Chapter Text
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“Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes”
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Six years had passed, and still every time thunder rolled dark and hungry in the Kentucky sky something was awakened deep inside of Rick Grimes. It was warm and electric, sinister and thrilling, nostalgic and dreadful in a way that reminded him of damp and heat and the suffocating sweet-rot air between the trees in the South Georgia swamp. A faint trace of something that use to feel like home, and was now a distant memory that he kept caged in chest and only looked back on when he needed to feel something. Anything. To remember what living used to feel like.
He grew to hate thunderstorms.
He and Shane had graduated from the Atlanta Police Academy years ago, joining the summer program straight out of high school, and Rick devoted every ounce of strength he had left to something that was structured and controlled and dangerous in a way that he could direct and arrange to suit his needs. If it hadn’t been for the classes, the 5 am drills, the bone-aching exhaustion that the recruits were reduced to day after tiring day in the Georgia sun – and Shane’s diligent sentry beside him – the numbness might have consumed him those first few months. The dead thing that miraculously still beat in his chest, and had painstakingly learned how to do so without hurting over the years, would have killed him from the pain and emptiness left behind. It’s hard to start over when you learn everything you’ve ever known has been a lie, but Rick did it – he had never been one to give up, even when all hope had been ripped from him, and he hadn’t planned on starting that summer.
Daryl Dixon didn’t get to take that from him too.
His bitter rage didn’t make the years easier, especially when he knew he couldn’t unleash it on the people he held close, like his mother or his grandparents or Shane, but it helped him power through the tough spots. When his smile was harder to hold on to, when he woke up in the morning from dreams of scarred tan skin and pale blue eyes and shy barely there smiles, when the ache in his chest was too hard to breathe past and his eyes burned wet and hot – when he remembered what was lost. The most he could do was push it down, deep as he could, kept it dark and buried so far away from what his days had turned into that eventually he started to forget it was there at all. He could focus on his drills, the tasks at hand and remembering protocols, being aware of absolutely everything around him as well as keeping an eye on his partner and watching his back too. And once he and Shane were picked up by the King County Sheriff’s department back home in Kentucky, every horrible meticulous thing that they had to do being the rookies on the force filled up their days as well. So all Rick had to dread were the nights when he was alone with his thoughts.
Shane understood, and Rick could never repay the man for his patience and loyalty as Rick learned to be himself again. He had forfeited his summer plans without a second thought and joined Rick on orientation day at the academy with a bright excited smile and a wildness in his eyes. When they graduated he hadn’t even suggested any Police Forces or Sheriff’s Departments in Georgia at all, just drove Rick home keeping his mind occupied with all the stupid shit they had done over their two years in the academy, and had ended up being the one to suggest his home county as employment. That way Rick could still stay near his mother, and Shane could get the fuck out of Georgia. His friend had been itching to get out of White Oak and away from the Walsh family estates practically the entire time Rick had known him. So it wasn’t too much of a stretch, and was almost believable when he suggested it. Shane never once mentioned the name of the person who destroyed Rick’s life, didn’t even speak of the place he himself had called home, only ever talking about the future and what it could hold for them. An apartment near Rick’s mom, but far enough away she couldn’t hear about Shane picking up every small town girl in 10 miles, and getting their own squad car and patrol – running this damn town, man, this damn COUNTY, we’re gonna live like kings Ricky! The kings of King County, ha!
And they had, Rick and Shane, they spent years earning their stripes and soon had a routine set up. They only lived together all of a year before Rick discovered he really couldn’t live with his best friend and work with him all day, and ended up finding his own place closer to the community college. Where he had started taking classes at night, just for the hell of it and to keep his frantic mind occupied. His mother was really happy to hear about it. But he picked Shane up before each shift, they talked and laughed and shot the shit the whole way to the station, loaded up and did their patrols, filed paperwork and spent a few nights a week at the bar – and while Shane picked up chicks Rick went to night classes and was slowly working towards a Bachelor’s degree at a snail’s pace.
Rick visited his Mother at the hospital every chance he could, when he and Shane were there in full uniform during their shifts if their calls ever led them there, or just taking her dinner when he had spare time. He called his grandparents once a week, his Grandmother chatting his ear off every time about this or that around the estate and gossip in town, and on how his Grandpappy’s steadily declining health was going – though she always had hope when they spoke. As if his genetic disease could be swatted away like a mosquito and he’d bounce back, one day.
Soon Rick had friends, his loved ones close, a life, a planned out week that was patterned to the week after that, and the week after that. Four weeks in a row of his routine made a month, four months and then the weather changed, four seasons made a year – and time passed. With or without him it would’ve passed anyway, if Rick had learned anything in his time with Daryl Dixon it was that life will always keep moving, things were born and grew and died and decayed all in the blink of an eye. The wind blew, the rain fell, the sun rose in the East and traveled across the sky before disappearing beyond the Western horizon, only to be followed by the moon and the stars. The world kept moving, so he might as well do the same. The scars on his heart healed with time, and though there was always something heavy and dead settled there like a weight tied to his chest, Rick soon learned to carry it and go on despite what was obviously missing. Hell, he even managed to smile at the girl in his Anthropology class that had been trying to get his attention for months, she was tall and willowy and shined soft like the sun in spring – and was everything the opposite of the intense heat he had left behind in White Oak. There was hope. For once in his life since he’d lain in the back of a truck bed under the Georgia sky and dreamed about what his future could hold, Rick Grimes had started to feel something resembling a chance at a life that didn’t hurt anymore. He and Shane weren’t rookies any longer, he had an apartment and a decent credit report, 6 college credits left to graduate, and a group of people surrounding him that he could allow himself to trust.
