ornament. His body more than perfect, but never like the magazine caricatures. Nothing wasted: every line carved from strength, endurance, life itself.

Skin—scarred, lived-in.

Face—ageless, sharp cheekbones, stubborn mouth, stubble left to grow. Hair falling messily, like he doesn’t care how it looks.

He never tries to be anyone. He is nature itself.

And above all—his eyes. Blue, piercing, blazing out of his rugged exterior so fiercely Rick can’t look away. It’s like being pierced inside out: he doesn’t just look at Daryl, he drinks him in, greedily, down to the last detail. The breath, the hands, the weight. The longer he stares, the clearer it is—memories aren’t enough. Images aren’t enough. He wants all of him. Whole. Alive.

Rick even weakly considers going to a bar himself. Finding someone.

At first, he thinks of a woman—it’s safer, familiar, less destructive. In darker hours, a man. Just to overwrite the memory with new experience. But he never does.

One day, it’ll burn itself out.

He loses track of dates. The alarm is set for shifts, but he wakes the same every day—sheets damp, space beside him empty. Weekends blur into chores: fixing the fence, groceries, laundry. Same as before, but dulled, purposeless. He doesn’t know why he bothers.

The new toaster is still in the box.

***

Another weekend blindsides him. Already? He doesn’t want to keep working on the fence—the boards have been soaking for days, and he doesn’t care.

Work helps more each day. The memories of Dixon at the station fade; new people sit in the same chair, replacing old images. No one smokes at the window.

But with two days ahead, the station will be running without him, and Rick ends the night with whiskey, praying for a dark, dreamless sleep.

The roar of an engine cuts it short. Sudden, then gone. Rick blinks at the dark outside, thinks maybe it’s time to move to bed.

Then—knocking. Once, then again. Heavy, certain, demanding.

Rick sits frozen on the couch. His heart pounds so loud the neighbors must hear.

The knock repeats. He realizes—this isn’t a dream.

He rises. In the hallway he sees the shadow. Opens the door—and there he is. Daryl. Leather jacket, wet hair, that look that jolts Rick like electricity. Rain just passed; the asphalt behind him glistens. The bike parked crooked by the path.

- Gonna let me in? - he rasps.

They stand a couple steps apart. Rick doesn’t answer—he grabs him by the jacket and drags him inside. The door slams. Everything breaks. Rick exhales, almost sobs, clutching at him like he’ll vanish. His hands fist the leather; his lips find lips. The kiss is hard, hungry—not feral, but real, deep.

They tear clothes off in the hallway. Rick stumbles back, Daryl presses forward, pinning him against the wall so hard the plaster cracks. Their breath tangles, fingers skate on damp skin. Rick pulls his wet hair at the nape.

The kiss is savage, more bite than kiss, teeth clashing, breath ragged.

Rick turns on his own, palms braced against the wall. No words needed—the want is written in how he arches back.

Daryl grinds up against him, hand sliding between his cheeks, fingers pushing inside without mercy. One—Rick gasps, then another, deeper, wider—pain and need twined. Daryl grips his thigh, cramming patience into the last seconds.

When his body yields, the fingers leave, replaced at once. Daryl drives into him. Rick cries out—but it’s no cry of pain. It’s welcome. His face pressed to the wall, fingers clawing plaster, hips shoving back into each thrust, demanding more.

- Yeah, - Daryl half-whispers, half-growls, gripping his ribs hard enough to bruise. - Like that…

The rhythm pounds heavy, fast. Flesh slaps, breath rasps, Rick’s moans grind into hoarse cries. His chest heaves, sweat slicks his spine, rivulets burning down as proof he’s alive—more alive than ever. His muscles blaze, every new sting fueling him harder.

Daryl fists his hair, yanks his head back. His cock hits so deep that Rick's vision darkens, choking him.

- Damn near lost my mind without you, - Daryl snarls, biting his ear.

With these words Rick comes instantly. Unbidden, untouched. Spattering the wall.  His body shakes, but Daryl doesn’t stop, hammering him a few more brutal seconds before halting.

They stay pressed there, gasping, one inside the other, sweat soaking them both. Rick still pulses around him, but Daryl doesn’t pull out—holding him, branding him from the inside. He's not finished yet.

When he finally withdraws, Rick nearly drops to his knees, but Daryl drags him to the living room. Rick collapses on the couch, face down in the cushions. No breath left—until Daryl is on him again, heavy, prying his thighs open with a knee, sliding back inside. Deeper than before, impossibly.

Rick screams, muffling it into the pillow, throat shredding. His body meets every thrust, begging, burning. He doesn’t care how long his body lasts, doesn’t care if he can’t walk tomorrow. All that matters is the release, the wildness, the desperate relief swelling inside.

The thrusts are brutal, beastly, unstoppable. Daryl’s grip is iron, his teeth sink into Rick’s neck, and the pain mixed with heat drowns him deeper. His cock grinds against the armrest, harder with every thrust. His mind empties, burned clean to raw instinct. He is all in this rhythm, in this cruel closeness, someone else’s pleasure flows through him as if it were his own.

But his body breaks first. He spills again—hot, sticky-on the cushions. Daryl takes longer—bends him harder, drives him down, gasps ragged, until he shatters too. Buries himself deep, shaking, flooding Rick’s insides with molten heat.

- Mine, - Daryl growls, driving in a few more thrusts on inertia.

The word buckles Rick’s knees, pulls a moan and sob out of him at once. He feels the heat running down his thighs, taking it as the price for what he just heard.

Daryl exhales harshly and slides down to the floor, back pressed against the couch. Rick, as if tied to him by an invisible thread, slowly sinks down beside him. Their shoulders almost touch, but neither moves. The room reeks of sweat, heat, something feral. Both their hands are shaking, both still struggling to catch their breath.

No one comments on that last word. It hangs in the air like another blow that brought them back to themselves. Rick steals a glance at Daryl— sweat beading on his collarbones, damp hair, ragged breathing — but Daryl doesn’t look back. Rick lowers his head: said too soon, and he regrets it.

Morning already. Light seeps through the window as they collapse into bed, still damp, barely wiped down. Beneath the sheets, the heat clings, their breathing refusing to settle into rhythm. Rick feels the sharp sting on his sides, the bite marks on his neck, his swollen lips — every ache reminding him of what just passed between them. His whole body throbs, every movement echoing with pain, but in that pain there is sweetness.

Beside him, Daryl’s breathing is already steady, deep — he falls asleep instantly, like a beast spent after battle. His body is still hot, heavy, surrendered to a restless sleep.

— Yours… — Rick exhales, a smile tugging at his lips as he drifts off.

Chapter Text

Rick wakes up long past noon. He can’t even tell at first where he is, because Rick Grimes never sleeps later than eight. For a moment he even thinks this must be a dream within a dream. Or that he’s fallen ill.

He sits up in bed, and his body instantly answers with a sweet, dull ache, making him collapse onto his side and laugh soundlessly. Every muscle, every joint reminds him that the night was real, solid, alive. It wasn't a dream—everything truly happened.

The memories return with heat, sharp and vivid, like hammer blows to the heart. Rick runs his fingers over his shoulders and feels tiny spots of dried blood—the marks of Daryl’s passion. He smiles, knowing Daryl bears the same traces of his own teeth. Those marks, bright and almost tangible, like a seal of their closeness, bring a strange sweet bitterness to his mouth.

He pulls on his jeans and heads out.

Daryl isn’t in the bedroom, nor in the kitchen, but Rick doesn’t follow the old circle of doubt—his jacket is still there, right where they tossed it last night.

He stayed.

Rick steps onto the porch, drawn by the sound of a hammer—steady, assured, with a faint rhythm. Even in the hallway he already knows what he’ll see, and a smile fixes itself to his face.

Daryl. Fixing his damn fence. Or rather, almost finished fixing it.

Rick squints in the sunlight. The air is hot, smelling of wood and heated metal.

Dixon’s jeans hang loose, slipping low and showing a strip of bare skin above the belt. His shirt is unbuttoned, the fabric flapping in the breeze, revealing chest and ribs. On his neck are bite marks, red traces exactly as Rick expected to find.

Instead of the usual cigarette—several nails clamped between his teeth, hammer in hand. Daryl bends over the boards, lifting them, muscles working, rolling under the skin, hair tousled and falling into his face, glinting with sweat. Every move precise, short, sure. He looks… natural. Not like some wild hero from the woods, not like a beast of the night, but like a living man who knows how to mend a fence.

Rick feels something tighten in his chest. He’s grateful—not for the fence, to hell with the fence. For the fact that Daryl came. For the night he gave him—not only the body, but the trust that came along with it. For staying, not vanishing at dawn. For standing here now, nails between his teeth. For the word he spoke, even if he hadn’t meant to.

The whole world shrinks to the space around them.

- Coffee? - Rick asks suddenly.

Daryl straightens, rises, squints at him with one eye. Impossible and beautiful, and still wild—a force of nature one longs to step closer to. His stance looks loose, but Rick easily reads in it the ever-present readiness.

Daryl smiles too—in his crooked way.

- Hell, sheriff. It’s already noon.

- It’s breakfast, - Rick shrugs. - Can’t skip it.

When he brings out two mugs, they sit on the porch—shoulder to shoulder.

Heat radiates from Daryl; he smells of sun, sweat, and iron. One foolish thought keeps spinning in Rick’s head, irrational but damned persistent: what if Daryl thinks he has to pay for Rick’s body? It’s stupid. Like something out of a high school diary where everything’s dramatic and absurd. But once the thought appears, it refuses to leave. Of course, he’ll never ask outright.

- Dammit, Daryl, why the hell did you… - he waves vaguely at the fence. - I was already dreaming it would just rot there.

- Got up early. Needed something to do, - Daryl answers calmly, as if fixing someone else’s fences out of idleness were the most natural thing.

The tone of his voice—steady, free of pity or annoyance—makes Rick’s foolish thoughts dissolve on their own. This isn’t duty, not some effort to “work off” the night. It’s just… Daryl.

- You’ve got nothing to eat.

- What?

- No food in your house, - Daryl repeats. - Didn’t want to go to the store while you were sleeping…

He doesn’t spell it out, just looks at him, waiting for Rick to understand—and Rick does. Daryl has literally admitted that his old script, fuck and leave, doesn’t work anymore. The first time could have been chance, but now, the fact he stayed—it’s a conscious choice.

Rick’s gratitude turns tangible, warm, almost bittersweet, like a sip of coffee. The sun blinds his eyes; he squints but doesn’t leave the porch—wants to take in this scene down to the last detail. Daryl beside him, shoulder to shoulder, a rare moment when he isn’t in action, not working, not hunting, not busy with his hands. Just is.

They sit in silence, and in that quiet there’s comfort—but also a fine thread of unease, which Rick pushes away.

***

At the store, Rick follows his usual ritual. He tosses meat, bread, coffee, a few vegetables into the cart—a week’s worth, the way he’s used to. Daryl adds a little of his own: a couple of frozen packs, some snacks, a bundle of beer. Rick notes it’s only enough for an evening, nothing more, and that flicker of unease returns.

The drive home is short. Rick behind the wheel, Daryl in the passenger seat—just the same as always: lost in thought, elbow hanging out the open window, the wind tugging at his hair, eyes fixed on something far off. He seems to dissolve into the road itself.

Back with the groceries, they head to the kitchen, and suddenly there’s a strange contrast: they look like a couple, as if they’ve done this a hundred times. Daryl empties the bags in silence, laying everything out on the table; Rick sorts the food into its places. Their movements are in sync, almost domestic.

Daryl notices a box with a toaster shoved into the corner of the table, already gathering dust.

- Not planning to open it?

Instead of answering, Rick grabs the box. They unpack the damn toaster as if it were some ritual, start the first slices together. The kitchen fills with the smell of toasted bread and coffee, which Rick scoops into the machine.

Daryl pulls out the beer, pops two bottles, sets one in front of Rick.

- Not too early? - Rick grins.

- Never too early if the day’s hot, - Daryl mutters.

There’s something dangerously normal in this ordinary scene. Rick feels gratitude and unease mix together. He looks at Daryl and thinks: he’s here, right now. He’s putting in the toast, opening the beer. He doesn’t owe anything, yet he does it.

Daryl catches his gaze, lifts a brow slightly.

- What?

- Nothing. - Rick shakes his head. - Just… good.

Daryl says nothing, but the corner of his mouth tilts up—that crooked smile Rick knows so well.

They sit at the table, drink beer, laugh, tear apart the burning-hot toasts with their hands. Rick feels how strangely his life is shifting: last night, today’s fence, now the kitchen. All of it feels real, but so fragile.

The kitchen slowly fills with soft evening light; outside, long shadows stretch, crickets chirr. Rick washes the dishes—an easy, familiar gesture, though he can’t remember the last time he washed them right after a meal. Daryl, leaning against the doorframe, watches, lazily rolling a beer cap between his fingers.

The air in the kitchen is amber, the silence thick and sticky—they seem caught inside a jar of honey. Rick feels that any more of it will become unbearable. He wipes his hands on a towel, sets it on the table, and turns to Daryl.

- Listen… - his voice cracks. - I need to ask. I don’t want to hold you. Don’t want to push. But… I need to know what to count on.

- Fair enough, - Daryl says slowly, as if realizing it himself at the same moment Rick does. - I took three days, and I’m not going anywhere yet. And if I decide sooner—I’ll say. Won’t do it in silence.

Rick exhales. He needed that honesty from Daryl—not only in sex, but around it too. Without waiting another word, he lunges forward, grabs his collar, yanks, and kisses him hard enough to tear fabric. The kiss is fierce, demanding, as if he’s trying to shake all the pain and joy out of himself at once.

Daryl answers, growls into his mouth, but then breaks into a whisper, hot and heavy:

- You should… rest after last night…

- Shut up, - Rick breathes, crashing his lips back, leaving no choice.

