To Be Longing, To Be Here

Daryl feels like he is going to vibrate right out of his skin. The walls loom over him oppressively, a constant shadow weighing on his mind. It was the same at the prison, for the first few days. The walls and bars and fences made his blood buzz unpleasantly, reminded him that he was an animal in a cage. An animal much more so than any other member of the group. And his body knows it now better than his mind does, moving him to pace restlessly at the edges of his enclosure, eyes vigilant for any chance of escape.

He knows there is something wrong with him, that maybe he's never been like the others at all, when his family gazes at the walls surrounding Alexandria and heaves out relieved sighs. They look at those walls and think themselves safe. Maybe less so with Rick and Carol, but the majority nonetheless. Daryl looks at those massive sheets of metal, and all he sees is a cage. The support beams prop up the walls from the outside. And even Daryl's half-assed and intermittent stints at construction tell him that those walls are not designed to keep things out. No, they were built to keep monsters in.

And maybe it had been an oversight, built by the hands of those who didn't really understand architecture, much less the dangers lurking outside those enormous rusted gates. But even if it had all been by chance, Daryl sees the walls and flashes back to Woodbury. To Terminus. To that feeling of trapped, walls-closing-in, have-to-get-out, please-someone-fucking-help-me-I-have-to-get-out-of-this-place.

Yeah. Maybe he won't be adjusting as well as everyone had hoped.

At first Daryl spends most of his time on the porch: pacing, watching, keeping alert for the sake of those who'd already let their guards down. He feels both happy and sad when the people who'd shared his pain in days before- Maggie, Sasha- seem to be acclimating well to their new surroundings. They see Alexandria and they feel hope. But all Daryl sees are the walls, and all he can feel is shame.

The prison had been like this, for a while. The concrete and metal had reminded him of how close he'd come to being caught behind bars when the apocalypse came. There'd been a long while that those walls had haunted him, taunted him, reminded him that no matter how hard he tried or how far he went, he'd always be that no good redneck who'd plotted with his brother to rob everyone back at the quarry.

But then the prison became something else. Rick took a step back, Daryl took a step forward, and with everyone's help, they built that place up into a home. A place where he could walk around with pride at what he'd accomplished. A place where everywhere he went, a friendly face greeted him. His less civil habits became invaluable assets. 'Thank you's and admiration replaced the mockery and belittling of his past. Some aspects of the community were never quite comfortable for him. But Daryl had built it, so it was his.

Alexandria, though, is ownerless. The people living there never fought for it, don't deserve it. And it can't be Rick's yet, thought it might be someday. Being here is like floating in a still body of water. Daryl feels disconnected from everything, trying and failing to identify the force keeping him aloft.

"Do you want to be here?" Deanna had asked him. And Daryl hadn't answered, but she'd understood all the same. No. But my family needs this. And that's that.

So he takes the house they give him, and he holes up with the rest of his family, and keeps his eye on them. But he has no interest in getting used to this place. What was the point, when every safe haven they'd ever found had been burnt to dust anyways.

Then Rick pulls him off and away from that useless son of a bitch, holds him back with one patronizing hand like he might have done years back in Atlanta. He seethes and paces, practically growls at the man who'd threatened his family. Rick placates him. And Daryl feels the hurt more than anything, betrayal that stings as it seeps down his spine.

He sits out on the porch the next night, because he'd prefer only one set of walls caging him in.

"Daryl."

Daryl ignores him, the further hunching of his shoulders serving as the only indicator that he might have heard Rick speak.

"Daryl," softer now, as Rick sets down on the steps beside him. "I need you to tell me if you're thinkin' 'bout leaving."

Daryl's eyes dart up at that, wide and confused. "What?" he rasps.

"You can't just take off on us in the middle of the night. Alright? It'd kill them. Carl, Carol…me," Rick says, and one hand absentmindedly strokes over his newly shaven skin.