His life was looking up, finally.
And then his Grandpappy died.
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“Rick you have to,” his Mother pleaded, voice straining and choked up from crying probably, and though Rick knew she was right it didn’t keep him from wanting so badly to just hang up the phone. “Ya know he wouldn’t have wanted to be buried anywhere else, yer Grandmother is going to be keeping everything at home – you can’t just not say goodbye.”
“Mom,” Rick ground out, hating himself and everything about the damn conversation, but mostly hating the blooming ache in his chest that was resonating hurt and pain and mourning so deep and profound that it was crushing. “Don’t – ya can’t ask me to, don’t make me do this.” He couldn’t go back. He wasn’t ready. It had been years but he just couldn’t go back, he had never wanted to step foot in White Oak, Georgia ever again – every nook and cranny of that damn hick town seared into his mind with memories both painful and wonderful and it would kill him to see them. Remember everything vividly, he couldn’t even imagine driving down the fucking highway with the swamps bracketing either side, calling to him and threatening to draw him back in. He could barely breathe thinking about it.
His Grandpappy passing had been a long time coming, the past year being particularly hard on him and Rick’s Grandmother, but they had stayed at home. She cared for him out of the old estate rooms, in a place he had been born into, grew up in, married the love of his life and raised a child in, and a grandchild. There was nowhere else he would have wanted to die, to remain for the rest of his life and after, to be buried beside his only son and Rick’s father. Rick should respect that, knew he was going to cave in to his Mother’s request and return to say a final farewell, to support his Grandmother – but that didn’t mean he would do so readily. White Oak wasn’t home to him, it was a painful reminder at best, and he wouldn’t be staying a minute longer than he had to if he had any say at all.
“I know it’s hard Ricky,” his Mother said with so much empathy in her voice that it made Rick want to be sick, “but I also know yer going.” Rick nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see him, but his Mother knew him well enough anyway. “We can drive down together, if ya want?”
“No,” Rick said quietly, drained, resigned. “I can’t – I won’t be down there ‘til right before the funeral. What day is it?” His Mother never saw him break down because of the quiet, redneck boy she had been so fond of. Just what was left behind after her son drowned himself in the academy and school and work and anything else he possibly could. Rick wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to witness round two of Rick’s heart shattering into pieces.
“Saturday, the wake will be Friday,” his Mother answered just as quietly. “Can you be there Friday? She’ll want ya to be there.”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Rick muttered, hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose and trying to quell the headache that was beginning to throb in time with his painful heartbeat. “I… I’ll come down Thursday night, late. I’ll leave that morning.” That way it would be dark when he got there, so he wouldn’t have to recognize anything beyond vague shapes and street signs. Now that the panic had subsided, and Rick knew he was doing this, his rational mind started to pre-arrange the whole trip. Make it as painless as possible, he was going for his Grandpappy’s funeral – not to mourn the tattered memories of Daryl Dixon. This was about his Grandpappy, not Rick, and certainly not Daryl. He was a fucking grown up, and Rick could deal with this like the responsible man he’d become. He could.
“Thank you,” his Mother answered too gratefully, and Rick felt horrible for kicking up a fuss at first. Like a petulant child that didn’t want to go to school.
“’m sorry Mom,” Rick forced himself to say. “You shouldn’ have ta walk on egg shells around me, I’m fine. I’ll be there, I promise.” His voice ended strong, and that helped him drop his hand from his face and stand a little taller. He’d moved on, he told himself every morning when he woke up that he’d moved on, it was time to prove to himself and everyone else that he had.
Rick could return to White Oak, Georgia without falling apart.
He had his rage to hold on to for that.
--
The summer sun burned bright and red on the horizon, watching as Rick sped down the highway through the sprawling swamps and Coastal Plain of Southern Georgia. It was all farm land and heat waves with the beginnings of the damp humidity beginning to surface the further he drove, air conditioning on full blast and the windows rolled up to counter everything flying by outside. The smell of trees and moss and mud, the thick reminders of the rain that was ready to fall clinging to the hot air, the choruses of crickets and mosquitoes and cicadas calling from the depths of the trees so loud Rick could almost hear it through the music that he was playing too loudly.
Doing his best to drown out anything that vaguely felt too much like home, though it was a wasted effort. Rick had drove too fast, dodged the traffic jams in Atlanta, and ended up turning onto the White Oak exit ramp before the sun had fully set. A small, petty part of himself wanted to get there after dark so he wouldn’t be able to recognize much with just his headlights illuminating everything – but apparently another part of himself wouldn’t allow him to go take a long dinner, or drive just a little slower, and wanted to see the town that he had basically grown up in.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that it hadn’t changed one bit.
Every turn, every road, every house, even Main Street looked the exact same as the day he had left it, tinted pink and orange in the dying light. No one would recognize him in his car, after all it was his car and not his Grandmother’s old four-door, which had died a peaceful death in his apartment parking lot one particular hot day two summers before. So he cruised through the streets without any fanfare, and then turned on to the gravel backroads and soaked in the surrounding trees, the swamps that sprawled up onto the gravel expanses and sometimes under them on cement bridges. It was like something out of a dream, a distant memory that was so nostalgic it tugged at his chest until he couldn’t breathe – until it was so suffocating inside his small car that Rick finally caved, and rolled down the windows.
