That Line We Walk (Rickyl)

Confession

Daryl pulled the knife straight out, his teeth clenched. Blood ran from the wound, streaking down his arm. The walkers were frenzying outside the doors and windows, scratching and fighting to get in. Rick wrapped the bandage tightly around Daryl's arm, trying to concentrate on fixing the injury and not how Daryl's stuttering breaths were right by his ear.

"Hold it there," Rick instructed. Daryl held the loose end of the gauze so Rick could take the safety pin from his mouth and pin the bandage in place. "That should be okay. We need to get back so Hershel can look at it."

"It's fine," Daryl said, lifting his arm experimentally. "I've had worse."

"You want to die of a cut arm?" Rick asked. Daryl snorted and it brought everything Rick felt back.

"Man. Imagine dying because you fuckin' stabbed me. I'd rather go down under a pil'a walkers before that happens."

"Don't get your hopes up. Somebody'll probably shoot you in the head."

"Yeah, right."

Daryl looked with narrowed eyes towards the door where walkers were still scrabbling. "Those bitches had better go soon or these windows ain't holdin' out."

Rick checked his gun and swore.

"Shit. Not many bullets. We won't be able to fight our way out of this. We should board up the doors too, try to strengthen them."

Daryl agreed. He collected boards from the floor as Rick found nails. He used his knife hilt as a hammer, layering wood over the gaps as Daryl held them in place. The store was gradually getting darker as the windows were closed over completely. Limited light came through the front door as he boarded over the glass windows in the frame, covering where the walkers had cracked it. Only very few gaps of light remained, little enough that they found themselves squinting to see for more nails. The reinforcement had good results – it reduced how much the walkers could smell of them, too. The steel back door of the store had a length of pipe added alongside the nightstick to hold it fast.

"You find any painkillers?"

Rick jumped. Daryl was right behind him, holding his arm. The bandages were faintly red. Rick shook his head, taking up his torch and shining it out. Daryl held up his hand.

"Mind the eyes."

"Sorry," Rick said absently, flashing his torch around. He shimmied between aisles, stepping over trash towards the back of the store, half tripping on old cans of soda and empty gas cans. Buried under papers and old magazines, he found a couple of bottles of painkillers and – he smiled – warm, flat beer. He tossed the bottles of pills to Daryl as he came back and, torch in mouth, raised the bottles of beer. Daryl grinned.

"Holy shit. That should kill the pain. I haven't beer in fuckin' months."

"Drink responsibly," Rick grinned, handing one over so Daryl could wash down the pills. He popped the cap with a thumbnail and tossed back some pills, swilling beer around his mouth.

"Fuck me," Daryl said, with the most sincere smile Rick had ever seen. "This is fuckin' good."

*

It was strange. Drinking together, not speaking much, just enjoying the moment. The walkers had died down, losing interest. The sunlight was fading outside and, with the windows boarded over, it was plunging into darkness faster than before. It was the happiest both had been in a long time. For the moment, Rick had even forgotten about Lori and Carl.