"You think I'm just gonna duck out and leave y'all? Seriously?" Daryl growls, his tone a mite angrier than he intended. But isn't that always the case. And so what if Rick's suspicions were spot on? Daryl had never given him reason to believe his loyalty would waver.

"I think you've been pacing since we got here. Pacing back and forth like an animal in a cage. You came in here for us, but you don't want to be here, Daryl. Don't think I can't see it." And Rick looks him in the eye as he says the words, baby blues shining and sad.

And all the aggressive tension in Daryl's lungs leaves him in a rush of breath. "I don't belong here," he mumbles after a beat, "M'not like them. And they can see it."

"No. No, Daryl. Hey, you belong with us," Rick whispers back fiercely, and the intensity of the older man's gaze makes Daryl shiver slightly. He picks at his nails, fraught with anxiety again. Stares hard at the ground.

"You don't believe me when I say it," Rick muses, watching him closely. "I get that. Words aren't your thing. I can show you, then."

At that, Rick stands abruptly, motioning for Daryl to follow. And even though he's confused, not quite sure how that conversation left things, and feeling even more lost than before, this is something familiar. Daryl follows when Rick leads. So he trails after the ex-Sheriff into the house, and lets the other man herd him upstairs, watchful as a sheepdog as he subtly urges the archer forward with barely-there shifts of weight.

They continue up and up, to the third floor, and Rick ushers him into the bathroom. It's only then that Daryl begins to dread. He'd let Carol tease him over this, withstood the judging glances, because the layer of filth rubbed thickly over his body was his last reminder of the outside. If he looked like a mangy mutt, then he'd stand out from the rest of the sheep. They would see in his outer shell that he was different, validating that sharp twist of mistrust when he walked by, the guttural knowledge that he was not like them.

Still caked in mud, the Alexandrians would attribute their searing judgments to his appearance only. But once he'd been stripped down to his bare bones, they'd know when they saw him that it had never been the clothes or the dirt that separated him. There was a fundamental flaw in his psyche, resonating in the puckered skin that striped across his back, which isolated him from their world. He was another species entirely.

Rick shuts the door behind them, and Daryl abruptly comes back to himself. Rick walks up beside him in front of the mirror and rubs his fingers through the scruff on Daryl's face.

"I suppose you wouldn't let me take care of this," Rick says contemplatively, and Daryl frowns deeply in response. Rick barks out a laugh. "S'what I thought."

His fingers move to the buttons on Daryl's shirt, and the younger man doesn't stop him, just looks on in dull shock, and fear that idles in the back of his brain.

"You need this," Rick tells him as he pushes Daryl's shirt down off his shoulders, and moves to tackle the man's jeans next. "Just like you need to stay here, with us."

Daryl watches him but remains silent, obediently stepping out of his jeans and shorts when Rick motions for him to do so. He stands bare in front of Rick, his brother, but only really begins to tremble when Rick's hands move to his own shirt buttons.

"You've trusted me with everything else," Rick continues, "Always followed my lead, even when it was something you didn't agree with. Something you didn't want to do. But you trusted me all the same. Right?"

Rick looks to him expectantly then, and Daryl gives a single, startled nod. Rick shimmies out of the rest of his clothing and pumps up the hot water in the shower. He steps to the side and gives Daryl his most demanding look. And even though the archer grimaces, he hangs his head and moves past Rick into the stall, with the other man close behind him.

"You've trusted me with all that, but you still don't believe me when I say you belong here, with us. But that's alright, Daryl. Because I can show you."

Rick gently pushes Daryl under the spray, smirking a little when his friend scrunches his eyes shut and winces like he's in pain. Warm water sloshes over his head, dirt running in torrents down his body and into the drain, and Daryl still isn't sure what the ex-Sheriff's point is with all this. He'd be clean when he and Rick finally left the bathroom, but that didn't mean the people of Alexandria would look at him any differently. Didn't mean he'd belong.