Daryl turns him to the table, pushes until his chest hits the surface. Jeans half down, Rick feels strong fingers dig into his ass, spreading him open. Just seconds and Daryl is already inside with his fingers, sharp thrusts stretching, testing readiness. Rick moans, face pressed to the cool tabletop, hand sliding down on its own, wrapping around himself.

Daryl is urgent—fingers go deeper, wider—and Rick trembles, pushes back, stroking himself faster.

- More… - he rasps, and he gets it immediately.

The entry is sudden, without warning, and Rick cries out, gripping himself harder. Every thrust from Daryl echoes in his palm, heat flooding through his body. Eyes squeezed shut, he bites his lip, fighting the scream, but it’s almost impossible.

Daryl moves relentless, growling at his ear, and Rick can’t hold on: his hand jerks rough, desperate, and in the same instant everything breaks loose. He comes, spilling into his palm and onto the table, his body bowing in an arc, while Daryl drives in harder, pounding until his own release tears free. He groans raggedly, hands leaving Rick’s waist and slamming onto the table on either side, hot breath washing over Rick’s back.

They stay there, suspended—Rick pinned to the table, hand still shaking, breath ragged, Daryl on top, hot and tense, still inside him.

- You still think, — Rick forces the words out through hoarse laughter, —that I need rest?

It’s the quickest sex they’ve had, but Rick feels no disappointment—only heat, weight, and a pleasure that lingers through every nerve. A perfectly fitting puzzle.

Daryl pulls free, steps back, letting him finally rise from the table, and reaches for napkins. He hands them to Rick, still catching his breath, and disappears into the bathroom while Rick wipes himself down.

Rick lifts his head, imprinting the sight of Daryl’s bare body moving through his home—then for a split second something tugs at him, a flicker of unease, a strange sensation that dissolves the moment Daryl vanishes behind the door.

Shaking his head, Rick scrubs the table clean and, with a crooked smile, remembers he still has to deal with the wall—and yesterday’s pillows.

***

In the last half hour of daylight, Daryl finishes the fence, packs up the tools, while Rick throws together a simple dinner and picks a movie. Something light and silly—just right.

After the movie, they simply fall into bed, no awkwardness, as if they’d done it a thousand times before.

The sheets smell of the day’s warmth, sun-soaked, holding the heat. Daryl lies down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, arms wrapped around a pillow, as if afraid to touch Rick more than necessary.

Rick watches him. There’s something strange in it: Daryl, usually confident and forceful, now cautious, almost awkward. Rick feels the warmth radiating from him, the scent of his skin, a faint trace of smoke. He understands—this closeness isn’t a problem for him, not a strain, but for Daryl it’s different; he doesn’t like being touched. Rick has long been used to physical openness, but for Daryl’s sake he’s willing to settle for just looking. After all, the raw physicality they share in sex is more than he ever imagined before.

- Hey… - Daryl finally says quietly, voice tight, - everything… everything okay? Tonight… wasn’t too rough after yesterday?

Rick turns fully toward him, meets his eyes, and sees that rare mix of guilt and unease that Daryl almost never lets show. He smiles—warm, without humor.

- Enough, - he says calmly, almost gently. - I’m fine.

Daryl blinks, squints a little, as if testing whether he can believe Rick. His gaze stays tense, his shoulders drawn. Rick sees it, but doesn’t make a single move to close the space between them—he knows any touch now might only tighten Daryl further.

Instead, he smiles wider, his eyes softening into a quiet promise: trust me, you can let go.

Daryl exhales softly, and Rick notices the muscles in his back and neck begin to ease, little by little.

Rick closes his eyes slowly, feeling the weight of his body and the calm that follows a day full of sunlight, laughter, and recent closeness. The breath beside him is steady, though still a little taut. Through half-lowered lashes he sees Daryl lying still, eyes slightly open, still watching him.

They have a whole day off ahead of them—tomorrow free for Rick completely—and he knows it’ll be enough time to prove to Dixon that he isn’t some delicate schoolgirl, that everything’s fine, that what’s happening is safe.

A few moments later, Rick closes his eyes again and drifts into sleep—heavy, deep, and peaceful.

Chapter Text

The cell phone shatters the silence before dawn. Rick, without opening his eyes, blindly slaps the nightstand — a reflex honed, his palm immediately finds the cell phone. The screen shines too bright; he doesn’t even look at it, immediately listening to the dispatcher’s voice. The words come fast, clipped, without ceremony: shots fired on the outskirts, casualties, suspects armed, possible hostages.

— Stay here, — he throws at Daryl, pulling on his pants.

— Yeah, right, — comes the reply.

Three minutes later they’re already out the door. Half-asleep movements — holsters, weapons, jackets, doors slamming louder than they wanted. The house falls back into darkness and silence.

They rush into the night, headlights gliding over the wet asphalt, streetlights reflected in streaks. The air outside is heavy, thick, smelling of dampness. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but a pale glow is already visible on the horizon, dim, like a trail of soot — the first hints of morning slowly dissolving the dark.

In the car, both are silent. The silence is loud, almost hard: only the engine’s roar and the steady hum of tires. Rick feels the remnants of yesterday’s warmth in his body, as if the unfinished sleep still holds his muscles relaxed, but beside him sits tension — cold, sharp, alive.

— You can’t be there, you don’t have clearance, — he suddenly bursts out, unable to hold it, glancing briefly at Daryl.

Daryl stays silent. His elbow out the window, fingers busy — biting a nail, eyes forward, gaze fixed, as if hooked on the road ahead.

— Fine. At least let me know you remember our last talk, — Rick continues.

— I remember, sheriff, — he answers quietly.

It’s already better. And though Daryl’s eyes remain on the highway, not on him, and uncertainty lingers in his voice, Rick wants to believe that “I remember” is really “I promise.” Maybe not out loud, but truly.

Even so — right now, technically, this isn’t even a work situation. Rick Grimes isn’t Daryl’s boss. But as always, he knows there’s no stopping Daryl. Even trying would be like shooting yourself in the foot. His respect for him is too great.

He casts another quick glance. The profile — sharp, shadows from the headlights falling under the cheekbone, wind tossing hair from the window. There’s stubborn wildness in that face, and something Rick is afraid to name aloud: something not to be lost.

On the site, it smells of iron and grass, a mixture of rust and damp. The railway warehouse looks dead, rusty panels around the perimeter, burnt barrels with traces of ash, twisted rebar scattered here and there. The ground underfoot is soft from the rain; oil stains blacken in patches. Beyond — silence.

The team waits for Rick at the starting point; the plan sounds simple: recon, neutralize threats. But if hostages are confirmed, they’ll have to move carefully, with no margin for error.

— Stick with me, — he says.

Daryl nods in agreement.

They circle the building from the south. But luck stubbornly turns its back: the walls are solid, no windows, no weak spots. At the very end, a pile of rusty junk — broken cable reels, chunks of concrete, sharp edges of metal. No slipping through unnoticed there. Beyond — an open yard, bare as a hand, and a step out there would be suicide. They have to freeze in cover behind an old distribution panel, from which dozens of wires once ran, now only rusty nails and cobwebs remain.

— Rick, — the radio crackles, — hostages confirmed. A family. Two kids. Their car was found on the roadside.

— Damn, — Rick whispers, turning to Daryl, but he’s gone.

Silent, wordless, without warning.

— Fuck, Daryl… — he hisses through clenched teeth, feeling the cold in his chest slowly sinking down, turning into a weight under his ribs. He moves forward because there’s no choice.

Barely squeezing through a pile of metal, he reaches the breach. The entrance door is gone — smashed along with the frame and part of the wall. The edges of the tear in the concrete stand sharp, like teeth. Right at the threshold, on the concrete floor, lies a body.

Rick drops to a knee, checks the carotid. Dead.

— Shit… — he whispers.

Beyond the breach, a straight corridor begins, long, dark, smelling of mold and rot. The floor is littered with debris — rotting boards, empty boxes, torn insulation. Identical doorways stretch to the left and right — empty rooms, no light, no movement.

Rick steps carefully, keeping the Colt low, eyes sliding over corners, shadows, the dark voids of doors, but Daryl is already gone. As if he dissolved into the air.

Shots ring out suddenly — sharp, jerky, like hammer blows on empty metal. The sound shatters and multiplies off the battered walls, ricocheting across the bare ceilings, turning the hall into a box where every bullet sounds ten times louder. The echo pounds in the ears, shattering the air. Dust falls from cracks in the concrete.

Rick bolts forward, rushing into the large hall at the corridor’s end, eyes locking on the scene — reflex and experience taking over. Two lie already still, another two, visible to Rick, return fire from behind a stack of old bricks, a third in the far corner, behind a sheet of rusted metal.

Daryl hides behind a concrete column, but damn, it’s a shitty cover: his broad shoulders stick out like a target. Rick feels his stomach tighten for a moment — no time to spare.

The situation is assessed in seconds. Heart pounding, hands moving with precision. Rick leans back behind a doorframe, raises the Colt. Two quick, confident shots cut into the chaos, and two by the bricks drop, as if someone severed their strings.

At that same moment, Daryl bursts from behind the column, lunges forward, slides across the dusty concrete, and fires twice in a low sweep, catching the third beyond cover. Metal clangs, the body collapses into shadow.

In the corner, beyond the concrete pillar, the hostages huddle together. The man, the father, unconscious, blood running down his forehead, hair matted. The wife presses his head to her chest, the two children pressed to her side, pale, trembling, but alive, intact. Their gaze locks onto Rick and Daryl, as if the rest of the world depends solely on these two.

— Unforeseen situation, — Rick reports in a tight voice over the radio, — medics, here.

He moves around the bodies faster than he thinks. The floor is littered with debris, bricks and concrete, patches of blood; all suspects lie still — dead. Yes, Daryl kept his promise…

— That was the only good moment, — Daryl rasps, approaching him. — The hostages weren’t in the line of fire, I couldn’t wait.

Rick explodes. Words escape on their own, sharp and loud:

— Fuck, Daryl, this isn’t some damn movie! — he yells out, barely noticing the colleagues, medics, and rescued people around. His anger is visible: fists clenched, face burning. They had a plan, clear instructions — and Dixon shouldn’t even be here.

But at that same moment, Rick’s gaze, like a magnet, snaps to Daryl’s shoulder, and he freezes, as if sliced across the stomach with an ice knife. Blood trickles down Daryl’s forearm from under the sleeve — wide streaks, dripping from fingertips, but Daryl seems oblivious. Rick suddenly feels everything inside tighten: not physical pain, but some deep, primal fear.

— Rick, there were kids…

Rick hears nothing but his own heartbeat. His hand goes to the radio — an automatic motion.

— Medic! — he screams, and the word scatters across the hall.

But Daryl’s gaze stops him. A wall creeps into his eyes: resolve, fatigue, and command.

— Don’t, — Daryl cuts off, his voice thick with threat and certainty. — Barely grazed. Patch it up at home.

It’s neither a request nor a challenge — it’s an order that cannot be overridden without a fight. Daryl stands straight, steady, not looking at the wound, asking for no help. For him, it’s a trifle, a price he’s willing to pay. For Rick, it’s a whole story, impossible to fit into a report, defying all rules.

He tries for a second to argue, find words, call the medic again, demand a dressing, but there’s no doubt in Daryl’s eyes, and Rick knows: arguing is useless. All that remains is to grit his teeth and accept that choice.

***

An hour and a half later, they’re home.

The house feels unrealistically quiet after the firefight. Rick opens the door, steadies Daryl by the shoulder, helps him take off the vest. Blood has soaked through his shirt and the undershirt beneath, leaving a dark stain on his jeans.

In the bathroom, Rick pulls the shirt off him, and seeing the wound fully for the first time, realizes that “barely grazed” is a lie — it’s a deep groove with torn skin, the edges scorched and flayed. Rick grabs antiseptic, a needle, and thread; everything needed is at hand — he’s ready for this.

Daryl sits on the edge of the bathtub, slouched, hair tousled, eyes shining. The white undershirt on tanned skin, marked with a vivid crimson stain on his side, is a hellish contrast. Blood from the disturbed wound mixes with antiseptic, dripping onto the tiles.

— Patch… dammit, Daryl… — Rick mutters, mostly to himself, threading the needle.

He starts carefully stitching the wound. Every movement deliberate, slow: piercing the skin, the thread sliding, stitch by stitch. Daryl doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make the slightest move. He just sits and watches. His face is tense, but still, eyes fixed on each stitch. Rick had expected Daryl to react at least a little — jerk, curse, clench his teeth. But no.

In that moment, Rick can’t help thinking of the scars he’s already seen on Daryl — on his arms, chest, shoulders. He remembers the stories the station told about the Dixon family: rough childhood, constant fights, a troublemaking, alcoholic father, a brother forever tangled in dirty affairs…

Rick keeps stitching, trying to keep his hands steady, focusing on the details. Every movement feels almost ritualistic. Inside him, a strange sensation grows — a mix of responsibility, irritation, and a trembling respect for the man sitting silently beside him, surrendering to the moment.

Daryl watches the thread, the needle, Rick’s movements. There’s no fear, no pity, no complaints — only focus, almost detached, and at the same time, a trust he rarely shows anyone.

— You’re crazy, — Rick mutters, pulling the last stitch tight. — You can’t do that.

— It had to be done, — Daryl replies, not lifting his gaze.

The tension lingers. Rick’s hands tremble — whether from adrenaline or fear, he can’t tell. He wipes the stitch, tears the bandage, but Daryl catches his wrist with his strong hand:

— Hey… That’s enough. Stop.

He stands, pressing against Rick, and Rick feels he trembles — now responding to every inch of contact. The tightness, the humid air, the smell of antiseptic mix with hot skin and the metallic sweetness of blood.

