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The house they had cleared three days prior was holding together with no walkers nearby. It wasn't Alexandria or Hilltop, but it did have four solid walls, a roof without any leaks, and a deadbolt on the front and back doors, which were reinforced with beams of wood that Daryl and Rick had spent an hour or two shaping and pounding into the walls around the doors. Inside, their world had shrunk down to just a soft, golden flow of a single lamp sitting on a dusty side table next to an equally dusty couch.
Rick sat on the hardwood floor, resting his back against the base of the worn sofa. His limbs felt like lead, but for the first time in months, it wasn't the exhaustion of survival. It was just…quiet. His boots were unlaced, his flannel unbuttoned at the top, and his shoulders were resting far lower than they usually did.
In his hands, he turned over the small piece of dark green glass. It was a dusty old pipe they'd salvaged from a nightstand drawer in the master bedroom upstairs. Right next to it was a shockingly airtight mason jar filled with little, dense green buds.
"Yer staring at it like it's gonna bite ya," Daryl's voice echoed from across the rug.
Rick looked up at him, a faint, tired smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Daryl was sitting with his back against the wall opposite of Rick, his knees drawn up toward his chest, and his arms wrapped loosely around his shins. Even in the safety of a locked down, secured house, Daryl's default setting was guarded—shoulders pitched up high, eyes darting toward the darkened hallway every few minutes, his fingers lighting picking at the frayed collar on his leather vest.
"Not staring," Rick murmured as a response, his voice low and raspy. "Just…thinkin'."
"Bout what?"
"About how long it's been since I seen this," Rick replied. He held up the glass, letting the amber colour if the lamplight filter through it. "Before all this…obviously, you know I was a deputy. Had to keep my nose clean. Random testing, public image, all of that. Never once touched the stuff."
Daryl let out a quiet, rough huff of a nose—not quite a laugh, but pretty close. "Yeah. Figures. Ol' straight-laced Rick Grimes."
"And you?" Rick tilted his head, watching his lover closely.
Daryl shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor between them. He scratched at his chin, dark hair falling forward to cover his face. "Avoided it," he muttered softly. "When I was young, weed usually meant Will or Merle were on a bender. Meant loud music, thrown bottles, yelling… meant I had to hide under the porch til they passed out. Never had much interest in feelin' or wantin' to be like them."
The small speech hung gently in the air between the two. Rick felt a familiar ache in his chest—that quiet, fierce desire to reach back through time and pull young Daryl out from under that porch, away from that house. To shelter him long before the end of the world ever gave them a chance to find each other.
"We don't have to," Rick offered softly, his tone completely without any pressure. He held the pipe loosely. "If it brings up bad stuff, Darlin', we can throw it in the stove. Forget it entirely."
Daryl looked up at Rick through his bangs. His dark eyes locked onto Rick's. He saw the genuine care there, the utter lack of expectation. They had been together for months now—a quiet, unspoken partnership born out of shared trauma that had slowly, beautifully softened into a deep, devoted love. Rick was his anchor; Daryl was Rick's peace.
"Nah," Daryl whispered. "I ain't Merle. Ain't Will, neither. It's just…just you." He hesitated, his knuckles tightening slightly over his shins. "No walkers out there no more. No herds. No…fires to put out."
"No threats," Rick agreed gently. "Just a lil bit for us to turn our heads off. Just the two of us."
Rick pulled out a small pocket knife, carefully breaking down a bud into the bowl. His hands were calloused and scarred, but his movements were deliberate and so calm. He struck a match, the small flame flaring bright in the dim room, and then he brought it to the bowl. He brought the bowl to his mouth and drew in a small, cautious breath. Almost instantly, he coughed. It was a harsh, sudden rattling in his chest that made him laugh softly at himself as cmoke curled into the air of the living room.
"Rookie," Daryl muttered, though the tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction as he watched Rick with curious eyes.
"It's rough," Rick wheezed, wiping his eye with the back of his wrist. He held the pipe across the space between them. "Your turn, big tough guy."
Daryl uncurled slightly, reaching over to take it. His fingers brushed Rick's—warm and familiar. He held the pipe to his lips, struck a fresh match, and took a quick, shallow drag before blowing it out fast, grimacing at the bitter taste of it. He passed the glass back to Rick instantly, as if glad to be rid of it.