Sound rushed in like a levee breaking. The thick humid air with the smells of Spanish moss and mud and a freshness that was combined from rot and growing plants and life filled the air and Rick’s lungs. So much he couldn’t help but breathe deep, letting out a sigh that emptied him of all the stress and worry that had been weighing so heavily the past few days. It was like it had refreshed his soul. The white-noise of cicadas and mosquitoes and the wind flying by his open window drowned out his radio, and for a moment Rick forgot why he wanted to block everything out. A tidal wave of memories and sensations that were so familiar and so much like coming home he even felt his eyes start to burn and blur around the edges, though he swallowed hard and instead took another deep breath, and turned on to the same plantation road that he and Shane had wiped out on so many times years and years ago because they took their bikes too fast. The crunch of gravel under his tires having the same dips and fucking potholes they had since he was 10 years old because no one ever fixed them, the same large white-painted Southern houses glowing like lanterns far up their drives, among the tall dark trees in the fading evening light.
Before he had even recognized it, he was turning into his grandparent’s winding drive, coasting along the turns of the property, and not having once regretted the memories that were hitting him sporadically. Only surfacing when he glanced away from the road and spotted something that shouldn’t have had significance at all, but it was still that tree that he and Daryl had ducked under during the storm before racing across to the mud room, his grandpappy’s shed that had the witches marks carved into them for protection, the treeline he had stared at when he was so small he could barely remember. The same treeline he had disappeared behind time and time again as he darted through the swamp, on his way to wherever the day was taking him. One area of the treeline in particular, that should have had a path worn in it with how many times he used it, because not a mile through the swamp in that direction was the Dixon house. He used to know the woods like the back of his hand, though Rick knew that now the swamp had probably morphed and changed in the years he’d been gone – and if he were to go in there again, he would for sure get lost in a matter of minutes. Because in White Oak, Georgia – even the smallest of things never changed.
The sky was a bruised watercolor blend of dark purples and blues when he pulled up to his grandparent’s house, the lightning bugs lighting up the dark property in the tall grass and the cicadas in the trees as loud as police sirens. The plantation house still sat proud and tall, a little wear and tear around the edges form the Georgia heat and humidity, but even without the upkeep it would outlive them all. Stepping out of the car was just as earth-shattering as opening the car windows, Rick felt 15 years old again – hopping out of his Mom’s maroon mini-van and immediately the feeling of home washed over him. It was like a small part of him he hadn’t even known was missing had just slid back into place, and a tranquility took hold of him that he hadn’t felt in years. Looking around the property, same as it was when he drove away six years ago, Rick couldn’t help but smile at every familiar nook and cranny. Nothing had changed.
He had barely gotten to his trunk to grab his duffle-bag with ‘King County SHERIFF Department’ embroidered on the side before the front doors burst open and two small children were racing out to greet him, one much taller and faster than the other, followed by his Mother.
“You made it!” his Mother said so loudly the whole street must have heard, and the taller girl laughed in excited delight as she stopped right by Rick’s open trunk, grinning so wide her smile was all teeth, and her short brown bob a mess from running around the property was Rick’s guess. He had been the same at her age, the girl looking about ten or eleven years old. The smaller girl that couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3 ran up to them also and didn’t stop until she latched onto her sister’s leg, long white-blonde hair pulled back in pigtails and hiding her big blue eyes as she buried her face into the other girl’s side. It took Rick a minute to recognize them.
“Nah,” he grinned at the older girl, blue eyes lighting up, “you can’t be.” The little girl giggled at his antics. “You’re not Maggie Greene, she was only this high last I saw her,” he motioned about two feet off the ground, and then swung his Sheriff's bag over his shoulder.
“’Course I am!” Maggie told him. “I grew up, an’ so did you! You’re a grown up now and everythin’,” she gave him a side eye and a grin that had far too much sass for someone who wasn’t even a teenager yet.
“Let ‘em think that,” Rick winked at her. “I’m still a big kid and you know it. And who’s this?” he titled his head to the side to get a better look at the small girl who had peeked at him from where she was still hiding, only to squeek and hide her face again. Maggie picked her up off the ground, setting her easy on her hip like she did it all the time, and grinned proudly.
“This is Beth, say hi ta Rick,” she demanded of the little girl, who waved shyly and curled inwards as if to make herself even smaller.
“Well hi Beth,” Rick smiled sweetly at her, bending down a little to get to her level. “How old are ya?” The small girl held up two fingers and Rick couldn’t help smiling so wide his teeth showed. “Two? Wow you’re getting big, yer sister won’ be able ta hold ya like that much longer.”
“Hey I’m strong!” Maggie scowled at him. “I’ll always be able to pick her up, she ain’t that heavy anyways.”
Rick held up his hands placating, “if you say so, you’ll have ta prove it to me later though.”
“I will!” Maggie smirked triumphantly, but couldn’t say anymore because Rick’s Mom had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug while rocking side to side happily.
“I can’t believe ya made it before supper!” she said joyfully, finally pulling back and wearing a matching grin. “We got the Greenes and their girls over for the evening, Annette is with your Grandmother out in the back garden if ya want to say hi real quick.” She ushered them all inside, and Rick couldn’t help but see how relaxed his Mom was – she always seemed more at home on the property, and with the Greene girls running around she looked ten years younger. She would be good with grandkids, if he ever had any children on his own, his Mother was always happier when surrounded by family. And he’d give the world to make her as happy as she was right then, he hadn’t seen her like that in years.
But then again, the old plantation house would always be their home. More so than Kentucky ever was.