Rick wraps his hands around Daryl’s waist, fingers sliding under the undershirt, feeling every muscle ridge, every curve, every scar groove that crosses Daryl’s shoulders and chest — today Rick feels them more keenly than ever. Daryl lets out a soft groan but quickly suppresses it, keeping his usual control — even wounded, he doesn’t lose his grip.

Daryl leans in, lips and tongue finding Rick’s neck, teeth grazing the skin, sparking a sharp, pleasant heat, hands freeing Rick from his clothes. Rick arches toward him, trying to compensate for the pressure on his injured shoulder, hands sliding over Daryl’s body, fingers gripping the fabric, tugging it up, testing his reactions.

— So… — Rick rasps, — not too… painful?

Daryl growls, biting Rick’s lips, but finally lifts his hands, letting the bloody undershirt go. His fingers glide over Rick’s body, pressing, probing, and Rick trembles, surrendering to the rough caress, letting go of control.

At some point, Daryl nearly loses all caution, pushing Rick toward the tile, gripping his hips, moving sharply; he tries to keep the injured shoulder nearly still, but every motion still protests — muscles tense, teeth clenched, yet he doesn’t stop.

Rick feels Daryl’s hot fingers inside, stretching, testing limits. Each movement a mix of pain, pleasure, and wild, almost animalistic control. His moans echo, multiplied by the walls, the heat and humidity amplifying the sensation.

— Fuck, Daryl… — Rick whispers through clenched teeth, — faster…

Daryl answers, fingers giving way to his cock — hot, hard, intruding decisively. Rick feels the heat spreading instantly, body tightening, hips seeking the meeting, fingers gripping Daryl’s ass, following the rhythm.

— More… — Rick gasps, nearly choking on his words.

Daryl moans in reply, pressing all of himself into Rick, every thrust sharp, fast, almost brutal. The injured shoulder tilts slightly, but he compensates with the rest of his muscles, maintaining control. Rick feels his body fill with molten fire, blood boiling in his veins, mind melting under the pleasure.

They move together, Rick’s shoulder blades pressing against the tile, the humid heat of the bathroom, the scent of their bodies and blood, the echo of moans. Time slips away, Daryl pushing him to the edge, thrusts becoming sharper, faster, cock going deeper, each hit a relentless explosion. Rick’s own cock trapped between them.

— Fuck! — Rick nearly shouts, coming, body arching, Daryl’s fingers digging into his hips, holding him, guiding, controlling him through the final seconds.

Then the release — wild, hot. Daryl lets himself cum inside, half-growling, half-moaning, head thrown back. They freeze for a moment: Rick trembling, still in his hands, breath ragged, Daryl standing, chest heaving, eyes wild with fire and satisfaction. The bathroom air heavy with heat, sweat, the smell of blood, moans, and the bittersweet mix of pleasure and ferocity.

Fresh drops of blood slowly run down Daryl’s shoulder, but the stitch holds — the carefully sewn thread keeps the wound closed, just irritated tissue.

— See? — Daryl smirks, crooked and familiar. — Would’ve just wasted a bandage.

Rick shakes his head, picks up the first aid kit from the floor, pulls out antiseptic and bandage again, then changes his mind and grabs the largest patch he can find.

Daryl only lets out a silent laugh.

Chapter Text

The porch is still damp after the night rain. The smell of raw earth rises through the boards, the air cool and clean. The sun is already above the trees, but it hasn’t yet turned the street into a ravenous furnace. They sit on the steps, two mugs in hand, steam curling upward — strong, bitter coffee with no sugar. Their breakfast, the one they "can't skip".

Daryl sits sideways, his back against the railing. He lights up, fingers cupping the flame; the cigarette flares with a brief orange glow. He draws deep, holds, exhales slowly — the smoke torn away by the wind at once. The wound on his shoulder is hidden under the T-shirt, but Rick knows how it looks, the stitches done by his own hands.

Rick watches him over the rim of his mug, eyes catching on every detail: hair falling into his eyes, the faintly lifted shoulders, the habitual squint. And — under the clothes, almost invisible yet there — pain. He isn’t thinking of the wound but of what lies behind it: the habit of moving forward without waiting for orders. The habit of saving. The habit of risking. Alone.

— We’ve got to decide something, — Rick says at last, setting down his mug. His voice is low, almost even, but there’s fatigue in it though it’s not even noon.

Daryl turns his head, one brow lifted, silent, taking another drag.

— I talked to the sheriff, — Rick goes on. — Or rather… he brought it up himself. About you. About what you do. About how you do it.

Daryl exhales smoke through his nose, gaze shifting to the yard, the bike, the fence.

— And?

— And he’s not against it. I can put through a cross-deputization, — Rick leans on the railing. — You’d be part of the station, sworn in, official. You’d work here legally, with authority.

He had spoken to the sheriff about Daryl before he even realized his pull toward the ranger, and the sheriff had agreed without question: do it. But that was then. Now everything is different. Rick doesn’t want it to be just paperwork. He wants Daryl to choose. To understand: it isn’t shackles, not a leash or an order — it’s a safeguard. But how do you explain that to someone who’s lived his whole life without safeguards?

— Hm, — Daryl exhales shortly. — And if I don’t want the oath?

— Then nothing changes. You’ll keep pushing into places you’ve got no access to, — Rick pauses. — And one day I won’t be able to cover it.

Silence. Only the faint crackle of the cigarette.

— Listen, — Rick leans forward a little. — It’s not just paper. It means I’d be your direct superior. You’d have to follow orders. Not selectively, not when you feel like it. Always. That’s the only way we can work together. That’s the only way I can cover you officially.

The wind stirs the curtains in the window behind them. The morning grows warmer, the damp air still smelling of coffee and smoke. Daryl lowers his gaze to the mug, fingers turning the handle. He exhales the last of the smoke, stubs the cigarette in the ashtray, looks at Rick — straight on, eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing every word.

— And if I pull the same stunt again?

— You won’t, — Rick says. — You’ll tell me, and I’ll be there with you. We both know I can’t hold you back in a moment like that, but I need to know what you’re doing. And it has to be within the law.

Silence falls again between them. Then Daryl takes the mug in both hands as if testing its warmth.

— Alright. I think I’m ready to take it.

Rick nods slowly. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press. Just looks at him — at the patch under the T-shirt, at the man who always moves forward. The air warms, the boards heat underfoot. On the porch lingers the smell of coffee and smoke — the scent of their new reality, just beginning.

***

By midday the asphalt is dry, the air already shimmering with refraction. Patrol cars stand by the station porch, their bodies still patchy with damp where the shadows fall.

Rick parks in the corner. Daryl gets out first: shirt buttoned one too low, his movements steady. He slams the door shut with his injured arm as if the wound were days old, not hours.

Inside the station, the usual din: voices, ringing phones, the smell of bad coffee and paper. Rick’s colleagues greet him with brief nods, one claps him on the shoulder.

— Heard about the morning, Grimes, — one of the sergeants says. — Good work.

— Thanks, — Rick answers calmly, eyes scanning the room.

But where they pass, eyes follow. First him, then Dixon. Restrained, sharp looks. The story of the ranger charging under fire without orders — despite all the cover in the reports — has already made the rounds. Some whisper, some pretend not to watch.

Daryl feels the stares; his lips press into a line. But his stance stays defiant, like a man used to being judged without the full picture.

Rick nods to him: let’s go. They step into the sheriff’s office. The papers are ready.

The sheriff, tall, broad-armed, looks at Daryl intently, but without irritation.

— You understand this oath isn’t a game?

— I understand, — Daryl answers shortly.

The procedure is quick. Signatures, signatures, signatures. The oath — formal words, spoken firmly, almost in a whisper. The click of the pen on the desk. The sheriff nods, as if sealing it:

— That’s it. Welcome to the station, Special Deputy Dixon. You’ll work with Grimes. Don’t let me down.

Daryl just shakes his head, doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften a fraction.

***

Dusk settles on the house, the air smelling of cooling wood. The porch lamps cast a soft glow.

They eat in the kitchen. Rick sets out simple food: meat, potatoes, bread. Daryl eyes the plate with suspicion, then smirks crookedly.

— Well, Sheriff, — he says. — Guess I’ll have to eat your cooking again. As a subordinate, I’ll endure.

— Seriously? — Rick smirks. — That bad?

— Where d’you get the meat? — Daryl asks, prodding the plate.

— At the store, like everyone else.

— Exactly.

— Don’t tell me you’ve got fresh game on the table every day, — Rick snorts.

Daryl just grins, eyes flashing.

— And the man who bought some frozen crap is giving me grief about store meat?

— Frozen’s not for eating, — Daryl cuts him off.

Rick puts down his fork, goes quiet for a second. His gaze lingers on Daryl’s hands, on the scars across his knuckles; he remembers the marks on his body, his aversion to touch. The image comes of a boy pressing a bag of frozen peas to bruises. Suddenly he feels the gulf of their pasts.

— That from childhood? — he asks, though he already knows.

— Yeah, — Daryl nods. — Convenient.

After dinner, Daryl stands, gathers the plates. The plain gray T-shirt he borrowed from Rick, after they’d tossed his undershirt, is too small — stretched tight across his shoulders, riding up at the waist. He stretches, long and slow like a cat, as if finally able to straighten out. The shirt lifts higher, baring his stomach nearly to the ribs.

Of course Rick can’t not look. He swallows air like after a sprint. There it is. Not an image, not a dream — flesh and blood, here, in his house. Within reach. Real. His head hums: not just a partner at work — a man breathing the same air, drinking coffee from his mugs, and Rick can watch as much as he wants.

Daryl slows slightly, as if feeling the gaze. For a moment his eyes catch Rick’s — a brief squint, like a hint: I see you looking. But instead of saying anything or stepping closer, he calmly pulls two beers from the fridge, sets them down, opens them.

Evening folds the house in soft darkness. In the kitchen, only the dim ceiling lamp; the window reflects just the two of them. The silence between them is thick but calm: no signal, no move — just their evening, the kitchen, the beer, and the tension thrumming under the skin.

Daryl leans back in the chair, drinking slowly, eyes fixed. The silence feels warm, but unresolved. Too much had happened today, and they’re both tired, with plenty to think about. Rick suddenly finds himself wondering: Daryl lives three hours away, he’ll still leave, because he lives somewhere out there, beyond Atlanta.

He hesitates. Runs through it in his head: the Dixons are local. The house isn’t far, the one Daryl used to live in. Maybe he goes to his father? Maybe something changed?

The words are out before he can stop them:

— Do you… ever visit your father?

A second — and the air changes. Daryl turns to stone: shoulders rising slightly, his gaze extinguished. His face darkens, shadow cutting across his cheekbones. Fingers clamp around the bottle neck until his knuckles whiten.

He doesn’t answer at once. Then, rough:

— No.

— Never? — Rick asks carefully.

— No, Rick. I don’t go. I don’t call. I’ve had enough.

Daryl’s gaze slides to the wall, as if it’s safer there. His lips thin, his voice even but heavy with muffled rage:

— He’s everything that was wrong. Everything I hate. He made me what I am. I don’t want to see him. Don’t want to know. He alive? Then let him live. Or let him rot. I don’t care.

He falls silent, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders still taut.

Rick lowers his gaze too — to the table, fingers brushing the bottle. His chest tightens at the words. There it is — the root of Daryl’s pain, and he’d walked into it uninvited.

Softly, he says:

— I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Daryl exhales sharply, almost a growl:

— Just… stay out of it, alright?

Rick nods.

They fall quiet again. The kitchen ticks with the clock; outside, night thickens. And the sense of another boundary shifting between them is almost tangible.

Rick realizes he needs to break the moment. He notices the patch on Daryl’s shoulder peeling loose in the heat, blood seeping at the edge.

— Needs changing, — he says, nodding at the wound.

Daryl just lowers his head, staying put.

Rick goes to the bathroom, brings the kit, pulls out antiseptic, cotton. Without meeting Daryl’s eyes, he peels away the old patch. The skin beneath is inflamed, pink, the stitches swollen, bleeding a little; his fingers come away sticky with half-dried blood.

He works quickly, precisely, but feels the weight of Daryl’s stare — heavy, unblinking. Daryl breathes evenly but deeper than usual, the muscles under Rick’s touch taut.

Rick curses himself silently for asking about Daryl’s father, for stepping onto that burning ground.

Just as he sets the kit aside, turning back to the counter, Daryl suddenly rises, grabs him at the waist, drags his hips against his own. One hand holds Rick there, the other yanking down his pants, unfastening his own. Rick jolts — first from the scrape, the rough pull of fabric burning his skin. The first touch, the pressure of Daryl’s body, forces the breath out of him, muscles tightening under the heat of rough palms spreading him.

Without prep, without gentleness, Daryl drives into him. The first seconds Rick feels only pain — sharp, deep, nearly blinding. He clutches the counter, thighs rigid, breath breaking, mind blank. But slowly the pain fuses with arousal, because he feels: Daryl wants him, Daryl takes him, needs him, holds him. Heat, pressure, the stretch — it all begins to twist into fierce, searing pleasure. Rick’s body responds, his moans of pain slipping into moans of desire, tangled with Daryl’s harsh breath, the scrape of the counter, the slick slide of their bodies.

Daryl thrusts hard, full-bodied, then slows to feel Rick’s resistance, then quickens again. His hands leave red marks, sliding across his back, his ass, gripping shoulders, sometimes squeezing hard enough to bruise. Sweat mixes with the smell of coffee and heat, wrapping them thick. Each movement, each shove, each press — the crush, the surrender — draws Rick deeper into dependence.

Daryl comes first, jerking his hips, groaning rough, staying inside, pinning Rick to the counter with his weight. His breath rasps, hair tickling Rick’s back, his arms trembling faintly against the wood.

It isn’t enough for Rick. The sex is sudden, brutal, quick. He grips himself, pumping hard, pressed to Daryl’s groin, still feeling the warmth, the weight inside him, even phantom thrusts. His body catches every shiver of Daryl’s, every gasp. He cries out, moans, until he comes undone, lost in the fusion of pain, heat, release.