"Tastes like burnt lawn," Daryl grunted, leaning his head back against the wall.
"Give it a minute, love," Rick smiled, settling back against the base of the sofa.
For ten minutes, nothing changed. The house settled with its usual quiet creaks. The wind brushed against the windowpanes. Rick closed his eyes as he listened to the steady sound of Daryl's breathing across the room.
Then, slowly, the world began to soften and shift. For Rick, the high crept in like a warm bath after a long trudge through snow. The constant, thrumming anxiety behind his eyes—the perpetual alertness that always kept his jaw clenched and his hand hovering near his holster—began to loosen its grip. His heavy boots felt fused to the floorboards. The knot between his shoulder blades unraveled. He let out a long, shuddering breath and let his head rest against the cushions behind him.
"Wow…" Rick breathed out, a soft, dopey smile spreading across his face. "That…okay. Yeah, okay. That works." He opened his eyes, feeling heavy-lidded and warm, and turned to look over at Daryl. "How ya feeling, Darlin'?"
Daryl didn't answer.
The lazy haze in Rick's brain flickered with a sudden, faint pulse of concern. Daryl hadn't moved. A single inch, in fact. But his entire posture had…somehow completely changed? The guarded,, defensive angle of his body was gone—not relaxed but…completely dissolved. He was sitting with his knees pulled all the way up to his chest, but his arms weren't wrapped around them like a shield anymore. They were tucked inward, his hands bunching tightly into the thick, oversized fabric of his leather vest. His head was down, his chin pressed against his chest.
When the high had hit Daryl, it hadn't just relaxed his muscles. It had bypassed every wall, every defense mechanism, every layer of thick skin he had built over 35 years of survival. The sudden, overwhelming rush of altered brain chemistry had swept away the noise of an adult world, therefore stripping away the tracker, the hunter, the survivor. It left his mind feeling impossibly small, warm, and utterly exposed. The sudden drop in life-or-death tension hadn't felt like an adult resting; it had felt like the floor was dropping beneath him, floating in a space where he didn't know how to be big anymore.
Daryl's breath hitched. A sharp, shallow gasp tore through his throat. He dropped his gaze to his hands, staring at his seemingly too large, dirt-stained fingers as if he had no idea what they were or how they belonged to him.
"Daryl? …Hey," Rick's voice sharpened just slightly, the slow, sleepy warmth of his own high instantly shifting into focused, protective attention. He shifted off the couch base, leaning forward on his knees. "Look at me, sweetheart. You alright?"
Daryl didn't look up. Instead, a sound came out of him—a tiny, distressed whimpering noise, high-pitched and frightened, muffled against his knees.
Rick froze for moment. In all the time he had known Daryl—through war, loss, starvation, and grief—he had never heard Daryl make a sound like that. It wasn't the roar of anger or the stoic quiet of pain. It was the sound of someone entirely too small, completely overwhelmed by a world that was suddenly much too loud and too big.
Daryl began tugging frantically at the frayed hem of his sleeve, his breathing turning into quick, panicked puffs. His wide, glossy eyes darted around the floor, unable to anchor onto anything.
What the hell is happening? Rick's mind raced, confused by the sudden shift in his lover. Did he have a bad reaction? Is he having a panic attack? Rick didn't know what age regression was, didn't even know it as a phrase. He didn't know the psychological mechanics of trauma, stress, and cannabis breaking down those adult coping mechanisms to reveal a childlike state beneath. But Rick didn't need to know the terminology. He knew Daryl. And right now, looking at the man curled up on the rug, Rick didn't see his fierce, lethal second-in-command. He saw someone who felt completely lost, small, and terrified.
"Okay," Rick whispered, his voice dropping an octave into a deep, rhythmic calm. "Okay, baby. I'm coming over, alright? It's just me."
Rick shuffled slowly across the short distance on his hands and knees, moving slowly and deliberately so as to not startle him. He stopped a foot away, sitting on his heels, keeping his chest open and non-threatening. "Daryl. Look at me, sweetheart."
