That Line We Walk (Rickyl)

Confession

"Another beer if you want it," Rick said, poking the bottle with his foot. It rolled towards Daryl with a grating glass sound. As Rick uncapped his own second beer, Daryl fixed him with a gaze.

"You tryin' to get me drunk?" he asked. He felt good. He wasn't drunk – just buzzing, painless.

"How could you accuse me of such a thing? I'm a cop," Rick replied, holding out his bottle. He clinked it against Daryl's. This time, as they each took the first draught from their bottles, the eye contact remained. Time slowed. Stretched out. Close to breaking.

"What?" Daryl asked, lips to his bottle as he spoke. A glazed sheen to his eyes, a relaxed mouth. Not smiling, but almost.

"Nothin'," Rick replied, taking another sip of beer. "How's your arm?"

Daryl shrugged.

"S'fine. Doesn't hurt right now. It's gonna sting like a bitch in the morning. An' my head too, at this rate."

He rested the bottle on his knees, turning it slowly. "I'm just worried 'bout my brother. He could be dead and I'm sat drinkin' with his least favourite person."

"I'm sure he's fine," Rick said, his heart sinking nevertheless. He didn't want to get stuck on the topic of Merle. He wanted to forget the outside world and everyone in it, even just for a night.

"Look, can we – can we not discuss this?" he asked. Daryl stopped turning the bottle and turned that narrow gaze back to Rick.

"Sure," he said quietly. The moment had passed.

To lessen the tension, Rick asked, "Am I your least favourite person?"

"Pffft. As if," Daryl said, looking back at his bottle.

"Nah, you've got me curious now," Rick said, leaning forward. "Who is it?"

"I'm not startin' this," Daryl shot back. "You say first."

"No, I ain't sayin'."

"Then I ain't either."

"Fine with me."

Both drank again, Daryl taking more pills. He itched his arm. Rick stared.

"What?" Daryl asked again.

"I ain't been honest with you," Rick said abruptly. For a second, Daryl didn't react. Then he moved to sit cross-legged, frowning. He put the bottle down.

"What?" he repeated for the thousandth time that night. Déjà vu. Rick sighed, putting his own bottle down. He couldn't back out. Not now. Daryl could read him better than anyone.

"You've, ah ... noticed me ... lookin' ..." he said slowly. Daryl's eyes were narrowed to slits. He was sat incredibly still.

"I ..." Rick swallowed. "Have been ... feeling ... somethin'. For you."

"Seriously?" Daryl asked. His voice quiet – dangerously so. If he'd shouted, it would have been clearer. This whisper gave away nothing.

"Seriously," Rick said. His heart was in his throat, threatening to leap out. His palms sweated where he clenched them together. Daryl, again, was unmoving. Without a word, he stood and walked to the opposite side of the store, taking his crossbow with him. The only thing left was the half empty bottle of beer. Rick put his hands to his face and suppressed the anguish. He should've kept his stupid mouth shut. But no, now it was out, and he was screwed. Daryl knew – he knew, and he hadn't reacted well. It was over for Rick.