Daryl pulls out carefully, his touch now oddly gentle, as if it hadn’t begun so rough. He hands Rick tissues, unexpectedly brushes his thumb across his cheek. In his eyes flickers something unreadable, a mess of emotions Rick can’t name. For a moment, he reads the shape of Sorry, sorry on Daryl’s lips, the look lingering on his face before Daryl turns, heading for the bathroom.

The clash of raw, sudden passion with the quiet touch and apology — it tears Rick open inside, leaving him trembling, burning, and painfully close.

Chapter Text

Rick turns off the kitchen light and heads to the bedroom. The house feels too quiet: after the tension of the day, this silence gives no peace, only presses down. He washes his face, brushes his teeth mechanically, moves as if every small thing is a duty to cling to, just to avoid thinking.

In the bedroom, the bed doesn’t pull him in. He lies on the edge, not fully undressed, leaving only his shirt unbuttoned. He stares at the ceiling, listening to the house creak under the night’s warmth.

He doesn’t know whether to wait or not. Maybe Daryl will come back, come in here. Maybe, on the contrary, he’ll gather himself and leave, slam the door, and then Rick will hear the motorcycle roar, a period at the end of this evening.

And then — the door slams. Dull, short. Rick freezes, his heart dropping. He waits for that roar, that sound that would mean it’s all over. But the street is silent. Only the wind rustles the leaves.

Time stretches; every minute he hears the blood rushing in his ears. But again — the door slams. This time quieter. And from the living room comes the familiar creak of the couch, short, like a sigh.

Rick closes his eyes, rubbing his face with his palm. He doesn’t feel any lighter.

Now, instead of the fear of loss, comes something else: thoughts that offer no justification, swarming and stinging.

He brought up his father himself. He went there where he shouldn’t have. He already understood — in Daryl, it burns inside like a field after a fire. And yet he asked. Why? To feel him closer? To prove that you can share the deepest pain?

He tosses on the pillow, feeling a heavy realization growing inside: he did the same thing he always does — rushed in to save when no one asked.

But along with it comes another kind of pain, physical. It reminds him of what happened an hour ago. Usually it blended with the remnants of pleasure, leaving a heavy but alive warmth in the body. Now — only a dull, aching weight, almost humiliating. It cuts into sleep, making it even more impossible.

Instead of sleep, images come that cannot be escaped. A boy with a wound that no one can stitch. A boy who learned to hide pain under anger, because otherwise he wouldn’t survive.

Rick breathes deeper, pressing his fist to his lips. He wants to justify every word and every movement of Daryl. Because looking at it through childhood — everything becomes clearer. Both the harshness and the abruptness, and that shadow in the eyes that appears at every question.

He falls asleep only deep in the night, closer to morning. And in this sleep, there are neither vivid pictures nor peace — only the feeling that he will have to dig deeper ahead.

And when consciousness finally sinks, the last thought comes clearly: tomorrow at the station, he’ll raise the Dixons case. Find out everything he can. But not from Daryl — he will never torment him with questions again.

***

Morning comes heavy, with a crumpled body and a ringing in the temples. Rick dresses slowly; the shirt resists his fingers; the belt pulls too tight.

He leaves the bedroom — and sees him immediately.

Daryl sits on the couch. He hasn’t straightened the blanket, hasn’t closed his eyes — as if he didn’t sleep at all. Only his elbows on his knees, hands locked together.

When Rick comes in, he rises too. Voice hoarse, but steady:

— I warned you. Should’ve left earlier. Before… this happened, - he turns away, steps toward the door. — So… I’m leaving now.

— You’re letting me know, like you promised? — Rick throws, weak, without anger.

Daryl nods shortly, barely looking. Grabbing his jacket, he leaves immediately, pulling cigarettes from his pocket as he goes.

The door slams.

Moments later, the engine comes alive in the yard — the motorcycle roar cuts the morning. Then fades, dissolving into the road.

Rick goes to the kitchen on autopilot. Brews coffee. Pours it into a mug, sits. Takes a sip, stares into the void, tasting nothing.

He sets the coffee aside, grabs his keys, jacket, and heads to work. On the kitchen table, steam still rises from the mug, carrying the smell of bitterness.

***

The station greets with familiar smells and sounds. Rick walks down the corridor almost automatically, nods to a couple of acquaintances, locks himself in his office.

The desk is just as he left it yesterday: a mug with unfinished coffee, a couple of reports, and on top — a folder with Dixon’s assignment. Dry paper, a few sheets, signatures. All official: Daryl is his new partner.

Rick looks at the folder for a few seconds, then hides it in a drawer. Too soon, too painful to see it as a document when the echoes of door slams and motorcycle roar are still in his head.

He turns on the computer, opens the database. A few queries, a bit of effort — and old cases appear on the screen.

Dixon Sr.

Pages of protocols, arrests. Fights in bars, street brawls. Scuffles with men, complaints from women, even teens with fractures in the charges.

Rick reads and thinks: he beat anyone in reach. No discrimination. Children near such a man — not children, but collateral. And if Daryl learned to live after that, it’s already a miracle.

Domestic violence — only neighbor complaints. No official records.

Rick presses his lips together: there it is. Classic. Everyone knew, but no one intervened. No one risked it. And the boy stayed alone with this evil.

Fire.

A brief report. The house burned down completely. The woman died. Daryl was six then.

Rick lingers on the number. Six. The age when children are just learning to read, when mothers still hold their hand on the street. And for Daryl — only smoke, screams, father’s beatings, and loneliness.

He exhales slowly, as if feeling the smoke from these pages.

Merle.

Dozens of cases. Fights, drugs, robberies. Convictions, time served. Life between penitentiaries, jail, and brief moments of freedom.

Older by almost ten years. For Daryl, he wasn’t an example, but a reminder that there was no other path. Only fight, drink, shoot up, steal. And he could have gone that way — but didn’t. How? Why?

Now Merle sits again.

And probably not for the last time. But if you ask Merle himself, he would be proud to have at least “lived his way.”

Daryl.

Nothing. No arrests, no charges, no protocols. Clean.

Rick looks at the empty line and thinks: this is the essence. The boy grew up in hell. Father beat everything that moved and broke what didn’t. Brother dragged him down. Mother died when he was six. And yet — he’s clean. Not a saint, not perfect, but clean. All he has — scars, anger, and the habit of pushing away. Because it’s safer that way.

Rick leans back in the chair, rubbing his face. Papers blur before his eyes, but thoughts become clearer: he doesn’t know any other way. He wasn’t taught. He needs to be shown at least once that gentleness isn’t weakness. That closeness isn’t punishment. But how, if he himself doesn’t believe he deserves it?

The screen flickers, the cursor blinks. And in Rick’s chest, a heavy, viscous feeling builds — a mix of pity and determination.

He closes the documents on the screen, turns off the monitor. His mind is noisy from what he read, and the silence of the office only makes the noise louder.

He gets up, goes for coffee. The mug offers warmth, but his hands almost stop themselves — he notices marks on his skin.

Bruises. Of different shades: fresh, deep red; others already yellowing, fading. Marks left over the past few days. Marks of intimacy, marks that could be called different things: sometimes passion, sometimes habit, sometimes a way to avoid thinking.

Rick stares at his hands longer than necessary.

Not the first time, but before it felt different. Mixed with something alive, hot. Now only a reminder: pain without justification.

He clenches his fingers into a fist, checking if he can hold it all inside.

The question resurfaces: should he speak directly with him? About what he saw in the files. About what he understood. Or keep it? Let him decide to open up or not?

And in that choice lies all the weight. One movement could break everything again.

He takes the first sip. Hot bitterness spreads in his chest.

Whatever happens — this is no longer just a story about a partner. Not just about the bed. It’s about someone he wants to save, even if that person resists.

***

In the evening, Rick returns home.

From the doorway — emptiness. The same as always, before Daryl appeared. But now it feels different: not the silence he’s used to, but an open void.

On the couch — a crumpled blanket, the seat mark no one else will take. All of it suddenly feels too eloquent.

Rick goes to the kitchen, opens the freezer. A bag of frozen vegetables. Dry, cold, slippery. He takes it out, presses it to his wrist. Not because he needs to — his bruises don’t demand it, more like… to reclaim something from Daryl. The cold is harsh, but there’s a strange memory in it that the body is alive, that traces remain, and those traces slightly fill the void.

Rick sits silently until the cold becomes unbearable. Then he returns the bag to the freezer, as if hiding part of himself there, and closes the door.

His thoughts return to work. He frowns: what if tomorrow or the day after he has to call Daryl for a case? A partner is a partner. Work is work.

And yet in his mind flickers a faint, almost cowardly thought: just don’t have to. Just to have time to sort all this before having to look him in the eyes again. Because he will come, of course, he will — if called. But what then to do with this lump inside?

Rick remains sitting aimlessly in the kitchen. The house is quiet, only the clock ticks, the fridge shifts into freezing mode. In the window reflects him alone.

***

The next workday goes in a usual rhythm: calls, reports, routine calls. By noon, a message arrives about a fight in a yard on the outskirts. Rick drives there himself — his partner is busy, and the station is overloaded.

As he turns off the highway, his heart clenches for a second: familiar coordinates. That part of the district he least wanted to visit today. The neighborhood where Dixon once lived.

The yard empties after the clearing, violators taken to the patrol. Papers processed quickly. But Rick lingers: instead of returning immediately, he walks a few more streets. Slowly, as if by accident.

And suddenly he sees — an old trailer home. Paint peeling, roof crooked, windows boarded, but one is slightly open. The yard overgrown, the gate hanging on one hinge.

There it is; he doesn’t even need to find the number on the facade. Dixon’s house.

Rick stands by the crooked gate, hand gripping rusty metal. The house seems not just dilapidated but rotten inside, soaked in shadow. Something stirs inside — a radio, footsteps. The old man is still alive.

He doesn’t knock. Just stands, staring at the battered facade. Before his eyes — lines from reports: fights, brawls, neighbor complaints. Before his mind’s eye — a boy, six years old, losing his mother in a fire. A teenager growing in this shadow and rot. And then Daryl’s voice comes to memory. Not the words of reports, not case lines — his voice: he made me what I am.

Not “who” — “what.”

As if he were a thing. A broken result of other hands. Not a person, but a consequence.

Daryl doesn’t consider himself “someone.” He considers himself “something.” A shadow. A trash. A product of his father’s cruelty.

The thought pierces Rick, and something painfully tightens in his chest — from anger, pity, helplessness.

Daryl has lived this way all his life. Not as a person, but as what was made of him. And everything he does now — saving, risking, moving forward alone — is an attempt to rewrite that “what” somehow.

Rick struggles to breathe, squeezing the gate even tighter, his fingers aching.

Maybe go in? Say a few words? Find out what kind of person he is? But immediately comes the thought: What if Daryl finds out? If he thinks I’m digging where he forbade me again?

He wants to go in. Even for a second, look at this person’s face, understand what in him could have twisted a boy into a broken thing.

But he doesn’t.

He stands a bit longer. Then retreats. Turns, walks to the car, sits behind the wheel, and only then notices his hands shaking, his mind ringing the same thing: what I am.

***

The house is deafeningly empty and dark. No trace of Daryl’s presence — not even the lawn flattened where his bike stood. In the entryway, his jacket is gone, on the couch the blanket he didn’t touch, in the kitchen — Rick’s lone mug.

But in the bathroom, on the corner of the sink, Rick sees an old patch with a bloodstain.

He finds no strength for dinner — simply collapses into bed. The sheets — just as cold and empty.

Rick falls asleep in jerks, as if sliding into water. First comes the usual dream: kitchen, table, hot breath at the neck, heavy hand on his hip. Daryl behind him, movements confident, strong, painfully familiar in the muscles. Rick feels his body responding on its own, hips shifting back slightly, heart racing. Heat flares inside — just like before, as if that simple passion could fill the gaps.

But the dream suddenly changes. Daryl’s hands become rougher, harder, fingers digging into the skin too strongly — and Rick no longer sees palms, but scars. Not the shoulder, but the wound he himself stitched. Blood drips from fingers to the floor, thick, viscous. He turns and sees the boy — same gaze, hands pressing the bag of frozen vegetables to his battered face. Daryl is no longer the man behind him, but the child healing himself because no one else can.

Rick shudders, heart uneven. He realizes the arousal is gone; only dull weight and the urge to protect this boy from the past remain. The dream collapses, leaving him semi-conscious, palms sticky, lump in his throat. He turns on his side, pulls the blanket over, as if trying to hide his own body from insistent images.

In the dark, he whispers softly: I’m sorry.

Chapter Text

The alarm doesn’t ring — the cell phone does.

Rick blindly grabs the receiver, not yet realizing that morning has already started, that he hasn’t really slept at all.

— Grimes, — the voice is hoarse, he coughs.

The dispatcher talks fast, clipped: kidnapping, female college student, cottage at the edge of the forest, tracks lead into the mountains. Potentially armed kidnapper. Time is short.

Rick slowly sits up, his joints creaking. The last twenty days have been a formula: work — dinner — sleep, taking shifts on weekends and at night. Evenings empty: couch, news, tasteless food. In the dark and quiet, images come by habit: Daryl’s hands, the smell of cigarettes, the weight of his body behind him. But as soon as it begins - the scars, the blood, the boy with the battered face surface. Everything collapses. Only bitterness remains.

He gets up. The kitchen smells of yesterday’s coffee. Narrow stripes of gray light pierce the blinds. Wind whistles from outside.

Rick buries his forehead in his hand. Cottage. Forest. Tracks into the mountains.

He knows these places. Knows what’s there. Knows he can’t go alone.

And he knows who he needs to call.