Daryl's shoulders hitched. Very slowly, he peeked out from behind the curtains of his dark hair. When Rick met his eyes, his heart did a painful, tender flip. The sharp, hyper-vigilant edge in Daryl's gaze was entirely gone. His eyes were wide, glassy, and completely…soft. They were filled with a raw, unshielded vulnerability that looked strikingly, impossibly young. He looked at Rick not as his lover or a leader, but as the only safe thing in a terrifyingly massive universe.
"There ya are," Rick breathed out softly, offering a small, warm smile. "Hey. You're okay."
Daryl let out another soft, unsteady breath. Slowly, hesitantly, he unbunched one hand from his vest and reached out. His fingers trembled as he reached for Rick, catching a loose fold of his flannel and pulling it into a tight, desperate fist. He held on like a child holding onto a parent's hand in a crowded room.
Rick didn't pull back. Didn't question it. Didn't joke, and he certainly didn't judge.
"I got ya," Rick whispered. Reaching behind him with his free hand, Rick grabbed the heavy fleece blanket they'd draped over the sofa earlier. He unfolded it gently and draped it over Daryl's trembling shoulders, cocooning him in the warm, soft fabric.
As soon as the weight of the blanket had settled over him, Daryl let out a long, shuddering exhale. Rick shifted closer, pulling his legs around Daryl and bringing the smaller, trembling frame directly against his chest.
Daryl collapsed into the embrace completely. The rigidity left his spine; he leaned his head heavily against the nook of Rick's neck and collarbone, burying his face into Rick's shoulder. His fist remained firmly gripping onto Rick's shirt.
"Big…" Daryl mumbled. The word was muffled, slurred, and tiny—sounding much less than a thirty-something man and more like an overwhelmed toddler trying to explain why he's crying. "Feels…too big…"
Rick's brain tried to process the word, but his heart took over immediately. He wrapped his arms securely around Daryl, rocking them slowly back and forth on the rug.
"I know, baby," Rick soothed, rubbing a slow, steady circle into Daryl's back through the blanket. "World's real big right now, ain't it? Everything's too loud and too much."
Daryl gave a small, jerky nod against Rick's neck, clutching the shirt tighter.
"That's alright," Rick whispered, resting his chin on top of Daryl's head, inhaling the smell of wood-smoke and rain in his hair. "Ya don't have to carry any of it right now. Don't gotta be big. I gotcha. Rick's right here."
The warmth of the room felt almost liquid, thick and heavy, wrapping around them as the oil lamp continued to hum.
Daryl didn't move. He stayed tucked tightly into the small space between Rick's chest and collarbone, his breathing shallow, tiny puffs of air warming the skin of Rick's neck. The fist clutched in his shirt hadn't loosened even a fraction; if anything, his knuckles were white as he clung with a desperate, instinctive strength.
Rick kept up with the slow, swaying motion, his shin resting lightly against the top of Daryl's soft, messy hair. His mind was still floating in that soft, gentle, warm haze from the weed, but every protective instinct was locked onto the man in his arms.
"You doin' okay, sweetheart?" Rick murmured, his voice a low, soothing vibration against Daryl's cheek.
Daryl made a soft, sniffling noise, rubbing nose blindly against Rick's collar. He pulled his legs in closer, trying to make himself even smaller under the heavy fleece blanket.
"Hard…" Daryl whimpered out, the word barely a breath. "Hands…feel funny. Everything…floaty."
"I know, baby," Rick soothed, rubbing slow circles across Daryl's back. "It's just the smoke. Makes your body feel heavy, but it can't hurt you. I'm right here holding you. Won't let it."
Daryl shifted, his head tilting back just enough so one wide, dark eye peeked up through his dark bangs. He looked so startlingly young—all the sharp, watchful lines of his face melted into soft, confused vulnerability. He sucked in a quiet breath, his lower lip trembling just a little.
"Wanna…wanna do summin," Daryl mumbled, his speech slurred and fragmented. He tugged weakly at Rick's shirt. "Bored…but brain's sleepy."
Rick let out a quiet, affectionate breath, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "You wanna do something? Whaddya wanna do, baby?"
Daryl squirmed a little, his brow furrowing as if trying to find words through the dense, soft fog in his mind. His small fist tightened again.