The old steps sounded the same as his boots clinked against the wood and cement, the porch still creaked in the same spots, and Rick’s hand still went to that spot on the door frame where the all-seeing-eye was carved into the wooden molding. Fingers tracing the witch’s mark as he stepped through the threshold, and every inch of him eased into a blissful state of congenial comfort – as if sinking into a warm bath after a long day. A very, very long day. The house even smelled the same. The grand entry way, which should have felt haunting and at least given him a residual shudder of fear from what had happened there years ago, just felt warm and bright with the giant chandelier glowing yellow and casting patterns on the walls. Rick dropped his stuff at the bottom of the staircase, and was all but dragged by the hand by an excited Maggie Greene towards the kitchen.
Doc Greene stood up from peeling potatoes and shook his hand, and Rick couldn’t help but notice he was happily sober as well. He didn’t say anything about it or ask – but he had a good guess that it was because of the two little girls that the man had stopped drinking. He knew Miss Josephine had died from cancer years ago, and Rick had met his second wife Annette briefly as a teenager, thought she hadn’t been his wife at the time, as well as Annette’s son Sean from her first marriage. But Beth was a new addition, and Doc Greene (who insisted now that Rick call him Hershel) had still been struggling with alcohol withdrawal and a very angry Maggie back then. But everyone looked to be adjusting well, even though the preteen girl still seemed a little stand-offish towards her father, despite the leagues of changes he had made in the six years Rick had been gone. And Rick was proud of him, happy for him, smiled and made quick small talk before his Mother politely interrupted them so Rick could step away and go visit his grandmother out back. It was what they were all there for, after all.
The garden started on a patio, that opened up into the backyard and sprawled all the way to the swamp – a vast array of stone walkways that winded in and around trees and a fountain that hadn’t really run in a decade or so, and the walkway itself was lightly covered with grass as it sprouted between the rust-red bricks. The whole area was covered in plants: rose bushes, blackberry bushes, tall trees and short ones that just never got to the height they needed, wildflowers and various others his Grandmother had planted throughout the lifetime she had spent living there. As well as her boxed in plants and herbs, grown closer to the house and harvested for food and other various activities, as Rick had learned over the years. But she took diligent care of everything – in that she made sure everything grew and was looked after, but she let the plants grow where they wanted. It looked wild and ethereal, and there was a sense of peace that took over the senses as soon as you stepped out onto the patio and smelled the lavender and sage, carried on the fresh breeze hinted with the swamp that always blew towards the house for some reason. Rick never blamed his grandmother for spending all of her time out there, it was her domain.
Annette and his grandmother were sitting on the stone edge of the fountain, talking quietly to each other, not noticing him as he walked up. His grandmother looked good, for what it was worth, aged a little bit and maybe a little tired, but she was smiling and had that little glint in her eyes as she told Annette something that made her bark in laughter and blush a little. Rick decided he didn’t want to know.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” Rick said cheekily, trying to hide his grin that probably came off as a smirk as the two woman turned to him. And his Grandmother lit up like the Georgia sun on the horizon.
“Ricky!” she all but shrieked in happiness, getting to her feet and Rick meeting her halfway as she engulfed him in a hug. “Where hav’ you been! It’s been so long. Getting’ into trouble ‘s my guess.”
“Always,” Rick told her, hugging her back and holding on probably a moment too long. It was hard not to, it had been six years since he had last seen her.
“Living with that Walsh boy I have no doubt,” his Grandmother half-scolded him, holding onto his arms when he pulled back so she could get a good look at him. Which was the last thing Rick wanted in that moment; the short, round woman had intuition like no other, and could always see right through people.
“I moved out four years ago Gan’ma,” Rick rolled his eyes, pretending he was fine, trying to hide everything that was raging inside him because the emotions were so much more than he thought he’d feel. He’d forgotten what home felt like, until his grandmother had hugged him like that, and it was almost too much.
“Well good,” his Grandmother drawled, “that boy is so rowdy. Can’t believe they gave him a gun.”
“I keep him out of trouble,” Rick told her with a small smile.
Her bright blue eyes were watching him carefully, as if looking past the layers of skin and short cropped dark curls and could see how much just being there had been tearing him up and mending him all at the same time, reshaping his insides until he was just a mess that was somehow still standing and talking like a normal human being. She rubbed his arms, still holding on and not letting him go, “I know it was hard, comin’ back here, but it’s good for’ya. I can see that.” She nodded at him and Rick nodded back, swallowing hard – not even aware that Annette had slipped past them and went into the house so they could have privacy out in the late evening darkness.
“Feel like my insides were ripped out,” Rick laughed honestly, and ended up kinda choking on it. Stamping down on that emotion that was bubbling up his throat and burning behind his eyes, boiling beneath his skin and threatening to burst out of him at the seams.
“It’s gotta, an’ you gotta let it. Scoop out all tha’ bad gunk weighing ya down so you can start new,” she told him sternly, making sure Rick’s blue eyes were trained on hers. “So you stop that, righ’ now. Don’ you bury that shit deep, it’s gonna kill ya if ya do. Let it out, let the swamp take it back, need to make room for that fresh Georgia air. Do tha’ – and I promise ye’ll feel better ‘n the morning.” Rick nodded, only lightly startled when his grandmother had cursed at him, feeling more like a man in that moment than anything in the last six years had. And he had shot at people, injured some, pulled bleeding people from burning cars as they cried, spoken to grieving mothers after accidents or robberies. All that horror and tragedy, and his Grandmother speaking to him like a man had finally set it all in place that he wasn’t a kid anymore. He took every word for what it was worth. His grandmother always seemed to know everything anyway, so he’d be an idiot not to. “That an’ a shot of whiskey, y’ll feel right as rain. Take a walk, see what happens.” She patted him on the arm in conclusion to her sermon, and then slowly started to make her way towards the house. “Supper in an hour, wash yer face before ya come back in!” She called to him, and left Rick out in on the dark patio with only the sounds of the leaves in the breeze and the cicadas surrounding him.