He doesn’t pick up the cell phone immediately — he hovers over it, as if making a choice that can’t be postponed. His heart beats unevenly, like it’s hit by a blast of cold air.

Eventually, his fingers dial the number on their own.

Short rings. Three, four. Then — a familiar hoarse voice:

— Yeah.

Rick closes his eyes. So many days without words, and here is that voice again.

— Daryl, it’s Rick.

— I see, — short. A lighter clicks on the other end.

— Listen… we’ve got a kidnapping. Female college student. Cottage on the edge of the forest, tracks up into the mountains. Dogs lost the scent. We can’t handle it without a tracker.

Pause. Only breathing on the line.

— I’ll be there. Three hours.

— Waiting, — Rick replies.

***

Gray dawn. Cold seeps under his jacket. Rick leans on the car, hands in pockets, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Three hours of waiting. Two have already passed.

The cottage sits at the edge of the forest like a discarded block. Gray wood, dark slate roof, empty windows. Around — wet grass, tire tracks. The ground underfoot sinks, boots getting wet. Warning tape flutters in the wind.

He’s been here for an hour and a half. Patrol and K9 units have left, forensic guys marked the tracks and went to wait for orders. In his hands: a folder. Name — Savannah Hill, twenty years old. County council’s daughter. College student. Two guys, family friends, who were with her here, said: “She went outside for some air and didn’t come back.”

Rick looks at the report. The words are sparsely laid out, but between them — screams and panic. The girl went out and didn’t return. Daughter of a local big shot. This isn’t just a “college student,” it’s a case where any mistake is a stray bullet to one’s reputation.

He squints at the forest. He senses gaps he can’t see. Two guys — too neat. Their story is too short, too clean. But there’s no evidence yet.

Daryl will be here soon.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his eyes, his thoughts. Sometimes looking at the cottage door, sometimes at the mountains, sometimes at the path leading down. Familiar phrases like “partner,” “on the job” feel paper-thin, they all fall apart. After their last night together, every word sounds different, even if he stays silent.

He rehearses in his head: “keep distance,” “don’t look him in the eye,” “just mirror.” He decides to mirror what Daryl does for now. Rick wants to see how he is, what he’s thinking, how he perceives.

The sound of a motorcycle comes before he sees it. First a low hum, then a vibration through the ground. Daryl rides onto the lot, cuts the engine, takes off his helmet, hair tousled, gaze sharp, movements quick. He’s not in uniform: leather jacket, jeans. Clearly rushed — arrived almost half an hour early.

He nods instead of greeting.

— Where?

Rick points, and Daryl immediately starts following the trail. He moves slowly, almost silently, like someone used to hearing the earth’s language underfoot. He squats, studies the ground, walks around the cottage. Bends down, feels, checks trajectories, examines angles; lifts a glass bottle, tosses it aside, looks under the boards. Goes inside, steps on the floor, peers into dark corners. His hands move with a precision Rick doesn’t have: they don’t rummage, don’t disturb evidence, act as if in a prayer for understanding.

Rick stays at a distance, watching every gesture. That strength again — not put-on, real. The same strength that still makes the ground vanish under him. And now that strength both draws him in and pushes him away: it heals and it hurts.

He moves behind, like a shadow, doing the same as Dixon: silent, noting, not interfering. He knows: now is not the time for feelings. Here — facts and muddy boots.

About twenty minutes later, Daryl steps onto the porch, pulls out a cigarette, lights it, inhales, exhales. He’s perfect, a living fantasy of Rick’s, hard to imagine he grew up in that rotten trailer. Rick wants to ask “how are you?” — but swallows it. A question about the case feels safer:

— What’s here?

Daryl stays silent, blows smoke. Then:

— Seven tracks. Inside and around.

Rick raises an eyebrow:

— Witnesses said there were only three. The missing girl and two guys.

— Not three — seven. She and six guys — your forensic guys will see soon. Four more somewhere else, — he squints at the forest. — But those four aren’t the kidnappers. They were hanging, drinking, fooling around. More kidnappers than that. And they took more than her.

Rick feels a tightening inside. He looks at Daryl, wants to step closer, feel his warmth, but stays put, listens to his own breathing for a moment. He manages to sound even and dry:

— What else?

— I’ll follow the tracks, — Daryl says. — There are many, progress will be slower. I have the advantage.

He stubs out the cigarette on his boot and heads to the bike.

— Dirtier than it looks, sheriff.

Rick nods. Makes notes, though his handwriting is shaky. He feels — Daryl is fully on the job, cold, focused, and he himself must be the same. Just mirror.

He turns, goes to the car — also ready to follow the trail like the two subordinate guys. But in his head, it goes: keep distance, don’t ask extra, just work.

He grabs the radio, issues the call to assemble. But his eyes still catch the figure by the bike: Daryl rummaging through the trunk bag, tense, glancing at the thicket as if calculating what to take. Rick wonders how long he can stay professional and speak only about the case — and finds no answer.

***

They stand at a fork in the paths: Rick, Daryl, and two sergeants from the station.

— I’m faster alone, — Daryl stubbornly repeats.

— Not up for discussion, — Rick mirrors his tone. — We go together, the guys behind us.

Daryl glances at him — unreadable. Rick fears, for a moment, it could even get worse, that Daryl might silently go alone. Rick knows he couldn’t hold him, catch him, or find him in these conditions. This is Dixon’s world.

But Daryl suddenly nods:

— Got it, — he turns, adjusts his backpack, and takes the left path.

Rick and the armed sergeants follow him.

Five minutes later, Dixon stops, squats by the grass, rubs leaves, follows with his nose like a dog. Rick catches himself thinking he’s at the start of this journey again: Daryl — force of nature, he — observer. Slight relief it’s autumn, the physical part of his obsession hidden under layers of clothing. He can stay professional. He can.

— Solvent, — Daryl suddenly says.

— What?

— Dogs stunned. They were ready…

Rick recognizes the place — he was here a couple of hours ago when dogs lost the trail. But back then, he didn’t smell anything.

Daryl gets up, moves further, completely silently. His boots slip on wet grass, fingers along stones. He seems to feel the forest’s rhythm through his skin. Walks around a trampled clearing, stops, reads the signs.

Rick watches — understands nothing. The dogs spun here two hours ago and lost the scent, yet Daryl finds it in minutes. Rick shivers — awe, respect, thrill. A rare moment to be a witness, not a commander. Without Daryl, they’d have missed the kidnappers already.

— Christ, — he whispers. — How do you do that?

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just looks toward the slope, exhales, moves on.

The two sergeants with carbines begin to lag. They glance back, one mutters to the other about slippery rocks. Rick turns to them:

— Follow our marks. Report every ten minutes on the radio. Keep distance, stay quiet.

— Yes, Deputy, — they answer, but clearly don’t like climbing higher.

Now he and Daryl are alone. Getting colder. Air wet, smells of clay and rotting leaves, breath fogging. Rick tightens his collar, eyes the broad back ahead.

Daryl walks, eyes down, following tracks. Shoulders hunched as if to bear the wind. Silent. Rick too — silence thickens, heavy but safe for now.

— How many? — Rick finally asks as the path steepens.

Daryl doesn’t answer immediately, doesn’t turn:

— At least eight. Maybe more. I’ll know for sure when they set camp or slow down. Right now, tracks mixed.

Rick feels a pang in his chest: eight — no longer just a pair of random junkies. A gang, an organization.

He grabs the radio:

— Center, this is Grimes. Check all contacts for Savannah Hill in the last two days. Who was in the cottage, who came by car. Crosscheck everyone in databases. Over.

Short crackles, then the duty officer’s voice:

— Grimes, received. Re-interviewed the guys. They broke: there were four more. Savannah led them, they’re from another state, where she studies — Ridgewood College, North Carolina. They said they didn’t know each other before today. The two were busy upstairs when the others were kidnapped. Afraid they’d be accused, so stayed silent. Over.

Rick feels it all fall inside him. Four plus Savannah. Five missing. Eight or more kidnappers.

He looks ahead. Daryl follows tracks without slowing, but Rick sees he’s listening to every word.

— Copy, — he replies into the radio. — Keep line open.

He stows the radio, quickens pace to catch up. Forest thickens, slope steeper, wind freer — cold cuts through clothes.

Rick watches Daryl’s back, thinks: alone again, like when it all began. Their whole story hanging somewhere behind, like mist. He feels respect, worry, guilt — all at once. Decides not to speak yet. Step by step, follow.

Twilight comes unnoticed. Shadows lengthen; forest turns gray like an old photo. Air thickens with moisture; wind drags the smell of wet pine and earth.

Daryl stops on a stone ledge, drops backpack, pulls out a cigarette, shields the flame with his hand. Smoke drifts sideways, vanishes in the wind.

Rick steps closer, not too close — about a pace and a half, an invisible line between them. He stays silent, listening to wind and his own breathing.

— They had a head start, — Daryl says after the first drag, voice even. — Five, six hours. We caught two. If we go to their camp, we’ll get there in darkness. Still won’t catch them.

He glances west: behind the trees, a stripe of orange light fades.

— We need to stop now. Wait for dawn. See where they turn.

Rick nods, contacts the sergeants, then the station. Boots sink in moss; he exhales steam while speaking on the radio. Rick knows — Daryl is right. They both need this pause, not just for legs, but for minds.

He sets up a thermos, takes out a mug, offers Daryl — he refuses, just smokes, eyes on the forest. Rick sits on a stone, holding the mug with both hands. Thoughts return to rehearsals: “mirror,” “don’t ask,” “don’t reach.” But here is a living person, not a picture. Movements — sharp, precise, shoulders broad, hair damp.

Daryl stubs out cigarette on stone, presses it with toe. Then removes gloves, spreads a map, traces a path with his finger, muttering.

Rick sips, hands cold — coffee barely warm. Wind seems to expose all thoughts: how he wants, how afraid, how long he stopped understanding their boundaries. Tension builds like before jumping into water: speak? stay silent?

Evening drags forest down, everything darkens, as if a wet blanket thrown over the world.

He feels the usual night cycle start: fatigue, darkness, closeness of a living body. Images in his head. Breath on the neck, hand on hip. But instead of familiar heat — sticky weight, scars, blood. Two incompatible realities, suffocating. Heart beats like a foreign drum.

Rick looks at Daryl's profile and realizes he can’t hold it in anymore. He decides to speak, not waiting for darkness to consume his words.

— Listen, — voice quieter than he expected. — I need to say something before it’s too late.

Daryl stirs slightly, doesn’t turn:

— Say it.

Rick swallows, looks aside as if addressing the trees:

— I’ve always… waited for you to stay. That someday it would be more than just sex. I… thought if I gave warmth, it would change everything, — he squeezes the mug until metal squeaks. — But it’s wrong. Unfair. Mine, not yours. You didn’t ask.

Daryl inhales, silent.

— So… — Rick pauses, finally finding courage to say it firmly: — If you want to come — come. If you want to leave — leave. I won’t wait for you to stay anymore. Won’t ask anything, won’t hold you. Just know — I still want you.

In the forest, only the wind is audible. Daryl finally turns, sits on a stone across from him. His face is half-shadowed, eyes watching Rick carefully, hands clasped.

— After what happened last time? — his voice is hoarse, words come hard for him too. — I always leave because it’s easier. Because otherwise… otherwise I’d have to explain.

Rick looks him in the eyes.

— I understand. That’s why I’m saying it. Don’t explain. Just know.

Daryl watches for a few more seconds, then shifts his gaze aside, reaches for the map to show the trail.

— They’ll stop here. Not today — tomorrow. There’s a flat clearing and water. If they know the terrain, they’ll head there. We’ll catch them.

Rick nods. He feels the weight lift from his shoulders — not completely, but the first layer. He hasn’t gotten an answer, but he spoke.

Night thickens over the forest. They remain on the stone ledge, a tiny platform where the trail narrows and the trees open a patch of sky. Below — darkness, the murmur of a creek, the smell of wet pine.

He feels the familiar heat rising from his stomach, and in that instant, the familiar pathway in his mind ignites on its own: Daryl sets aside the map, approaches, tugs at his jacket, cigarette smoke mixing with the scent of skin and damp fabric; a heavy hand lands on the back of his head, fingers gripping his hair. His body knows this weight — the same weight that makes his heart drop, thighs trembling slightly on their own.

Daryl leans, flips him over, hot breath in his ear, low voice "Don’t move."

Strong hands slide under the jacket, the cold buckle of the belt clicks against his lower back, warm fingers spread across his skin, roughly pushing him forward.

Rick almost feels it in his imagination: the rough texture of denim, another’s thigh pressing like a wedge, the smell of forest and tobacco — and the hot pressure between his shoulder blades, the way he’s held by the hips. He breathes deeper, eyelids quivering.

Daryl jerks the belt off, shifts the fabric, slides a hand down. Skin burns from the contrast — his hands and the air. Rough, jagged rhythm, their bodies, the earth under their knees, breath catching. He hears his own voice — a moan he doesn’t let out. Everything as before, painfully familiar.

For a second, Rick even feels his body respond: stomach tightening, back warming. Inside, the usual wave spreads — arousal, readiness, heat low, muscles tense as if already prepared to receive.

But in reality, Daryl puts the map away in his pocket, sits with his back to a tree, rummages in his backpack and pulls out a can. No movement toward him, no hint. Only fatigue, focus, and that same work rhythm.

Rick swallows. The fantasy collapses like a house of cards. In its place remains only emptiness, oddly contrasting with the tightness in his pants, awkwardness, and a slight chill under his ribs. He turns away, as if adjusting his jacket.

They lay out their sleeping bags: two khaki patches on the wet ground. Half a meter of air between them. Daryl lies on his side toward the forest, using his jacket as a pillow, eyes closed.

Rick lies on his back, looking at the black sky between the branches. The moon hides behind clouds. He hears Daryl’s breath, even, slow. And each breath pulls him toward him — like a reminder that he’s here, alive, real, near.