"Play…" he whispered, voice dropping into that tiny, hesitant tone that made Rick's chest tighten with tenderness. "Wanna…wanna play. Got…got toys?"
Rick blinked, the word echoing softly in the quiet room. Toys. He didn't question it. He didn't ask why Daryl, a thirty-five-year-old man, was asking for toys. All Rick knew was that Daryl felt tiny, vulnerable, and safe enough with him to ask for what he needed—and Rick was going to give it to him.
"Toys?" Rick echoed back, pressing a soft kiss to Daryl's forehead. "I dunno, Darlin'. But…this house once had a family in it once. Remember when we cleared the upstairs?"
Daryl gave a tiny, soft nod against Rick's neck.
"Well, I think there was a kids room down the hall," Rick said softly. "Let's go see if we can find anything for you to play with. How's that sound, baby?"
Daryl's eyes lit up with a fragile, hopeful brightness. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Rick smiled. "Come on. Let's stand up."
Rick started to shift, intending to unwrap his arms and stand up first, but the moment his support pulled back, Daryl let out a sudden, sharp, frightened gasp. His hands shot out, both fists scrambling to latch onto the front of Rick's shirt. His head shook frantically.
"No, no, no!" Daryl whined, his voice rising in panic. "Don't go! Don't leave me here!"
"Whoa, hey, shh…I'm not leaving you, honey. I'm right here," Rick hushed instantly, wrapping his arms right back around him and squeezing tightly. "I'm not goin' anywhere without ya. I promise."
Daryl buried his face back into Rick's neck, his whole body trembling. Between the heavy, rubbery feeling in his legs and the vast, overwhelming feeling of being small, the idea of sitting on the floor alone for even five seconds sounded terrifying.
"Attach," Daryl whimpered out, grabbing two big handfuls of Rick's flannel. "Stuck to you. Like…like glue."
Rick chuckled softly, a deep warm sound in his chest. "Like glue, huh? Alright. Then you'll stay stuck to me."
Rick gathered the blanket around Daryl's shoulders, making sure he was wrapped up tight. "Okay, baby. Ya gotta help me out a lil bit. We're gonna stand up together, okay? You hold onto my neck."
Daryl didn't need to be told twice. He threw his arms around Rick's neck, hugging him with a frantic, koala-like grip.
With a low grunt, Rick pushed himself up from the floor. His own legs felt slightly heavy and slow still, but he dug his boots into the hardwood, steadying his frame. Daryl's legs were completely useless—heavy, loose, and trembling—so Rick scooped one arm under Daryl's thighs and held his waist firmly with the other, taking nearly all of his weight.
Daryl wrapped his legs loosely around Rick's waist, burying his face into Rick's neck as the world suddenly shifted upward.
"Gotcha," Rick breathed, swaying slightly to regain his balance. "See? I got ya. You're safe."
"Tall…" Daryl whispered into Rick's skin, sounding dizzy and small.
"A lil tall," Rick agreed softly. "Hold on tight, honey."
Carrying Daryl like an oversized, clingy toddler, Rick slowly made his way out of the loving room and down the dark, quiet hallway. Every step was slow and deliberate. Daryl kept his eyes squeezed shut,his fingers buried in Rick collar, completely trusting Rick to navigate the space for the both of them.
Rick pushed open the door to the small bedroom at the end of the hall. He used his elbow to nudge it wider, letting the dim light from the lamp in the living room spill into the doorway.
It was a child's bedroom. The walls were painted in a faded, soft blue, covered in peeling star stickers. A small bed sat in the corner, stripped of its mattress, but near the closet stood a small wooden toybox and a low bookshelf.
"Look at that," Rick whispered, stepping further into the room and carefully shifting Daryl's weight on his hip. "Think we hit the jackpot, sweetheart."
Daryl slowly opened his eyes, peeking over Rick's shoulder. He looked at the small wooden chest, his breathing settling into a calm, curious rhythm.
Rick knelt down slowly, his knees popping in the quiet of the room. He didn't set Daryl down—he knew better. Instead, he sat back on his heels on the soft rug, keeping Daryl tucked firmly in his lap, anchored against his chest.
