Chapter Text
The past year had taken it's pound of flesh from the Grimes family. In Rick had come home for lunch on the first Wednesday of the month. Shane, who was his usual lunch partner, had a doctor's appointment. Suffice it to say, Shane was not at the doctor. Rick stepped into his own bedroom to find Lori and Shane in bed together. Lori had moved out of their family's home before the end of the month. Rick was served with the divorce petition in the following week. Rick would have gotten full custody of Judith and Carl if he'd petitioned for it, but he wanted to leave the decision up to Carl. After two months, it was on paper that they were legally divorced, and Rick kept the kids for 2.5 weeks out of the month. The other week and a half was spent with Lori and Shane in the next state over. Rick chose not to uproot the children, but it meant submitting himself to the prying eyes of their small town community. He had to take all of the sympathetic looks and words of affirmation on the chin.
Daryl was finally able to drag Rick out from underneath Carl's horrendous math homework and Judith's coloring book drawings long enough to grab a drink, and because he knew Rick would never vocally admit to needing a break. They go to a bar on the edge of town, which is a little sketchy for Rick's taste, but he's a cop and is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Daryl had mentioned something about Merle taking him here once on their way over. Daryl doesn't judge as Rick nurses his sorrows with bourbon, and he sticks with beer so he can drive him home afterwards. After their first round they play a game of darts, which Rick loses, and is forced to take a shot by Daryl's decree. They make their way back to the stools they'd abandoned to start their second round. By the time they start their third, the bar has a good amount of patrons.
“Boom! I hope you’ve got your shittin’ pants on. Cause you’re more fucked than a Catholic priest caught with a goddamn alter boy!”
Even through the music, the words bounce off the bar’s walls. The rest of the patrons don’t bat an eye at the obscenities, but it draws Rick’s attention. Rick’s eyes land on the man (the only man near the pool table that looks like he could proudly come up with something that vulgar) and finds he’s not the generic forty-something loud mouth asshole he was expecting. The guy was probably still an asshole, but he didn’t look generic in the slightest- Who the hell wears a leather jacket in Georgia? Long leather clad arms are stretched to pocket another ball, as the man lines up his next shot. His eyes are leveling the ball before the sound of the pool balls colliding mixes with the music overhead. Another Chesire-like grin is on the man’s face, surrounded by salt and pepper stubble. His expression is positively smug as another man, who’s smaller in build with a dark mustache, shoves a couple twenties in his outstretched palm. The game’s winner pushes his dark hair back on his head before reaching for his beer, his tongue poking out from between his teeth as Mustache laments his loss. Rick doesn’t have enough time to move his gaze before the man’s eyes shift toward the bar, and dark cinnamon colored eyes lock onto his own. Rick had been face to face with violent criminals more times than he could count on both hands, and none of them had ever made his pulse jump the way it did when he felt the man’s eyes hit him. Once caught, Rick’s eyes reverted to the beer taps, trying to play it off like he suddenly needed a beer (even though the old fashioned in his hand was only a quarter of the way down). Daryl’s attention shifted from the television above the bartender’s head, losing interest in the football game that was on. “Carl doing any better?” He asked, striking the conversation back up. A small sigh left Rick at the question, giving the other man a small shake of his head. “He’s grounded for another eight days.” They were six days into his son’s two week grounding- which was lenient given his attitude lately. Rick’s mind was brought back to the previous week.
“It’s your fault.” Carl is seething; his nostrils flare as his fist slams down on the dining room table. The words cut through Rick like a knife, and he’s sure it’s evident in his eyes. He knew how hard it’d been on Carl since Lori had petitioned for divorce. He tried not to let it sting as much as it did; teenagers say things fueled by anger all the time. By now, Judith has begun to cry at all of the commotion and hostility hanging in the air. Rick can hear Carl’s boots on the stairs as he ascends them quickly, followed by a loud slam.
“He’s fifteen. He has a lot of new emotions he doesn’t know how to deal with yet.” Rick’s words are carefully chosen. Daryl just nods, usually not being good with words, but he offers what he can to help Rick feel better. “He’ll come around.” He tells the sheriff as the next song comes on over the speakers.
I look at you and my blood boils hot
I feel my temperature rise
I want it all, give me what you got
It's hunger in your eye
Rick mindlessly nods in response to Daryl, and then he feels eyes boring into the back of his head. He already knows. “Don’t do it” his brain warns, but he steals a glance anyway, his eyes going back to the group by the pool table. He’s met with a wolfish grin, not shying away when Rick’s eyes find him again. Rick does however, his eyes leaving the man just as quick as they’d stolen a look. He has to be drunk. His hand brings his half empty glass back to his lips, drinking down the rest of its contents in one swallow.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom. Then let’s get out of here.” He informs Daryl, who doesn’t protest, as Rick stands and makes his way toward the bathroom. He can feel eyes following him the entire time, as if he’s being stalked by a predator, and he doesn’t dare look toward the pool table again.