At some point, Rick turns slightly onto his side, back to Daryl. He puts a hand under his cheek, so his exhale isn’t heard. Inside, the unsaid still hums, but above it — the cold night, the forest, wet earth, the rustle of wind.

He thinks: maybe this is better for both. No questions, no obligations.

Chapter Text

Rick wakes to a rustle. At first it sounds like rain or an animal, but the sound is even, measured. He opens his eyes slightly and realizes: Daryl is already up. His silhouette, slightly bent over the rocks, folds kindling, spreads the embers. A spark—brief, orange—flies, and the flame seems born clean, without smoke.

He knows this hunting trick—dry pine cores, wood shavings thin as hair, make a fire smoke far less. Daryl moves automatically, precise and quick. He’s already gone down to the creek, filled a bottle. He moves silently, like a predator that knows every stone and scent within a mile.

It’s the coldest hour of the day: the sun is just stretching over the horizon, breath rising in clouds. And Daryl—in a single thin T-shirt. Grey cotton sleeves hug his shoulders and chest, muscles playing under the skin as he works with his hands. Every time the same—Rick thinks he’ll get used to it, then still notices. He catches himself thinking he’s glad to wake up right now, before Daryl dresses: he can watch without distraction, like a living sculpture carved from strength and motion.

And in this moment Daryl straightens, stretches, and finally pulls on a hoodie, then a jacket—movements habitual, mundane, and Rick forces himself away from the sight, back to the reality of the cold morning.

He sits down, rolls up the sleeping bag and mat, pulls two energy bars and a small coffee brick from his backpack.

— I’ve got bars.

— Nah, — Daryl doesn’t even look back, just shakes his head and pulls a strip of jerky from the bag, — that’s enough for me.

Rick isn’t surprised—over these days he’s clearly understood: Dixon has his routines, built over years. Everything he does is practical, rehearsed, without excess. Looks like he’s always ready for a trip like this.

The coffee boils quickly—a small stream hissing into the cold air. Rick pours the hot liquid into a cup, hands it to Daryl. He takes it, nods thanks, says nothing. A few minutes pass—only the smell of coffee, the quiet crackle of the nearly smokeless fire, and wet rock underfoot. No jokes about a “unskippable breakfast.”

Distant peaks drown in fog, breath rising in clouds—two puffs that dissolve immediately into grey air.

The radio connection is broken, fragments of words slipping through static. Rick presses the device to his ear, holds the button, catches snippets. Sergeants reply almost immediately: they’re up, getting ready. They see Rick’s marks. Everything’s okay.

Daryl already puts away his cup, scatters the embers with his foot. Stones hiss as he pours out the remaining water—no trace, no smoke. He quickly packs: sleeping bag, dishes, checks straps, puts used shavings in a bag to leave no traces. Rick notices how streamlined it all is, no fuss; he himself has fewer concerns—just the thermos and sleeping spot.

They climb higher. Grey morning wraps the hill. Fog and wet grass cling to boots, catch on pant legs. Stones glisten as if just washed—water trickles into cracks, moss slides under soles. Cold and damp. Air between the trees is muffled, like in a closed room.

Daryl walks ahead—confident, like a guide sensing the route not with eyes but instinct. His movements precise, economical: stepping around slick rocks, checking the ground’s softness, listening to the wind. Rick follows, keeping the rhythm. They don’t speak, but their steps are synchronized—as if a shared pulse.

They round the ridge and descend; here, there’s no connection with anyone at all, but Rick knows—signal will return when the others come down.

Beyond this hill—the group’s first campsite. The ground trampled, branches broken, ash scattered on rocks—they didn’t hide it. Daryl crouches, touching the earth as if reading a book. He studies the tracks with his eyes, notes patches of dirt on stones. His calm almost tangible—as if he peers into the past. Rick stays silent, watching how this man, used to the forest, parts the morning haze and reads signs invisible to Rick.

— Thirteen people. Everything checks out. But something…

Rick nods but doesn’t get a chance to speak—Daryl suddenly freezes. He lifts his head as if listening for something and abruptly changes direction. Eyes on the ground, he glides over wet grass, checking every step. Ten meters. Twenty. Thirty. Silence around thick as wet moss.

— Rick!

Daryl’s voice, low but clipped, makes Rick speed up. He shifts into an almost run, sliding down the slope. Daryl stands, slightly bent, near a hole between the roots of an old tree.

A boy’s body. Face grey, eyes staring at the sky, wet hair plastered to his forehead. Point-blank shot: gunpowder burn on the collar, blood a dark stain. The boy—seventeen, maybe twenty.

Cold, damp air clogs his throat. Rick grabs the radio, flips the switch. Static crackle, hiss, as if someone drags a cord through water.

— Base, Grimes. One body. Over.

Only static. He reaches the second group—and finally hears them. He transmits briefly, muted, trying to keep his voice even.

Sergeants confirm: understood, will return to the hilltop, try to contact base.

Rick cuts the connection, tucks the radio in his pocket, looks at Daryl. He’s already inspected everything, now crouches by the body.

— They didn’t kill him here, — Daryl says quietly, as if to himself, — dragged him from the campsite.

Rick nods silently, feeling cold inside. The kidnappers killed one of the boys—and now it’s no longer just an abduction. The air thickens; the forest seems to close in.

They walk for several more hours. The forest doesn’t change: same dark trunks, wet stones, heavy scent of pine and rot. Fog seems not to thin, only thickens, slipping between trees. Every step feels sticky in the boots; low-hanging branches shake cold drops onto shoulders. Sun still somewhere behind grey haze, unseen, yet air remains cold. No bird songs, no small animal sounds—the forest seems to hold its breath.

Rick follows Daryl, trying to keep his pace. His head hums from the silence and fatigue, and a dull ache has settled in his muscles. He snaps out of the monotonous rhythm only when he notices Daryl slowing down. First barely noticeable, then stopping altogether. He stands, slightly bent, like a taut string, gaze fixed ahead.

Rick immediately steps closer. No tracking skills needed here: right on the rough bark of the nearest tree—a bloodstain, dark, spreading along the fibers.

Daryl carefully steps off the trail, moving sideways. Rick follows, checking every step. Only a few meters—and between the bushes they find another body.

A boy the same age. Lying on his side, like a discarded doll. Jacket open, point-blank shot again, this time just above the heart.

Rick feels his throat go dry. Daryl slowly scans the perimeter, crouches, fingers brushing the ground. His eyes—like steel, no tremor, no words; hair darkened by moisture. The forest around seems even gloomier, drops on branches ringing like needles.

Rick grabs the radio again. Crackle, hiss, a short whistle—no base, and there won’t be any. He switches to the sergeants.

— Second, — he says shortly, in an even voice. — Another body. Point-blank shot. Inform the base. Need support. Over.

The reply comes delayed. Heavy breathing, wind noise. “Understood. Doing what we can.”

Rick puts away the radio, looks at Daryl. He doesn’t rise, still bent over the ground, as if searching for an invisible sign. His posture is tense anger and focus.

— This time they rushed, — he finally says. — Didn’t even bother dragging him from the group. He walked a few meters himself and fell. They didn’t even check him—no trace nearby.

Rick nods, feeling his own body grow heavier. With each body found, the abduction increasingly feels like a hunt, and someone is moving ahead, shooting without hesitation.

The slope climbs, but the forest doesn’t change: the same wet pine, the same smell of damp earth. Time feels sticky—Rick catches himself unable to remember how long they’ve been moving: an hour? two? five? Only the rare glance at a watch confirms—several hours passed, and the sun leans toward the horizon, though hidden behind grey haze. Fog, as if on command, begins to move, filling the valleys with dense white tongues.

Daryl moves ahead; shoulders tense. Rick keeps the rhythm, or thinks he does. Every minute presses down. Cold moisture has seeped through his jacket; hands stiffen, fingers clutch the backpack straps to keep from loosening. Occasionally he catches himself watching Daryl again: how he navigates the terrain smoothly, glides between boulders without breaking branches, without rustle. But after two bodies, this admiration no longer warms—it only reminds him that Daryl is used to this.

Suddenly Daryl signals—a sharp, almost imperceptible gesture, palm down. Rick freezes instantly. Daryl crouches, eyes sliding over the ground.

— Tracks, — he whispers. — They went faster here. And…

He doesn’t finish—already moving sideways, then down the slope, almost crawling. Rick follows, senses sharpened.

A few meters later it becomes clear: right on the trail lies a third body. Third boy. Shot—again point-blank, straight into the center of the chest, blood pooled before it even darkens.

Rick stands over him, feeling his heart thump loudly in his temples. Daryl crouches beside, fingers brushing the earth. Footprints—fresh, deep. Above on branches—signs of hurried activity: broken twigs, worn bark. The signs so clear even Rick sees them.

He grabs the radio. Crackle again. No base connection, he doesn’t even try—calls the deputies directly:

— Third body. Right on the tracks. Point-blank shot. Relay to base as you can. We continue the pursuit. Waiting for air support response. Over.

Reply—short, strained: “Understood.”

Rick puts away the radio. Looks at Daryl: he’s up now, scanning the area, squinting, focused.

— In an hour, the sun will go, — he says. — Night will bring fog and rain. We can catch them, but it’ll be a midnight meeting on their territory—eight against two and two hostages in the dark. We need to camp.

Rick nods:

— We’ll get as close as possible.

Evening thickens unnoticed, and grey light turns nearly blue. Below, the forest compresses into a solid shadow, only the tree tops visible as black teeth.

They climb the mountain, choosing a path with fewer bushes and rocks. Air sharpens, colder, wind blowing fog aside, opening the slopes. Already long dark, when Daryl finally finds a narrow terrace—a strip of stone hanging over a ravine. From it, the slope and the trail they came are visible. Beyond—forest rolling into black darkness.

Rick sets down his backpack on the stone. Legs throb, shoulders burn from fatigue, fingers cramp from damp and cold. He looks down into darkness, where among the trunks lies the third boy, feeling the cold creep inside. Too many deaths in one day, forest too dense. Wind tugs hair at his temples, the smell of metal and damp mixes with the iron tang of blood lingering in his nose.

Rocks, fire in a hollow—Daryl sets it up again, smoke barely rising, lays out two cans of food on the stone. The smell of stew and smoked meat mingles with the forest.

They sit almost side by side, cans in hand. Daryl finally speaks:

— What do you think?

Rick looks at the small flame:

— Three bodies. Either scattered to distract, or getting rid of ballast.

— Killings precise, measured, not random. Almost ritualistic, — Daryl stares into dark distance, poking at the can with a fork.

Rick moves a little lower, closer to the fire and Daryl. He feels the warmth and tension in his own muscles. The fire reflects in his eyes.

He catches himself thinking: despite the terrible day, despite fatigue, blood, and cold—he’s drawn to him, to Daryl.

He cautiously brushes his thigh against Daryl’s. Words get stuck in his throat. The silence between them thickens like resin. And Daryl doesn’t pull away—he just keeps watching the flames.

Rick thinks: if something happens—it’s not a game, not about who’s right. It’s about being alive, about him not stepping back from his words. About the fact that there’s still something human between them.

Rick turns and slowly kisses Daryl. He freezes, as if they’re back in that day, in the station, when Rick risked the first time. And he almost expects—he’ll push away, turn away… but it doesn’t happen. Daryl responds to the kiss.

At first cautious, as if tasting something he hadn’t allowed himself for a long time. A slow, hesitant kiss, with both doubt and acknowledgment. Then suddenly something ignites—Rick feels Daryl’s lips crush his, breath turning harsh, hot, teeth brushing. In a second, they’re literally biting into each other, greedily, as if starved for a long time.

Daryl lifts him by the jacket collar and pushes him back. Not roughly, but firmly—toward the nearest tree trunk. Rick doesn’t have time to think before his back hits the rough bark.

One hand still gripping the jacket, the other finds the belt buckle, pulling his pants down. But his gaze never leaves Rick’s face, as if wanting to make sure every second is right. He deliberately licks his fingers slowly, so Rick sees every movement, hears every wet sound. Not a display of power, not mockery—it’s a promise: it won’t be like last time. The guilt for what happened burns in Daryl’s eyes, and now it’s an apology.

Fingers enter slowly, one, then the second, stretching him, seeking sensitive spots. Rick holds back a moan, pressing his lips to Daryl’s shoulder so the sound won’t escape. His body, exhausted from the day but starved, responds violently—muscles twitch, the ring clenches, every finger stroke hits nerves, making his hips quiver. His cock is already hard, and each second of anticipation makes it sharper, sweeter, more painful.

And when Daryl enters, Rick almost loses control of his own mind—so tight, so deep, his vision darkens. He bites his lip to the point of bleeding but knows he cannot scream. His breath comes in ragged, almost silent gasps, hanging on Daryl’s shoulders, feeling him hold his full weight. The tree trunk presses into his shoulder blades, rough even through layers of clothing, but it doesn’t matter. Only what matters is Daryl inside, the heavy, sweet-painful thrusts—first measured, then faster, deeper.

Each thrust hits like a hammer inside, spreading tremors through his stomach. Rick clings to Daryl’s back, scratching the jacket with his nails to keep from moaning. Cock trapped between bodies, sliding with each thrust, rubbing against the stomach, each movement pushing him toward the edge. But he holds on, teeth clenched, feeling his body burn from within.

Daryl doesn’t avert his gaze. Their foreheads nearly touch, breath hot, no more kisses. Rick reaches once, but Daryl tilts his head aside, continuing with the same jerky insistence. It hurts, but there’s truth here, and Rick no longer resists.

The rhythm breaks, speeds up, Daryl’s hips hit so hard the tree behind Rick creaks. He trembles all over, can’t think, only feel—the tight sliding, pressure, how he’s held by the hips, not allowed to collapse. He stifles screams, only ragged air escapes through clenched teeth.