The child's bedroom felt as if it were suspended in time, but the faint light from the lamp down the hallway didn't quite reach the dark corners.
When Daryl reached into the wood toybox, his hands—usually so broad, calloused, and sure—looked clumsy. He pulled out a thick colouring book and a cardboard box of cheap, used crayons. Beside it lay a small plush bear, missing an eye.
Daryl clutched the bear to his chest, but as he stared down at the crayons in his lap, his small, hopeful expression suddenly began fracturing.
"Daryl?" Rick whispered gently, his arms wrapped securely around Daryl's waist as they sat together on the floor.
Daryl didn't answer. He stared at the box of crayons, his breathing becoming fast and shallow. The weed had swept away all of his adult defenses, stripping away the tracker and survivor. In his place stood a tiny, exposed, hopelessly lost little boy.
A hot tear spilled down over Daryl's lashes, tracking through the dirt on his cheek. Then another.
Rick felt a sudden, sharp spike of panic in his chest. His heart thudded against his ribs. Is he in pain? Did he get a flashback? Is the high making him sick?
"Hey…hey, what is it, sweetheart?" Rick asked, his voice laced with worried urgency. He carefully turned Daryl in his arms so they were face-to-face, though Daryl kept his head ducked, tears streaming silently down his face. "Talk to me baby. What hurts? Tell me what's wrong."
Daryl let out a broken, high-pitched sob—a sound so small and crushed, it made Rick's stomach twist itself into knots.
"Don't…don't know how," Daryl wept, his fist clutching the worn bear so tightly his knuckles turned white. His shoulders hitched with heavy, trembling gasps. "Don't…don't know how ta play."
Rick froze, his mind racing to make sense of the words through his own warm, foggy mind. "Whaddya mean, bud? You don't know how?"
"Never..never had 'em," Daryl sobbed into Rick's collar, raspy voice slurred and tiny. "When…when I was lil…Merle says toys was for weaklins. Will…Will threw 'em in the fire if I cried. Never…got ta colour. Don't know…don't know how to be little, Daddy…Don't know how…"
The words hit Rick like a battering ram. The tragic, quiet reality of Daryl's childhood unfolded in front of him in a devastating clarity. Daryl hadn't just regressed to a child—he had dropped into a space he wasn't allowed to occupy as a child. He was trying to be small, but he had no memories of safety or playing to guide him. Only the haunting ache of what had been denied over and over to him.
Rick eyes stung with sudden tears of his own. The fear and confusion in his chest dissolved instantly into a wave of profound, fierce love.
"Oh, Jesus…Daryl," Rick breathed, his voice thick and wavering with emotion. He pulled Daryl tightly against his chest, wrapping his arms around him so securely that not a single draft of cold air could get him. "Shh…look at me, baby. Look at yer Daddy."
Daryl hiccuped, sniffing hard as he raised his wet, glassy eyes to Rick's.
"Ya don't have to know how," Rick whispered, brushing the damp hair away from Daryl's forehead with trembling fingers. "There's no right way to do it. You don't gotta be good at it. You don't have to do anything except be right here with me, baby."
Daryl buried his face back into the crook of Rick's neck, his whole body shaking with quiet, lingering whimpers.
"'m scared…" Daryl mumbled softly into Rick's skin, sounding so tiny. "Feels…feels wrong."
"It ain't wrong," Rick soothed, rubbing deep, slow circles into Daryl's back. "You were supposta to have this a long time ago, Daryl. You were supposta be taken care of. If ya couldn't have it then, you can have it now. I'm right here. Daddy's got you, sweetheart. I'm never gonna let anyone hurt you or take your things again."
Daryl let out a long, shuddering sigh, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame as he anchored himself to Rick's calm, steady heartbeat.
Rick reached down with one hand, carefully picking up the brown crayon that had dropped to the floor. He held it gently between his fingers and placed it into Daryl's heavy hand, wrapping his own calloused palm over Daryl's.
"C'mon," Rick whispered tenderly, kissing the side of Daryl's tear-stained face. "Let's bring your bear and the book out to the big lamp. We'll do it together. I'll show ya."