Rick moves closer, standing with him under the spray of water. And it would be uncomfortable at best with anyone else, but Daryl hardly flinches anymore when Rick touches him, even if unexpected. There's no doubt in his mind that Rick would never hurt him intentionally.

His eyes are still shut when Rick's hands go to his hair, slick with shampoo and massaging his long locks with determination. It feels better than he'd care to admit.

"It's my fault," Rick says lowly, "If I'd been doing my job right, you'd know better than to think there's anywhere you should be other than here, with me. But after the prison, even after we found each other again, there was never time to take a breath. Not like now."

Rick presses two fingers under Daryl's chin, and the younger man tips his head back unquestioningly, lets Rick chase the suds from his hair.

"Didn't you already do this once this week?" Daryl finally asks, his first words in some time, and Rick smirks.

"Yeah, but it doesn't get old," Rick replies with a laugh, "And I wouldn't wanna miss this," he finishes. Without the layers of dirt and grease, Daryl looks years younger. Mud, like war paint, had kept him harsh and ruthless. But now that all Rick can see is Daryl, he realizes just how uncertain the man appeared, even breakable under such scrutiny.

Rick plucks up the soap and begins to scrub ruthlessly at Daryl's chest and arms.

"Can do it myself," Daryl huffs, so Rick smirks again and slaps the soap down into his hand, taking a half step back, quirking an eyebrow, and giving the man his full attention.

Without the security blanket of grime, Rick can plainly see the way Daryl flushes. He makes quick, efficient work of cleaning his front, bending forwards and towards Rick to reach his knees and toes. When he tilts his head back and goes to stand, the heat in Rick's gaze nearly stops him. But instead, Daryl slows, straightening his spine but never moving to bolt out of the confined space like he might have in years past.

Daryl knows that aside from his back, there was one place in particularly he hadn't cleaned, pointedly, considering the close quarters and threat of awkwardness.

But true to form, Rick seems to read his mind. His eyes dart down to Daryl's crotch, then laze upwards, settling on the hunter's face when he finally says, "Go on."

Suddenly, the steam in the shower is stifling. The mood has changed so abruptly, Rick's voice dropping to its deepest timbre, that its left Daryl helplessly confused. It's not as if he hadn't thought about it, over the years. But the fleeting fantasies he'd never acknowledge in the light of day had as a rule never gotten anywhere close to this realistic. Embarrassing as it was, they hadn't even taken on a sexual tone.

No, when Daryl had thought of Rick, those handful of times before, he'd just imagined them close. Maybe lying side-by-side in a bunk back at the prison, or huddled together in the back of a car to wait out a storm. The Rick in Daryl's mind would pet his hair, and press his lips to the space behind his ear. He'd grasp one of his hands tightly and stroke calloused hands over his body like there was nothing wrong with him at all. Like he couldn't see the scars.

Daryl had never had that, the closeness, and would never have asked for it either. But here Rick is in front of him now, naked and dripping wet, asking for…what? A show?

Moving slow as molasses, Daryl brings the soap down to the center of his body and rubs. He thinks he isn't being particularly sexy about it, but then again, he's not sure that's the point of this display. Maybe Rick is just asserting his dominance once again, letting Daryl know that the choice of staying or going is not his own.

Daryl rubs, and Rick watches, and even though he's touching himself as lightly as he can manage, he feels himself growing hard. He sees that Rick is already there. Daryl sets the soap down to the side and leans back against the tiled wall. He closes his eyes and finally, finally, wraps a hand around himself.

It's fucking terrifying how good it feels. And Daryl can't pinpoint when things might have changed between Rick and him, whether it had happened right there in the shower or months before. But he strokes from root to tip, and he hears the harshness of Rick's breathing even over the heavy white noise of water against skin. It feels even better knowing that Rick's here with him. Not necessarily that Rick is watching, but that the other man approves, that he'd conspired for this very moment.

Daryl doesn't open his eyes, but he can feel Rick edge closer to him, ghost a finger from his shoulder down across his chest.