And Daryl’s thrusts become even harsher, breath turning into a low growl—he finally stops looking at Rick, eyes lowered to the space between them. Rick feels it—soon they’ll both break, and it won’t matter what’s around, what the forest might hear. Only that he’s here, pressed, completely in the hands of the beast he gives himself to.

Thrusts get sharper, but Rick keeps holding back—no screams, lips pressed, breath in short, broken gasps, hips bouncing with each hit, cock tightly trapped, each movement stretching and pressing simultaneously.

When release approaches, Rick feels the tension building unbearably in his stomach, unable to hold it inside. But even as he comes, he doesn’t scream—he just clutches Daryl’s shoulders painfully, keeping the forest’s silence.

Daryl growls low in response but restrains himself too, making a last powerful thrust, filling Rick completely. His hands don’t let go, hips keep moving, asserting dominance. Rick feels it spilling down his thigh, the air thick with their heat, sweat, and scent.

Rick feels the full scale of closeness—the pressure, wetness, heat, smells, vibration of each motion. Daryl finally slows, gradually stops, but still presses, half holding Rick on him. They stand like that, breathing heavily, almost motionless, surrounded by the forest’s silence.

Rick leans back slightly to breathe, feeling his body still pulsing from each thrust, every muscle trembling. Daryl casts him one quick glance, as if checking that everything’s okay, and lets go. Nothing more—he steps back, adjusts clothes, returns attention to the fire. Their eyes don’t meet, and Rick reminds himself he suggested this—no tenderness, no words. Just sex with the beast.

Night slowly covers the camp. The wind barely stirs leaves, dark sky hangs over trees, and the scent of fire, damp forest, and their bodies mixes into a thick, rich aroma. They unroll sleeping bags on the ground, in the dim light among trees and faint fire. Each occupied with his own tasks, no words, but the other’s presence feels constant, unshakable.

Rick lays down, body gradually releasing tension, but deep down remains the familiar, pulling ache—sweet, profound, the one left by Daryl. It burns and soothes at once, like a reminder: he’s not alone, and this closeness is real, not an illusion. Every muscle movement, every taut nerve still echoes inside, but now it’s not anxiety—it’s confirmation that he’s alive, that he feels, that he’s safe, if only for now.

Daryl settles slightly apart, back to Rick—face to the open trail, breathing even, confident. Their bodies no longer touch, but the warmth and heaviness of the act remain in the air and in Rick’s muscles. He closes his eyes and for the first time in a long while sees no blood, no scars, no night terrors. Only darkness, fire warmth, dense air, damp grass—and residual ache, sweet and familiar, like after a real encounter with a living person, with someone he needs.

With this inner silence, with this strange relief, with this heavy, sweet sense of fullness, Rick finally lets go of the day. Breathing slows, eyelids heavy. The forest is silent, and he sinks into sleep—deep, calm, without visions, without worries, with a single thought: here, nearby, someone holds his reality, and that is enough.

Chapter Text

Rick wakes to a strange silence.

The dim light of dawn filters through the canopy, the gray sky still without color. He reaches out toward the empty sleeping bag beside him and realizes Daryl is gone.

His heart jerks, heavy. Rick sits up, staring into the darkness between the trees, listening. Wind drives cold currents, the roar of water below—and nothing else.

Only when the silhouette returns, merging with fog and driftwood, does Rick let out a breath. Daryl steps onto the stone ledge without a sound and lights a cigarette right away, as if he had been waiting for the chance.

— Where did you go? — Rick’s voice comes out harsher than he meant.

Daryl squats, fiddling with the new fire, cigarette clamped between his teeth.

— Scouting.

— We agreed you wouldn’t do anything alone.

— Nothing worth warning you about, — he doesn’t lift his eyes. — Just recon. Alone’s fast and quiet. Not worth your sleep.

Rick stays silent, only watching Daryl unseal a can, draw a knife. In the end, he realizes Daryl won’t speak unless forced, so he gives the order:

— Report.

— Girl’s in on it. Not a hostage, — Daryl looks at him and passes over the opened can. — Told you—dirtier than it looks. They’re tired, don’t know we’re right behind. Want to linger, arguing over the last guy. Now’s the time to hit.

They eat breakfast on the wet ground. The metallic taste of the cans cuts through the damp smell. They eat in haste—straight from tin, by the stones, where the fire still smolders. The wind tears the last shreds of fog, and dawn spreads a gray light down the slopes.

— How long were you there?

— Half an hour.

Rick listens, nods. At that moment the radio crackles alive: static, a clipped signal, then a voice—raspy, steady.

— Backup en route. Bird over you in ten minutes. Send position.

No time left to be angry at Dixon’s twisted sense of right, at his habit of deciding alone. Fingers already reach for the map, the other hand pressing the radio button.

The sky brightens. Ten minutes.

Rick dictates the coordinates quickly, checks the map, then catches Daryl’s look. No nod, no scowl—just a squint, and the meaning’s clear: two men with pistols aren’t a strike team.

— We try to pull the hostage, — Rick states.

They abandon the camp as is, moving down to a point with sight of the trail. The forest still damp, smelling of wet pine, branches heavy with droplets. Daryl leads him by his dark path, and Rick thinks this is exactly what they need now—that they already know safe routes. Dixon did it right, damn him.

Rick feels every shift of his shoulders—no pack, yet muscles thrum after two days on foot, anger and exhaustion grinding each other down. Daryl brings him close to the tents, and there they wait.

— Here, — Daryl whispers without sound, crouched low, eyes flicking through the gaps. Rick halts beside him, hand on the Python’s grip. His heart pounds, but he doesn’t move—their job isn’t to play heroes.

When the chopper’s roar breaks the dawn, the whole slope trembles. The forest comes alive: crows burst upward; branches bow under rotor wash—the kidnappers spill onto the clearing. Daryl slashes the tent wall with his knife in a blink, drags the boy inside into the brush, pins him with a knee, hand over his mouth. Rick covers his back.

SWAT moves sharp, tight, cutting through the fog. Shots crack muffled, one, then another. Short commands, gray silhouettes slicing the morning. Rick and Daryl stay aside, holding their sector like shadows. All that’s asked of them is to keep the hostage breathing.

Rick catches himself not blinking: every muscle strung tight, ready to snap.

Minutes—or an eternity—later, figures flash in the gaps. Operatives lead a captive, then two more, then more. Rick exhales, lungs loosening for the first time that morning. The radio crackles: confirmation of success.

Their hostage—a thin kid, wrists bound, eyes empty. He doesn’t even register it’s over until Daryl cuts the rope.

— You’re free, — he throws flatly.

Rick watches SWAT march kidnappers to the helicopter, and only then releases the Python’s trigger, realizing his fingers locked stiff.

***

The smell of coffee, paper dust, cheap cleaner—familiar, steady. The station’s noises—after the rotors’ roar on the flight back—feel almost like silence.

Daryl bends over forms, filling them with rough but sure handwriting, line after line, without pause: incident report, arrest record, evidence inventory…

Rick sits across from him, shuffling the same stack, only his lines break off—letters stumble, as if he trips over every word. Place of Arrest… Number of Detainees… Risk Level…

He stalls at the line Case Disposition Recommendation. Fingers freeze on the pen.

What now?

The nine will be sent under guard. The hostage—to the hospital, maybe protection. The papers will be filed, stacked, sent to prosecution.

Daryl will finish his paperwork and drive home.

And him? He’ll be back in this office tomorrow. Back to work, back to acting like nothing happened. Like they’re just two armed men assigned side by side.

Rick drops the pen, looks at Daryl again. He dots the last word, straightens, reads over, as if nothing weighs on him at all, as if it’s all routine—two days of mountain pursuit, or sex without strings by a campfire. And inside Rick something scratches, catches, like a wad of fur stuck in a gear.

He knows tomorrow it resets; he’ll be the man who stands straight, the one who holds the line of law. But law won’t explain what to do with this pressure inside, with the way his body remembers Daryl’s touch, breath, stare—and the way his heart hammers when Daryl doesn’t even look his way.

Rick inhales, slow, trying to shove it down. But every thought of Daryl arranges itself in line, drawn to him. Memory clings to the misty morning, the night by fire, the breath, the hands. To the way Daryl seemed to understand him without words. Rick catches himself afraid: afraid to admit that every “right” choice is paid for with this inner fracture. And the more he resists, the tighter it grips.

He wants to say something, ask, restore order. But the tongue won’t move. Again, his eyes fall on Daryl, calm, steady, as if no war lives in him at all.

And if he makes a move again—then what?

Rick clenches fists on his knees, feeling the tremor in his fingers. Tomorrow will be tomorrow. But tonight… tonight he can’t do anything. He won’t shake Daryl from his head.

Rick leans closer to the sheet, but all he sees is a smear spreading in the corner of the paper from his damp palm.

The office smells of paper, coffee, and tobacco smoke; now every scent feels personal, too close. He keeps looking at Daryl: sitting upright, shoulders squared, elbows on the table, seeming as if nothing is happening, though inside Rick everything burns. That distant gaze, that posture, those fingers holding the cigarette…

His heart races. He realizes he can no longer remain just an observer. With every passing second, the thought sharpens: he wants him, as if last night wasn’t just insufficient, but rather—like it had ignited a fire only stronger.

Rick takes a breath, gathers his courage, and he’s actually good in moments like this—when it’s needed, his voice doesn’t falter, doesn’t betray him. He simply says it in the quiet of the office:

— Wanna come over?

***

Daryl closes the door behind them, and Rick barely has time to inhale — he’s already being shoved across the hallway into the living room, toward the couch. Rick instinctively tries to help, fingers reaching for Daryl’s belt buckle, as if trying to hold onto even a sliver of control, but Daryl pushes his hands back, knee pressing his thigh to the couch’s back, leaving him no room to move.

— Stop, sheriff, — Daryl growls, leaning so close that his hot breath scorches Rick’s ear.

The words cut like a sentence, and yet ignite inside him hotter than fire. Rick lets out a strangled moan — because the last lever of power has been ripped from his hands. His arousal responds instantly: the more Daryl takes away, the higher the wave flooding his body.

Rough, heavy hands move fast, deliberate. First, a sharp tug removes his jacket, yanking the shirt over his head, then the T‑shirt — the fabric almost tears at the collar. The cold air of the room brushes against Rick’s hot skin; he flinches, but Daryl keeps moving, relentless — undoing the belt, ripping the zipper. Not a second is given for Rick to touch anything himself. Pants drop from his hips, sliding down with the underwear. His body is exposed, bare, and he realizes: now he’s completely at the mercy of the beast.

Daryl doesn’t let him participate, holding his wrists pinned to the couch with one hand while moving on: shrugging off his own jacket, pulling the hoodie and T‑shirt over his head, revealing a scarred, muscular chest. Then he yanks down his jeans; boots hit the floor with a dull thud, and Rick sees his cock already hard, dark, tense, glistening with a bead at the tip. All he can do is stand, listen to his breathing, feel his heartbeat pounding, and watch his arousal swell with every stolen ounce of control.

Daryl doesn’t turn Rick around, doesn’t avert his gaze — he presses closer, spreads his legs with a palm, urging him fully open. Wet fingers slide in sharply. One move. Then another. The tight flesh accepts easily; muscles already ready, stretching themselves. Rick lets out a husky moan, head falling back onto the couch. Each thrust of fingers sends a sweet heat flooding his stomach.

— More… — he pleads.

Daryl growls low, pulling his fingers out, lifting one of Rick’s legs under the knee, and without pause, drives his cock into him.

Rick’s body arches, mouth opening silently. The burning, stretching pain of sudden entry turns into an avalanche — muscles resist, clench, then pulse in rhythm, taking him. Each movement slices from within while giving a sweetness that buckles his legs.

Wet sounds tear through the quiet. The couch shakes under the force, thrusts sharp, fast. Rick almost lies back on the high couch back, hips thrusting up with every hard drive. He’s gripped, driven, only moaning huskily, thinking of nothing else.

The thrusts grow feral, hot flesh pounding inside without respite. Pain and pleasure merge: muscles ache, burn, yet the entire body trembles in delight. The scent of their bodies hangs thick in the air. When the tension peaks, Rick explodes — cock jerking, cum streaking across his stomach and chest. The orgasm rewrites the pain, erases it, leaving only wild, sweet emptiness. He cries out, spine arching, muscles clenching, his whole body shaking in convulsions.

Daryl continues, growling lower, thrusting to the limit. And finally, he shatters himself — throwing his head back, hitting deep with force, burying himself completely, hot seed filling Rick’s depths while Rick’s muscles still contract, greedily squeezing him.

Daryl holds him like that for a few more seconds, not letting go, hips still jerking in tiny pushes as if wringing out the last remnants of pleasure.

Then Daryl finally stops, releasing Rick’s thigh. He stands over him, leaning on his hands, still heavy, wet, breathing low and ragged. His gaze sweeps over Rick’s face, then down — to the smeared chest, contracting stomach, calming cock.

Rick lies half on the couch back, breathing hard, feeling the warmth run out, staining the upholstery, leaving sticky trails. He can barely stand, can’t even move his fingers — everything’s been given over in these days, everything drained. Eyes half-open, gaze blurred, as if surfacing just now from fire.

— Where the hell do you… get all that strength? — he breathes, hoarse, not even lifting his head.

He says it and immediately worries: is this interference again? He feels everything in Daryl “growing” from the past, from blood and grime. But can they even go without speaking of anything but work? He lifts his head slightly and sees the scar — the one shaped by his own hands. No stitches now, of course, but the mark is still clear, pink in rebellion, uneven.

Daryl steps back, still catching his breath, bending to pick up his jeans from the floor. He pauses for a second, lifts his gaze — in those eyes, no smugness, no smile, no anger. Only the familiar strain, as if Rick’s question struck too deeply, and Rick already knows how that pain will sound.