Daryl gave a small, shaky nod against Rick's throat. He held onto the crayon, his fingers curling around Rick's hand, trusting him completely to guide him through the big, overwhelming world.
"Hold on tight, baby," Rick murmured, scooping Daryl's heavy legs up so they wrapped around his waist.
Daryl clung to him like the glue he claimed he was, pressing his face into Rick's neck as he stood and brought them both back out to the living room.
Rick sat down smoothly on the soft rug in front of the sofa, letting Daryl sit directly between his spread legs. Daryl immediately reclined his back against Rick's chest, using him as a living chair.
"There," Rick whispered softly, settling the blanket over Daryl's knees. "Warm and bright. Show me what ya got."
Daryl set the plush bear carefully on the rug next to his knee so the bear could watch them. Then, with a slow, unfocused care, he opened the thick colouring book. The page he landed on was a picture of a large mother bear and a tiny bear cub walking through the forest.
Daryl stared at the picture, his thumb tracing the outline of the little cub. "Like…like us," Daryl mumbled softly, his voice raspy and thick with sleepiness. He shifted slightly, burying his cheek into Rick's neck. "Big like Daddy…takin' care of me."
Rick's arm tightened around Daryl's waist, pulling him back against his chest as securely as possible. "That's right sweetheart. Just like us," Rick pressed a lingering kiss to Daryl's temple. "Daddy's got you. Always will."
Daryl let out a tiny, satisfied hum and opened the box of crayons. He picked out a bright blue crayon, holding it tightly in his fist like a toddler, beginning to colour the big bear with big, loose, messy strokes.
"Blue bear, huh?" Rick teased softly. "I like it."
"It's Dada's colour," whispered Daryl, scribbling with heavy, earnest blue strokes. "Dada's shirt is blue."
"Is it?" Rick looked down at his faded flannel, chucklingly soft. "Yeah…suppose it is. So you're colouring me?"
Daryl nodded fast. "Big bear is Daddy. Strong bear." He reached into the box and pulled out a warm brown crayon. "Me. With Dada."
"With Dada," Rick repeated, his voice thick with unrecognizable emotion. He leaned forward, covering Daryl's hand with his own palm, helping the sleepy boy colour the little bear together.
For twenty minutes more or less, they coloured in a peaceful silence. Outside was cold, ruined, and dark. But inside the small ring of light from the lamp, there was only warmth, blue and brown wax on paper, and the stead, quiet rhythm of two people who loved one another completely.
Slowly, Daryl's scribbles began to grow wider and lighter until the crayon slipped from his fingers and rolled onto the rug. Daryl's head thudded softly back against Rick's chest, his breathing slowing into deep, peaceful sighs of contentment.
"Sleepy, baby?" Rick murmured, brushing hair away from Daryl's eyes.
"Mmm…" Daryl grunted softly, his fingers lazily urling into the fur of the little bear. "Stay…here…with Dada…"
"We're gonna stay right here, Darlin'," Rick rumbled, pulling the heavy fleece blanket all the way over the both of them, burying them in a warm cocoon on the floor.
As Daryl drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, completely safe in his own little world, Rick rested his cheek against Daryl's hair, letting his own eyes close in the soft, warm quiet of the night.
The remaining hours of the night slipped away in quiet, unbroken stillness. Outside, the wind rattled the old windowpanes, but inside the small circle of warmth on the floorboards, neither of them moved. Rick stayed awake for a long time, his chin resting against the crown of Daryl's head, listening to the soft, rhythmic puffing of Daryl's breath against his neck.
Daryl was fast asleep, his body completely lax and heavy against Rick's chest. One calloused hand was still curled tightly into the small plush bear, and his head remained tucked under Rick's jaw. Whenever Rick shifted even slightly, Daryl would let out a tiny, subconscious whine until Rick softly stroked his back and murmured, Shh, I'm right here, sweetheart. Daddy's here…"
By the time the dark sky outside began to fade into a cool, pale gray morning, the lingering haze of the weed had completely lifted from Rick's mind.
As the faint morning light filtered through the dusty curtains, Daryl began to stir. He let out a slow, heavy sigh, his eyelids fluttering. Slowly, the childlike cloud in his mind began to recede, replaced by the gradual, returning awareness of his adult mind. His eyes blinked open slowly. He looked down at his hands. In his left fist, he was holding a faded plush bear missing a button eye. Spread out on the rug right beside his knee was a colouring book filled with messy blue and brown crayon scribbles.