"I can show you where you belong," Rick murmurs, and Daryl's leaking now, the friction too good and the closeness too real for him to assert any inkling of self-control. "I'm going to show you now, Daryl. Unless you stop me."

Daryl can't answer, but his breath catches, and he feels Rick's hand wrap around his own, forcing his fist to go tighter, and move faster. Daryl moans, and with his mouth still open, Rick kisses him.

It's not the biting, dominating experience Daryl had expected. Instead it's a short, chaste thing. A promise. But when their brief meeting of lips is punctuated by Rick abruptly grasping him by his busy wrist and snapping it back against the tile, Daryl worries, for the first time, about where this might be going.

"You trust me," Rick reminds him, reading his mind once again. And fuck, he does. With a hell of a lot more than his life. So much so that when Rick pushes him gently to face the wall, pressing both of Daryl's hands where he wants them against the cool tile, Daryl does so without question. He knows in his mind that Rick won't hurt him, though he can't seem to get a handle on his shivering body or his stuttering breaths.

Rick picks up the soap and scrubs down his back. He scrubs his hips, and his calves, and the inside of his thighs. He rubs the soap in between Daryl's ass cheeks, once, but it's only then that Daryl starts to understand what's happening between them. The soap is replaced with Rick's slick fingers, teasing the tight ring with barely-there pressure and watching closely for a reaction.

Daryl cranes his neck to catch Rick's eye over his shoulder. But when his expression is more inquiring than anything, Rick snakes one hand up diagonally across his chest and presses his mouth to the back of the archer's shoulder.

"I can show you where you belong," Rick drawls against his skin, "It's the only way I know how…"

He leaves the- but you don't have to be here- unsaid. Because when Daryl grinds himself backwards slightly, pushing into Rick's touch, it's all the answer the older man needs.

It's a miracle that Daryl doesn't crumble to pieces as Rick inches his finger inside. The archer has never been touched like this, has hardly allowed himself to be touched at all. But Rick's being careful about it, using slow, predictable movements, and Daryl knows with every fiber of his being that Rick won't hurt him.

Rick presses another finger inside, and Daryl's still hard and wanting because there's no pain and because it's Rick doing this to him. Fingers crook just so, patient, searching. And it's a flash of bright hot need when those fingers brush over something that makes Daryl groan loudly. His hands fist against the tiles and his cock jerks untouched, and Daryl looks at Rick over his shoulder again because what the fuck was that.

"You've got no idea, Daryl," Rick tells him as his fingers continue to stroke that place that makes the younger man's body sing, "No idea how long I've wanted…"

He cuts himself off, unable to verbalize the thought even now that he's getting the thing he'd craved so badly in months past.

"But you're here now," Rick continues, "And you're not going anywhere."

His fingers move more roughly, press against that spot harder until Daryl is whimpering. Until he can't help but push back against Rick, begging with his body when his words fail him. His cock is flushed red, leaking a steady stream of white with every pass of Rick's fingers. It's never felt like this before. Nothing's felt like this, and Christ, Daryl needs. He needs.

"Rick," he gasps, because those are the only syllables his mouth can put together under circumstances this dire.

"I know, Daryl," Rick soothes, "I could make you come like this, huh? Do you want that?"

The archer answers with a choked sob, and one hand clenches over Rick's arm, still plastered across his body and holding him steady. Rick's fingers keep pressing against that spot and Daryl feels lightheaded, and Rick won't stop talking.

"We never did this when we had the chance. I never did it. Never made sure you understood. But then I lost you, and, I'm not going to make that mistake twice."

Daryl doesn't understand. The words are hard to hear over the pounding of his heart. And even though Rick keeps whispering things, loving things, the sentiments are so unfamiliar and strange that Daryl focuses all his attention on sensation instead. The feel of Rick's fingers moving inside. The solidarity of the older man's arm keeping him standing.

"Do you understand now, Daryl?"