Nothing left to do then but do as he was told.
Rick walked around the property twice, getting familiar with the heavy humid air and the symphony of life surrounding him – though he didn’t break down like his grandmother probably thought he was going to, or like he thought he would, to be honest – but he had conditioned himself enough to let the memories and reminiscing come to him slowly and in their own turns. Like waves lapping on a beach. Took the sorrow and the hurt and anger he wanted to feel, let himself feel it, and discovered that not only did he not cry but he also didn’t punch anything. The emotions rage and roared, blocked out everything in bits and pieces, but they didn’t destroy him. He still didn’t feel like he’d moved on, that was clear now with how much his chest still hurt, but maybe he really had learned to live with it. And that had to be the beginning of something.
He returned to the mud-room, which held so many memories it lodged in his throat again, the most prominent being when Daryl was standing there soaking wet and gorgeous as a teenager. Rick kicked off his boots, and instead of stamping out the memory like he had been for days, he held on to it and found that he didn’t feel angry remembering it, just sad in a bittersweet way – because it had been a happy moment, back when it happened. There was still some part of him that remembered that.
And then the door slammed shut behind him.
Rick whipped around to stare at it, holding his breath. Not even the loose glass panes in the little window rattled, no breeze blew against the rickety hinges, it was as still as the grave outside. Slowly Rick smiled, wide and astonished, and something elated filled his chest to replace the sorrowful memory.
“…Hello to you, too,” he told the empty room, appeasing whatever was there and needed to be recognized, still grinning as he turned away once more and entered the kitchen to help with supper.
--
The wake was the next day, and basically the whole county showed up.
It ended up being a party more than a wake, which was honestly probably how his grandpappy would have wanted it. He had been a quiet man, especially after the Huntington’s got to the later stages and he was confined to the house, but he had been a part of the community for a long time before that – born and raised there, went to war as a young man, and came back only to join the county sheriff’s department just like Rick had decades later. Many people were very happy to hear that was his occupation, including his grandpappy’s old station buddies and co-workers across the county. He was always well-liked, had been fair and kind, and worked until he physically couldn’t any longer. His old partner had told Rick a story that afternoon about when his grandpappy had first been diagnosed and told his life expectancy, how he had embraced it instead of mourning it. Had basically smiled at the doctor and said “bring it on”, though Rick doubted he had used those words exactly.
Though the old man had beat that doctor’s timeline by nearly ten years, so maybe he had.
The wake had over-flowed after a while, spilled out of the large house and onto the lawns. There was food and beer and kids running around, chatter and laughter among the tears, one passing by would think it was a summer barbeque and not a wake except that most were wearing black. Even a lot of the shop owners had showed up, saying they shut down early because all of their patrons were currently on the Grimes estate, so they came to pay their respects as well – and maybe have a beer and some burgers.
But that just made it even more apparent who wasn’t there.
Shane showed up with his parents about mid-afternoon, gave Rick the tightest hug and patted his back so hard it overtook the hollow feeling in his chest, echoed against his bones. Said “Sorry brother,” got him a beer, and pulled his long-time partner away from the condolences and curious gossipers that wanted to know all about his life in Kentucky – now that Rick Grimes had returned to White Oak, Georgia. He couldn’t even imagine the stories they must have told about him, when he never came back that final summer after high school. They ended up chatting with a few other station buddies of Rick’s grandpappy’s, and then circled the grounds while drinking from their long-neck bottles and enjoying the buzz of life that had filled the estate.
“Ya doin’ alright?” Shane finally asked when they passed his grandpappy’s old shed for the second time, Rick’s eyes always zeroing in on the carved marks that still resided there – as heavy and pronounced as burn marks against the chipped white paint. Rick nodded instead of answering, taking another swig from his bottle and once again soaking in his surroundings. The Georgia sun, the light breeze, the smell and sounds of the swamp to their right and the hum of constant talking coming from the party across the lawns to their left. Sometimes the shrieks of children mixing in with the bugs and the leaves moving in the trees and faint roar of passing cars. So much was moving, going on around them, and Rick couldn’t help but feel like a by-stander to it all. Observing something that looked and felt like it was familiar, that it should still be a part of him, and somewhere along the way of trying to move on from leaving his home behind he had somehow succeeded. And never even knew it.
“Not as bad as I thought it’d be,” Rick finally spoke in the quiet afternoon, edging the treeline and looking past the bordering trunks to the trails laid within, twisting and so enticing to follow with his eyes. Knowing already what the soft swamp floor would feel like beneath his boots, the humidity between the trees and beneath the canopy of vines and leaves would feel like against his skin, how the air would taste in his lungs. “Doesn’ hurt like I though’ it would.”
“It’s home,” Shane muttered quietly, distantly – as if thinking about his own corner of White Oak, and Rick was reminded that not only had he not been home in a long time, but neither had Shane. Sure he actually visited his family, unlike Rick, but it had to have been at least a year since he’d been this far South of Atlanta. Possibly two. “Sticks to yer shoes, keeps ya rooted, an’ at first ya can’t remember why ya ever wanted to leave.”
“Shane, you hate White Oak,” Rick told him, it wasn’t something to be taken lightly either. Shane truly despised the town and everything it wanted him to be.