— I don’t stay down, — Daryl says, as if through effort, fastening his belt.

He says nothing more. For a while, there is only the rustle of clothing and Rick moving around the couch — no strength to go to the bathroom right now, or worry about covering himself. Down below it aches, stings, but it’s not just pain: the pulse reminds him of how everything just burned, tore, how the wave consumed every cell. Muscles twitch, contracting into emptiness, as if Daryl is still inside, and the sweet weight spreads across his stomach.

Daryl stops, drags the jacket off the chair, inhales sharply, looks at the floor:

— I’m not needed here anymore, — he says. — Time for me to go.

Not needed.

Rick wants to laugh, to shout something sharp, but doesn’t allow even a faint smirk — just stares at the ceiling, hoping not to lose his mind.

Daryl seems to understand what he said. No longer waiting for a reply, he throws on his jacket, turns, and leaves.

Another slam of the door, engine roaring, fading into the distance.

Rick just collapses onto the couch. His body still shakes, burned by passion, drained to the limit. Down below the pain is sweet, alive, keeping him in reality without despair. And yet, the stronger the pulse of this physical memory, the sharper the sense of something else — the emptiness inside, where Daryl just was.

But despite that, when he falls asleep right there, nightmares do not trouble him.

Chapter Text

Morning begins as usual — maybe too usual.
The coffee smells bitter — not awakening, but wearying. The phone trembles on the edge of the table with notifications, but none of them matter.
Another day without him.

Rick signs reports, checks cases, scrawls his name under lines he barely reads — everything’s clear, everything’s right. The station is quiet; only the air conditioner hums, and someone laughs now and then by the coffee machine.
Papers rustle, stack neatly, calls come on schedule, shifts change, the town keeps living its ordinary life. Everything runs as it should.
Only now, everything runs without him.

And inside — there’s a pull of emptiness. Not noisy, not painful, just a precise, measured void in the rhythm that once had another breath beside it.
Two days in the woods — the scent of pine, the smoke of a campfire, a hoarse voice, a burning body; two days when everything, from breathing to movement, was in unison — and now he’s alone again. A different kind of silence.

Now the silence of the station rings.
Colleagues talk, the dispatcher takes calls, someone argues over the radio — and all of it sounds exaggeratedly loud, as if the world itself is trying to drown out the pauses left after someone else’s voice.

By noon, Rick catches himself reaching for his phone again.
He scrolls through the contact list without reading names.
His finger stops on Dixon.
Nothing happens after that — no call, no message. The screen just goes dark.

That evening at home, the kettle wheezes on the stove, the TV mutters in the background.
Rick sits at the kitchen table, leaning on his elbows, staring into nothing — and at some point he realizes he’s listening. Not to the news, not to the city outside, but to the air around the house.
Listening — for an engine’s rumble, for footsteps on the porch.

Once, it had happened — no call, no job. Rick doesn’t want to cling to that hope, but the picture still stands sharp before his eyes: the door thrown open to the night, Dixon on the threshold, alive, wet, wild, like a storm, with that hungry look — Damn near lost my mind without you.

A dull sound rolls somewhere outside — for a moment it even seems like a motorcycle.
He freezes, listening.
But no. Just a neighbor leaving his driveway.

Not waiting, he tells himself. Just listening.

***

The next morning at the station, the duty sergeant says in passing:
— By the way, heard Dixon’s helping out in Cisco. Took down a smuggler mid-run. Alone, as usual.
Rick looks up.
— Alone, — he repeats, tasting the word.
— Yeah. Who’d doubt it. Man’s got no fear — but hell, no rules either, — the sergeant grins. — A real pain for paperwork.
Rick nods and turns back to his files. The sergeant leaves, not noticing how Rick keeps staring at one spot.

Everything simple. Everything ordinary.
Alone — like a sentence.

Daryl’s always like that — acting untethered, unbound. As if there’s no one behind him, as if this world’s just a layover stop.
Cisco. Murray. Another county, another job, other people.

Something clicks inside — like an old negative sliding into place.
Rick opens the incident brief but sees no words — only a dusty road, motels, another's beds, cheap sheets, scattered light. Other bodies under those strong hands. No faces — just skin, heat, the sound of ragged breathing, like theirs once was...

Everything he forbids himself to imagine flashes up at once, like frames that can’t be cut.
And in that vision there’s no anger — only tight, revived jealousy, old but breathing again.

He slams the folder shut.

***

Two days later, a new call comes in. Nothing serious — tracks by a burned-out hangar, possible smuggling, maybe just rumors. A tracker would’ve come in handy, though there’s no official reason to call one.
Rick flips through his phonebook, his finger stopping on a familiar name.
He dials before he can think what he’ll say.

— You callin’, must be serious? — the voice is rough, no greeting.
— Not exactly. Need you to take a look.

Dusk falls fast. Cold hills, wet grass, a rusted hangar at the edge of a back road, the air smelling of iron and old gasoline.
Daryl shows up by evening — he hadn’t hurried. Not on the bike, but in the Hilux — a truck you can’t rush by definition. The same man, the same squint, only the look in his eyes is different — guarded, as if bracing for a hit. Not open, not distant — defensive.
Maybe he’s been busy with work in Murray. Or maybe not with work at all. Rick can’t think about that — not now, not with him this close.

They work like nothing ever happened: in sync, quick, clean. A few words, a glance, a movement — and they’re on the same page without saying a thing. The silence doesn’t weigh on them; it becomes part of their breathing, part of the same rhythm.

Rick catches himself staring again. Not just because Daryl’s the best tracker he knows. But because, in that silence, his presence feels alive — tangible, grounded, real even across the space Rick won’t cross. And there’s a certain beauty in that — not of the face or the body, but of sheer precision of being.

Daryl doesn’t fidget, doesn’t waste motion. Every action has weight, every step its reason. When he works, there’s no room for emotion — only focus. And Rick knows: that restraint doesn’t come from peace, but from survival. What in another man would’ve been a gift, in him is forged from cruelty and pain, from a past where one mistake could’ve meant death — and that makes him all the more beautiful.

It’s not a soft beauty, not an easy one — it’s rough-edged, worn by time. There’s something in it that aches: strength dug out of dirt, and quiet, stubborn endurance.

They move along the wall where the gate once was. The metal’s peeling, the air smells of smoke; the ground’s strewn with black flakes of ash mixed with wet soil. Rick sweeps his flashlight over the concrete, a pile of rags in the corner, tire marks fading into the mud.

— Someone’s been here lately, — Daryl says quietly. He crouches, touches the ground, squints. — But not smugglers. Truck was parked here. And a tractor. See? — He traces an arc in the mud with his finger, barely glancing at Rick. — Farm equipment. Maybe locals dumpin’ old junk.

Rick looks up at the charred beams. A piece of rusted chain hangs from above, swaying in the wind, the sound like a heartbeat — dull, slow.
— Guess I dragged you out for nothing, — he says.

Daryl doesn’t answer right away. He straightens, brushes off his hands.
— Better that than too late.

They circle the hangar’s perimeter. Beyond it lies a field choked with burdock and weeds. At the edge, torn bags and old tires lie scattered. Boot prints — but not the kind cops look for: wide, heavy, caked with old mud.
— Scrap collector, — Daryl mutters. — One man, maybe two. Took what they could.

He moves with the same easy confidence as in the woods, as if seeing more than the light reveals. Rick follows, the familiar tension creeping back — in their pace, their silence, in every shared step that feels like memory.

By the time they reach the back wall, it’s clear: the case is empty. No smuggling, no cargo, no equipment — just the smell of wet ash, rust, and last year’s grass.
— Nothin’ to see here, — Daryl says at last.

Rick switches off the flashlight. The dark instantly grows colder, wrapping around them. For a few seconds, they just stand there. The wind rustles over a sheet of metal.

— Thanks for coming anyway, — Rick says quietly.
— You didn’t call about a hangar, — Daryl answers without looking at him. — You knew there was nothing here.

Rick says nothing. He can’t lie to him.
— Maybe not, — he says finally. — I just wanted…
— To make sure I’d answer?

The tone isn’t mocking — just tired. The words fall between them and stay there, heavy as stones.
— Yeah, — Rick says.

Daryl lets out a long breath, like he’s pushing out the last of the tension with it. He heads toward the trucks, lights a cigarette. The pickup’s headlights cut across his profile — sharp, worn. Maybe he really had been working all day in another county.

He shakes his head, gives a small, tired half-smile, no bitterness in it.
— You still ain’t lettin’ go, sheriff.

Rick doesn’t know what to say. He’s stopped expecting Daryl to come back or stay — he knows that’s not how this works — but he can’t stop hoping, stupidly, like some kid.

By the time they reach the road, the sky’s gone dark for good. Car lights flicker in the distance on the highway. Rick walks slower than he needs to, like trying to stretch the way.
— Where you staying?
Daryl glances from under his brow, wary.
— What’s it matter?
— Motel? — Rick answers with a question of his own.
— Where else.

The words are flat, no challenge in them. But Rick only needs the image — an empty room, cheap sheets, footsteps in the bathroom. He turns away so it doesn’t show that he pictured it too clearly.

He wants, with a kind of quiet madness, to ask Daryl over again, to give in to him, to feel that moment when control slips — to feel the beast he craves. But he doesn’t. Not out of fear — because he knows too damn well what comes next.

He knows Daryl could ask. Just say, let’s go, no explanations. Rick would follow — not asking where — and leave when he could stand again. But Daryl doesn’t ask. Maybe out of pride. Maybe because he already has someone to be with.

Daryl flicks the cigarette away and climbs into the Hilux. The door shuts quick, clean. The engine growls; headlights flare against the hangar’s burnt wall, then turn, crunching gravel, fading over the hill.

Rick stands in the dark until the last glimmer of light dies out. The air smells of ash and emptiness. He walks to his car slowly, the hum of the truck’s engine still vibrating somewhere under his skin.

And only when he sits behind the wheel does he admit it — he hadn’t been looking for anything. No tracks, no case. He just wanted to hear it again — a step, a voice, a breath — the man he can’t seem to let go of.

The road back feels longer than before. Rick drives slow, headlights scraping the edge of the shoulder. The rain’s starting again, light and sticky. The wipers scrape the glass, marking time, and with each pass the silence in the cab grows heavier.

He catches himself waiting for a call that won’t come. For headlights in the mirror, for that engine's sound — familiar, low, throaty — catching up on the bend.

But nothing happens.

At home he sets the kettle on, flips on the light over the sink. The kitchen smells of dust and old wood. He just sits there, warming his hands on the mug, staring at the door — caught again in the same loop: maybe the rumble of a bike, maybe steps on the porch.
But there’s only wind.

He gets up, wanders the house, can’t settle. Ends up by the phone. The screen glows steady, cold, like it’s mocking him. Rick puts it down, picks it up again — and drops it once more.

He doesn’t call. Just grabs his keys, his jacket, steps out. The night’s cool, the wet pavement catching the porch light. The engine starts at once, smooth — like it’s been waiting.

He doesn’t turn on the radio. Just drives. The road’s familiar — the sharp bend past the bridge, the old gas station, the motel sign down the highway.

Once, back at the station, people used to joke that Dixon always stayed at that roadside place — cheap coffee, no cameras. Rick hadn’t paid attention then. But he remembered. And now he’s sure: Daryl’s there.

The motel sits at the edge of town. Headlights catch the sign; the truck rolls onto the lot almost in silence. The neon flickers, reflected in the drops on the windshield. And there, in plain sight, stands the familiar pickup.

Rick stops, kills the lights. Just sits there, hands on the wheel, watching the windows while the engine cools. Only one room lit — second from the corner. Curtains drawn, but thin — shadows moving. A broad-shouldered figure. Then another. Maybe just reflection. Maybe not.

He’s not sure he wants to know. His chest tightens. And still, he looks.
For a second it feels like his heart stops. Then it kicks hard again. Pictures rush in — the kind he doesn’t want — skin, breath, sheets caught in someone’s hand.
The pain rises quiet, under the skin, like memory. Not the kind he dreams of, but he can’t look away.

Foolish. Pointless.

He sits there until the light goes out. Then turns on the headlights, pulls out, drives home. The road’s empty, the night thin, stars few and far between.

When he gets back, the kettle’s still on the counter. The tea’s gone cold. He walks past, sits by the window, stares into the dark yard — sees only his own reflection. His fingers tremble, but inside, finally, there’s quiet.

***

Morning’s still. Outside, gray sky, drizzle.

Rick lies there, not moving, feeling the emptiness settle into weight — like his body itself is too much. He never slept, just listened all night — the wood creaking, rain tapping against the sill. After the motel, he couldn’t picture Daryl anymore — not with someone else, not even with himself. Like something inside had burned out completely.

When the knock on the door comes, he isn’t even surprised.

Daryl’s standing there.

Not disheveled, not rain-soaked like before — just tired, spent. Shadows under his eyes, dried mud on his boots from yesterday’s site.
— You were at the motel.
Rick doesn’t deny it.
— Yeah.
— Why?
— Wanted to know you were alive.

Rick looks at him honestly, straight on. He doesn’t want to explain or ask for anything. Nothing’s going to happen between them — not now. Daryl will leave again. That’s just how it is.

Daryl’s silent for a while. His fingers twitch slightly — like he wants a smoke, but changes his mind. There’s hesitation in the way he stands, in his eyes — the kind that comes when a man doesn’t know what to do with what’s inside him.

He smells of gasoline, cheap shampoo, cigarette smoke.
— If there’s something real — call, — he says at last.
— All right.
— I can’t always answer, — Daryl adds quietly. — But I hear when you call.

He turns, walks back to the truck.

Rick stays at the door. Doesn’t call after him, doesn’t follow. Just listens to the gravel crunch under the tires, watches the pickup turn and disappear over the bend.

Silence remains. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel empty.

Because now he knows: leaving isn’t always the same as being gone.