Fuck, I want to come. I need to come. I can't—I can't—

"I need to hear you say it, Daryl. Tell me where you belong," Rick says encouragingly, but Daryl's so lost right now. And then Rick's fingers still inside him, and that brings the hunter right back to consciousness.

"I won't let you come," Rick threatens. "I'll never let you come again, if that's what it takes. I can make that happen."

"Rick," Daryl rasps brokenly, "Rick."

"That's it," Rick croons, praising him for finally putting his voice back to use. "That's it. Now, tell me."

His fingers begin to move again, more forcefully than before, and Daryl is helpless to comply.

"I—I—I belong with you," Daryl pushes out in a rush, "N-not gonna go anywhere. I swear, Rick."

"Why?" Rick asks him. And when Daryl scrunches his eyebrows at him, his confusion is plain. "Why do you belong with us? Why do you belong here, with me?" Rick clarifies, and Daryl is so close, so fucking close and he doesn't know if he wants to punch Rick or kiss him.

"'Cuz…'cuz…" Daryl racks his brain, trying to surmise whatever his leader wanted to hear, "'Cuz I'm yours. M'yours, Rick. Belong with you."

It's immediately apparent that this was the right answer when Rick reaches his unoccupied hand down Daryl's body and begins to stroke the younger man with the same rough movements as his fingers. He brushes over the fevered flesh once, twice, before Daryl comes with a wail. His entire body ripples with each wave of pleasure, legs shaking as he's forced to use the wall for support. And Rick's hands never leave him, don't abandon him for one second until he's utterly spent. Pressed this close together, it doesn't take much blind rutting for Rick to come soon after. Daryl can feel the pulse of the other man's cock as he spends himself on his lower back, still holding him tightly and rubbing his forehead against the archer's shoulder.

Rickturns Daryl to face him, guides him out of the shower and to someplace soft and dry. Daryl realizes belatedly that he's shaking. And it takes him a long while, much longer than Rick, to recognize that he's crying as well. But Rick shushes him gently, pats him down with a towel and then pulls him into the big, king sized bed of the master bedroom. The covers come up to his waist, and Daryl pushes his face into Rick's chest. It's the only place left to hide, and he can't stop sobbing. He wishes he could figure out why.

"Daryl," Rick murmurs, and his voice cracks as he cards his fingers through the younger man's hair. "Daryl, I—you didn't stop me—"

"No, no," Daryl bites out too quickly, sniffling a little still but getting his shaking in check. Because by no stretch of the imagination did Daryl not enjoy what they just did. He didn't regret it either, and Rick has no place thinking such things. "I just—I don't—" Daryl sucks in a deep breath. "I don't wanna go, Rick. Don't wanna leave."

He says it into Rick's chest, but then the older man guides him to tip his head back and look at him properly. Daryl sighs in relief when he sees that Rick's smiling.

"You don't have to go anywhere," Rick tells him, "I won't let you. You belong here. With me."

Daryl nods a little, and Rick brushes a thumb against his cheek.

"Do you understand now?"

The archer curls himself into Rick's arms. "Yeah. Think I do."

"I didn't mean to make you…"

"Ya didn't. Wasn't your fault. Just…intense," Daryl explains.

"Good intense or bad intense?" Rick asks with a twinge of worry to his voice.

"Good," Daryl assures him, "I mean, I ain't never..." Been with a man. Been with someone I loved. Had an orgasm that earth-shattering. Pick one. "Just…good. It was good, Rick."

When they go downstairs sometime later, none of their family members comment on their absence. Though, Carol does make a point of praising him for finally taking that shower he's needed for ages.

"You look good like this," Carol tells him, fingering his miraculously clean shirt. He's flushed all over, and while he figures Carol and the rest must assume it's from scrubbing too hard and too long, Daryl's content to know it wasn't that at all. "Sparkling clean," she teases, "Practically a new man."

She winks at him, and he smiles for the first time since they'd arrived in Alexandria.

"Yeah," he says lowly, catching Rick's eye from across the room, "feels good too."