“Yeah,” Shane drawled, low and long, a sigh following the word as he fiddled with his now empty beer bottle. Dark eyes scanning the horizon and probably picking people out in the crowd that were the main reason he hated coming back to the small backwoods town. “But it’s home, always will be. One place on Earth I can always come back to, tha’ I know better than anythin’. Just steppin’ outta my truck felt like comin’ home.” He was quiet for another moment, and Rick knew the feeling Shane had been talking about.
“You don’t miss the people, Shane. You hate it here, just like I do,” Rick murmured into the lip of his bottle before downing the last of it. “You missed the swamp. An’ those damn frogs.” Shane’s mouth quirked into a smile, pulling at one side but lightening the dark look that had settled on his face. “An’ the watering hole, the bonfires - ”
“The whiskey.”
“Shooting at cans on the fenceline.”
“Dragging your ass out of bed during the summer to run around with me and cruise for girls.”
“Well, you cruised for girls. I was more a wingman until you ditched me.”
“Took them deep out in the swamp,” Shane near smirked at the memories Rick probably knew too much about, and in too much detail to hear repeat performances. “Parked the truck, made out in the back, they loved that shit under the stars.”
He might of hummed in agreement, but Rick’s blood turned to ice in his veins, and he tried to take another pull from his bottle – forgetting it was empty – anything to distract him from the waves of memories that crashed into him at the statements. Images of making out, and doing various other things with Daryl Dixon in the back of Merle’s pickup truck, late into the night and far out in the woods where no one could find them. Where Daryl got to be himself, let go, and not worry about getting caught with his lips seared to Rick’s neck as he sucked on him like a leech. Set his skin on fire with his touch.
“Shit, man I’m sorry.” Shane’s words broke through his daze, where he had been staring off numbly, just letting the assault of memories and sensations and emotions drown him until he could barely breathe. “I know y’all did shit like that too, didn’t mean ta bring it up.”
“Everything’s bringing shit up,” Rick said quietly, trying to be reassuring and failing pretty badly. “If it ain’t that it’ll be somethang else, don’t sweat it. I’ll get over it.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Shane couldn’t help but point out, just as quiet.
“And one day it’ll be true,” Rick said as carelessly as he could, now not looking at anything but the empty bottle in his hands. He felt Shane staring at him, but he refused to return the look until he could swallow past the lump in his throat and hold on to some form of resolve and believe what he was saying. “Who says that day ain’t today?” Shane had no pity in his stare, just nodded and tried to tilt his mouth into a smile that could have been reassuring if he agreed in the slightest.
But instead he held up his empty bottle, let his strained half smile fall into any easy smirk, and asked “Round two?” Because he was a good friend like that.
“Two?” Rick huffed. “Yer behind, I’m ready fer round four.”
That day might not have been the day Rick would finally get over Daryl Dixon, but it was definitely going to be the day he would drink until he and Shane were downing whiskey with his Grandpappy’s old station buddies and he finally passed out on the porch swing. So blacked out that he slept straight through until the morning sun broke over the sea of trees in the swamp, and Rick realized he didn’t once dream of the boy with the pale blue eyes and shy smile only ever meant for him.
--
The White Oak cemetery was older than the town itself. The plot of land fenced off with rusted wrought iron far down the plantation road, located in a clearing in the swamp with its own iconic white oak tree that was so large it rivaled some of the trailers and houses around there. It was so old that the town was named after it, and the place it stood on was one of the first cemeteries in the state of Georgia that was a collective of the residents of the area – seeing as most of the families in the South preferred to have family plots on the grounds of their own land. Rick had asked many times, back when he was learning about those time periods in his school history classes, why there was a community cemetery and not separate ones like his textbooks dictated. But he was always blown off, steered in a different direction, told to go outside and play, and had ultimately never gotten an answer.
The white oak tree was the first thing they saw as they drove down the plantation road, towering over the rest of the swamp and just as tall as the church steeple that should have caved in on itself long ago. There was a reason everyone used the church on the North side of town, where Shane’s uncle was the pastor and the walls were actually insulated; the church that stood by the White Oak cemetery was more of a shell of a building. There had been a fire, so long ago Rick doubted his dad had even been born, and it’s marks scorched the last remnants of aged white paint on the remaining walls like brands – most of the frame was still intact despite the beating it must take day in and day out from the Georgia heat and humidity, but the walls and roof were gone in patches that left it looking like the church itself had just grown out of the ground. Another piece that had been reclaimed by the swamp, faith alone was all that made it stay standing.
But the town still used the cemetery, and held their funeral services outside in the shadow of the abandoned church, all out of tradition and a sense of familiarity in the old grounds. There was something about how the air between the old tombstones smelled like magnolia flowers and Spanish moss, the grass was fresh and green and there was always life teaming among the death, bugs and flowers and birds carried on the breeze, an air of peace and acceptance settled where there should have been sorrow. The way the Georgia sunshine didn’t burn so harshly in the shade of the giant old live oak, cracked bark white and gnarled with age, standing vigil over the moss covered tombstones and mausoleums. Because of the White Oak cemetery, Rick had never understood why there was such a taboo with graveyards – painted as creepy and daunting, when all he had known was the other-worldly patch of ground down the road from his grandparents’ estate. And stepping out of the driver’s side of his car into the quiet gravel parking lot next to the old church gave Rick that same sense of serene concession, soothing like a balm after the years of constant anger and mourning and regret. Here, in a place that revered death and celebrated life all at once, everything that had been plaguing him seemed so small.