Daryl froze immediately.
A sudden flush of heat rushed to his cheeks, creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. Memory returned to him in vivid, startling flashes: the heavy, dizzy weight in his limbs; clinging to Rick like a terrified toddler; asking for toys; crying because he didn't know how to play with said toys; and calling Rick…Daddy.
Mortified, Daryl gasped softly and tried to scramble backward off of Rick's lap.
"Rick—I—" Daryl stammered, his usual raspy, gruff voice returning, though thick with panic. He dropped the bear as if it had burnt him and tried to untangle his legs from the blanket. "I'm—Jesus, Rick, I'm sorry, I don't—"
"Hey, hey…whoa," Rick soothed instantly, his movements smooth and calm. Rather than letting Daryl scramble away in shame, Rick reached out and gently caught him by the wrists, holding him firmly but tenderly. "Look at me, Daryl. Stop. Look at me."
Daryl kept his head down, hair falling forward over his face, unable to meet Rick's eyes. His shoulders were hitched up to his ears, defensive and tense.
"I didn't—I don't know what happened…" Daryl muttered, his voice shaking slightly as he stared down at the floorboards. "The smoke…my head went all strange. I was…acting like a damn kid. Cryin' over crayons…'m sorry."
Rick let out a low, gentle sigh. He released Daryl's wrists and instead reached up, carefully tucking Daryl's messy bangs behind his ear so he could see his face.
"Don't you dare apologize to me," Rick said softly, his tone solid and earnest. "You hear me? You got nothin' to apologize for."
Daryl peeked through his wet lashes, searching Rick's face for any sign of disgust of amusement. He found none. Rick's blue eyes were soft, filled only with deep, unconditional love and warmth.
"Rick, I was…I couldn't even colour, man…" Daryl mumbled, his face burning hotter. "I panicked. I called ya…" Daryl swallowed, hard, unable to bring himself to say the word out loud.
"You called me Daddy," Rick finished gently, a soft, fond smile gracing his lips. He reached out and cupped the side of Daryl's jaw, his thumb resting against Daryl's cheekbone. "And it was okay, Daryl. It was more than okay."
Daryl blinked, his throat working as he tried to process Rick's reaction. "You…ya ain't mad? Ya don't think it's…weird?"
"Mad?" Rick echoed softly, shaking his head firmly. "Baby, you've spent your whole life carrying everything on your shoulders. Before the world ended, after it ended… you never got a chance to just be safe. You never got to let your guard down."
Rick leaned forward. pressing his forehead gently against Daryl's.
"When the weed hit ya last night, you felt safe enough with me to let go," Rick whispered, voice thick with adoration. "You needed to be taken care of, and I took care of ya. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I love you, Daryl. Every part of you."
Daryl let out a long, shaky breath, the panic in his chest finally deflating. The tense line of his shoulders dropped. He reached up with one calloused hand and rested it over Rick's on his jaw, leaning into the warmth of his palm.
"Felt…real safe," Daryl admitted quietly, voice dropping into a rough whisper. "Never felt like that 'fore. Like…nothin' could get me."
"Nothin' can get you when you're with me, baby," Rick murmured, leaning in to press a gentle, sweet kiss to Daryl's lips.
When Rick pulled back, Daryl looked down at the rug again. His gaze landed on the little bear laying beside them, and then on the page of the colouring book were a blue bear was shielding the brown cub.
Slowly, hesitantly, Daryl reached down and picked up the bear, running his thumb over the soft, worn fabric. He didn't hide it this time. He held it loosely in his lap, looking over at Rick with a faint, genuine smirk starting to tug at the corner of his mouth.
"Blue bear, huh?" Daryl muttered, glancing at the clumsy colouring from the previous night.
Rick laughed softly, a bright clear sound in the quiet of the morning. He leaned over, wrapping his arm securely around Daryl's waist and pulling him close against his side.
"Yeah," Rick smiled, kissing Daryl's hair. "Real strong bear. And I ain't going nowhere."