This was a time to think of his grandpappy, and all that he had meant to him. Rick had spent enough time dedicating every waking thought to Daryl Dixon, he refused to spend the day he put his grandfather in the ground doing the same thing. The atmosphere around the church made it a lot easier than Rick could have ever anticipated.
The service was perfect, just the right balance of reflective and fondly nostalgic, with only a few touches on religion and next to none on how everyone should consider their own lives in the face of death. His father’s funeral had been about how short life is, how everyone should treasure what they have, and focus on what God’s plan for them was – and Rick had hated it, had run off before the service had ended, and never even got to see them lower the casket into the ground. But his grandpappy had been a grounded man, and had also known what was coming for a long time, he had spoken with Scott Walsh years and years ago and told him what he did and did not want when his time came. Rick couldn’t help but smile in a few places, because the words and phrases in Pastor Walsh’s sermon was so familiar it was as if his grandpappy was standing right there telling it himself. Though that also made tears burn behind his eyes, because his grandpappy hadn’t been able to string three words together coherently for a good number of years now, and if he had Rick had missed them. Because he had been hiding in Kentucky, and he never got to speak to his grandpappy one last time before the disease destroyed who he was. His grandmother had to go through that alone, Rick’s Mother had stayed in Kentucky most of the time to cater to her heartbroken son, and Rick’s grandmother had no one but the hospice care-takers to help her. Rick hadn’t thought twice about it, and guilt was now wracking his body as he reflected on the past few years, and on how his Grandmother had still jumped to her feet and hugged him when he finally returned – after abandoning her when she probably needed family the most.
Now, standing next to her as she stood strong and shed quiet bittersweet tears, Rick reached out and grabbed her hand. The old woman returned the gesture with no hesitation, pulled him closer so she could take his arm in hers and hold his hand tighter, patting it with the other and smiling through the tears before looking at him. She looked so proud of him, and Rick, who wasn’t sure when he had forgotten what was important – subconsciously decided that this woman who practically raised him after his father passed shouldn’t be given the same amount of love and attention as his Mother. But he made a silent promise, to himself and his grandpappy, that he would never leave her alone again like that. Family was all he had. Throwing it away wasn’t an option, not for him.
Keeping his arm wound tight with hers, Rick escorted his Grandmother to the casket to lay roses down, stayed with her as people shook hands during the procession, and was once again surprised to see he had been so very, very wrong about what was going on around him. Rick was the one that had been alone, his Grandmother had an entire community that rallied behind her in an instant – each shaking her hand, saying they were so sorry, but also saying they will see her for bingo night that weekend. That they still had bridge on Wednesday, but she didn’t need to bring anything for potluck, though his grandmother smiled and said she still had some of Mr. Burwell’s bathtub gin left over from the week before. Some asked if they could bring her casseroles or pies, some invited her to their own houses for lunch or supper, or offered to come help fix up some things around the estate and grounds. Rick bowed his head and let the humbleness of it all smack him upside the head, like his Mother had done so many times when he was young and arrogant, because it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the world was going to go on without him there. There was so much more to life than his grievances and self-pity, the world did not revolve around him, and Rick soaked in the revelation like the last rays of the Georgia sun.
There was to be another round of food and drinks and celebrating the life of James Buchannon Grimes. And although Rick wanted to stay at the cemetery longer – still in a reflective mood – he drove his Grandmother back to the Grimes estate first and left her in the good care of his Mother and all of the friends that hadn’t left her side in hours. Someone had strung up Christmas lights and lanterns from the house to the large trees on the ground, illuminating the area in the fading light, set up picnic tables and started the grills, the Grimes plantation once again buzzing with life and chatter and children running around to get rid of the jitters from standing at the cemetery for so long. Rick shared short acknowledgements and accepted condolences as he slowly made his way back towards the plantation road when a voice stopped him.
“RICK! HEY RICK!” loud and high pitched, a small smile that was real and so light escaped his lips as Rick turned around to Maggie Greene running up to him in a black summer dress covered in darker floral patterns to match the funeral procession. “Where ya goin’?” she asked as she stopped just short of running into him, grass stains already on her knees and in her hair, the dress was probably going to end up with tears before the night was over.
“Jus’ back to the cemetery, think I left somethang there,” Rick told her, smiling lightly because it could have been a white lie if Rick didn’t feel like he still had some unfinished business between the tombstones. There was someone he needed to see, and he didn’t get the chance with all the commotion and people at the service.
“Can I com’?” Maggie asked, bright eyes showing how badly she needed to go and do something, and Rick knew that all too well, he had been the same way.
“Sure, go ask yer mom real quick, I’ll wait,” he smiled at her, and watched her run off through the grass with crickets and lightning bugs scattering at each step, pondering if he should mow the grass while he was there. It’d take all day, but it would give him something to do, and maybe he should ask why the house looked a little unkempt since he had last seen it. His grandparents had always had someone come up once a week to do work on the grounds, but it looked like the place hadn’t seen much attention in a few weeks – maybe even a few months, and that just wasn’t like them. His grandmother loved the estate more than anything, although it must have been hard the past month or two with his grandpappy declining so rapidly. Rick would help her get everything back on it’s feet before he went back home.
Maggie came running up not a few minutes later with Beth following close behind in a black dress that had a poofy tulle skirt and a black bow tied around her waist, white-blonde curls pulled into a pony tail with another bow and honestly looking too precious for words. “Momma said I gotta brin’ Bethie with us,” the older girl told him, scooping the toddler up when she hid behind her skirt once more.
“Alright,” Rick laughed a little, making Beth hide her face in Maggie’s hair again. “We better get movin’ then, or they’ll eat all the food b’fore we get back.” Maggie made it to the end of the drive before she dropped Beth, but not cause she was heavy or anything – the ten year old insisted it was cause Beth would want to walk on her own. Together the three made their way down the gravel road in the dying light, tinting everything hues of yellows and oranges as the warmth of the day started to leave the air and the swamp came alive around them. Bugs and birds screaming at each other in between the trees, and little critters running around in the last hour of daylight before hiding for the night, and Rick couldn’t help but feel at home once more traveling down the rough roads of Georgia. Maggie skipped ahead and doubled back often, and Beth would chase her, holding her hand and looking around while chewing on her fingers nervously, but eventually they made it back to White Oak cemetery just as the shadows started to cast long from the tombstones.
Rick made his way over towards the fresh patch of earth where they had lowered his grandpappy not an hour before, and immediately Maggie and Beth ran ahead of him.
“Wha’ja forget?” Maggie asked him loudly as she ran over and stopped just behind the gravemarker, the fresh polished stone standing out among the older weather-worn ones.
“Just forgot to say somethang,” Rick told her quietly and with a soft smile. “And I gotta say hi to my Dad,” he added, pointing to the tombstone beside his Grandpappy’s, with green moss covering the north side of it and almost obscuring the name engraved in it. Except the moss looked to have been wiped away, carefully and purposefully, but still obvious in how the moss covered the edges of the large marbled rock. Rick tilted his head as he approached, wondering if it had been his mother or his grandmother, neither were afraid to get their hands dirty, but he hadn’t noticed them cleaning off their hands of anything after. Moss down in the south stained your fingers pretty badly, a perfect visual to pair with someone having a ‘green thumb’ if they worked in their garden all the time. His Grandmother had always had the stains on her fingers, though it had been a long time, she always wore gloves over her sensitive old hands ever since she got some poison oak rashes when Rick was in his early teens.
Suddenly Beth made a soft excited gasp, and stood next to the gravestone that was as tall as her to carefully touch the top and proclaim “Shiney,” in soft little chimes. Her big blue eyes looked up to her sister when Maggie came to investigate, “Look Maggie, shiney!” she chirped with emphasis on her ‘e’ sounds, and pointed to something on the stone but didn’t pick it up, like she somehow knew better.
“Why’re those there?” Maggie questioned with a confused squint, and by that time Rick had approached enough to see the bright copper pennies that caught the last rays of light in the sky. Glinting orange in blinding little circles, and Rick felt like time had stopped – because he remembered another grave that had had pennies, but he hadn’t seen it in many many years. Another glint of light shined out of the corner of his eye, and Rick spotted ten more small copper coins sitting atop his Father’s tombstone as well, and something filled his chest so fully and swiftly that it made his heartbeat hurt with each pump against his rib cage. It echoed through his bones, clogged up his throat, and visions of a small stone laid under one of the trees just inside the treeline of the Dixon property came to him fast and vivid. It was just a piece of sandstone, carved into roughly with a knife that must have taken hours, that simply read “Trisha” because Daryl had been too young to realize that his mother’s name was Patricia. And her headstone was covered in pennies, Daryl would leave one a few times a year whenever it felt right, and they stacked and scattered among the grass and leaves and brush on the swamp floor.
The pennies were meant to show a way to pay your respects, to ask the spirits to not only look after them but to wish luck on their loved ones, and in some instances to ask for a wish or favor from the deceased spirit. And of course the real origin was paying the charon for passage to the world of the dead. But Daryl had always took venerating the spirits of the dead very seriously, something that he put his whole heart into, and knew deep in his bones was not only right but integral to the life he lived. Always trying to right the wrongs of his family, and respecting the balance that was so off-kilter the whole town should have fallen into ruin years ago. But over all, it was a practice that he wanted to do, because it gave him comfort. If Rick had come looking for Daryl in the early morning hours years ago, when everyone else was still asleep inside the Dixon house, either Daryl would also be passed out on his mattress on the floor, or he’d be sitting cross-legged in front of the makeshift grave.
“Someone wanted to make sure Grandpappy made it to other side okay,” Rick told the girls, and though he managed to keep his voice steady, he knew Maggie had seen the wet sheen to his eyes. He didn’t know if he was grateful, or angry, or just so fucking sad because even after all this damn time Daryl fucking Dixon still managed to astound him in ways Rick hadn’t thought possible. He must have come to the cemetery, after everyone had left, and placed the pennies there. Daryl had been standing right where Rick was standing in that moment, had only left less than an hour ago. Could have been ten minutes for all he knew, maybe had even heard Maggie talking as they walked up the path and then darted back into the forest.
Rick dragged his hand over his face, ridding it of the tears he hadn’t let fall during the entire funeral ceremony and sniffed as he scanned the treeline, as if maybe Daryl would still be standing there. But there was nothing but shadows and darkness as the sun finally set beyond the horizon of leaves and trees covered in trails of Spanish moss. He didn’t know where Daryl was, how long he’d been gone, or what had possessed him to act like a human being when their last interaction showed that was the last damn thing on his mind – but Rick couldn’t help whispering a “thank you” into the breeze, no matter how much the acknowledgement felt like a knife to his chest.
Thunder rolled deep in the sky far to the west, where the clouds blended in with the approaching night, and Rick still hated the sound. It felt too much like home, like anger, and the unnamed emotion that constantly reminded Rick he would never get over Daryl Dixon. It was the only way he felt alive.