whiskey-dreams-and-lullabies - Tumblr blog

whiskey-dreams-and-lullabies · 5 years ago

Text

Numb.

That probably wasn't good at this point, there should be pain, there had been pain. Unbearable pain, pain he'd passed out from at some point, blinding, terrible pain. If he focused on the pain long enough, he could feel the bullet itself burrowing deeper, tearing through tendon and muscle, doing more damage by the second. Ridiculous he knew, but hadn't changed it.

That was gone though. His shoulder, his arm, hand, even his fingers numb. He couldn't feel a single thing anymore. His fingers wouldn't budge an inch, would be easy to believe they weren't even there if not for the fact that when he looked down, he could see bright red, almost black blood dripping from them. Proof he was still alive, probably not for much longer though.

Coldness has set in, a coldness that had nothing to do with the wall bracing him, or the concrete floor under his legs. The small shack uncomfortably warm in fact. The day outside humid, the sun high. So the cold came from something else, something inside, an icy grip that had him exhausted, dreading closing his eyes. A deep seated chill, death's fingers scraping down his spine, a cold there was no escape from.

He couldn't stand, had tried, god how he had tried. Had told himself he couldn't lay here, he couldn't give up, he had to get up and find help. The guy who had done this was still out there, wasn't he? Was probably watching, waiting, hoping Rick actually managed to take a single step out of the door so he could finish him off. It would be too easy to kick the door down and simply do it, where was the fun in that? Much as he needed to get up, to find his way somewhere safe, he couldn't. He'd lost far too much blood. Would have stood a chance if the bullet was his only injury, a single through and through. His bigger problem was the initial wound, a simple fistfight with the stranger in the woods, how cliche, that had earned him a knife to the gut, sharp blade driving deep, hard and fast. A nearly fatal wound even if the world hadn't gone to shit and he could get to a doctor. Out here, he didn't stand a chance. If he didn't bleed out, sepsis would hit. Infection raging, might have already started.

Letting his head fall back against the hard wall, his eyes fell closed, but only for a second, a brief second before he forced them open, knowing far too well how tempting sleep was. Sleep was giving up, giving in to death, and Rick wasn't quite ready to give up just yet. His eyes fell once more to the floor ten feet away, so fucking close, yet so far away. Might as well be miles for all the good it was doing him there. If it even still worked, if the batteries hadn't died, if he wasn't completely out of range of anything or body, if anyone was even listening.

He'd cursed that walkie talkie a million times since Negan had given it to him, had threatened to smash it, lose it, everything but keep it. A bitter laugh left him as he imagined how absolutely pissed Negan would be if he could see him now, if he saw how close he was to giving up. Could almost hear his fucking voice demanding Rick get up, get the walkie, and call him. The voice was so realistic, he actually looked around for him, brow furrowing when instead of the empty shack he actually saw him, crouching by the door, glaring at him, disgust written in his eyes. Of course he wasn't real, was some messed up figment of his imagination. Even dying he couldn't get peace. And even as he thought that, the voice got louder in his head, the crouching Negan's face turning into it's usual smirk.

"You just gonna fucking lay there all night, prick? Not even gonna fucking try?"

It wasn't even Negan, no one was there, but to Rick's delusional mind, he was, mocking as always, which instantly pissed him off. "Typical Rick. Things get a little tough, he just gives up" came the voice, the taunt growing, as did the smile on his face.

"Fuck you" Rick managed before a fit of coughing took his breath, blood spit to the side before tired eyes once more fell on the figure. "I'm tired" he admitted, head falling forward as he sucked in a deep breath, the shack spinning crazily until he shut his eyes again, nausea hinting, and he had to swallow, refusing to throw up on himself.

"Go ahead, Rick. Take a fucking nap. Good fucking plan" Negan taunted, "Maybe while your lazy ass sleeps, your friend will return finish you off"

Rick forced his eyes away, knowing damned well he was hallucinating, bloody hand leaving the wound on his stomach and cradling his head, trying to drown his voice out. It didn't help much, it wasn't real, it was in his head. As was the sound of heavy steps approaching, the leering face suddenly inches away, as always invading his personal space. The voice grating, having Rick gritting his teeth, but, the upside, he was oblivious to his injuries, focus centered on his obnoxious husband. His eyes lifted warily, frowning slightly, instincts urging him to reach up and touch that familiar face, but he resisted, knowing if he did, his husband would dissipate in front of his eyes, and even being a serious pain in the ass, it was something, someone keeping him company. It brought a harsh laugh bubbling up, a huge mistake since it reawakened the pain, causing him to bite back a cry, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth from the bite to his lip. Even his imagination couldn't conjure up a decent version of the guy, how sad was that? Half dead and clearly losing his mind, yet Negan was still an asshole. Typical.

Which brought his attention back again, voice barely audible.

"It hurts." An admittance he never would have made had he been clear headed, or even suspected Negan was actually here.

"Course it fucking hurts, /Rick/!! You're all fucked up! Look at you! The great fucking Rick Grimes. Gonna die in some old shack and become some brainless walker! Not much different than now. Get up, Rick. Get the fuck up!"

His eyes slid closed again, the tiredness once more sweeping over him, body ready to quit. Even if he managed to crawl to the stupid walkie talkie, what then? Best case scenario, he got hold of Negan, but it's not like the guy would care. Rick would simply be another casualty, he certainly wouldn't bother leaving his place to come get him. Would laugh, make some annoying speech, belittle Rick, after five minutes, Rick would probably kill himself. Worst case scenario, he moved, and suddenly his insides were on the outside. Both ended the same, Rick dead, Negan happy. His car was a pipe dream, he'd never make it, even though it was literally right outside. The minute he opened that door, the unknown guy would open fire. Three scenarios, all ending the same.

Through all this, Negan was still talking, pacing the room now, and oddly enough, hallucinogenic Negan was empty handed, no Lucille. Why this little detail bothered him so much he didn't know. Maybe because everything else was a perfect match, yet the stupid bat didn't make an appearance. That would certainly piss Negan off, he thought almost hysterically. But, crazy thoughts did momentarily drown out imaginary Negan. Wasn't good, he could feel himself fading, feel the darkness closing in, the edge of his vision wavering. So he turned his full attention back, forcing himself to focus, not only on him, but his words. How weak he was, good for nothing, perfect ending for someone like Rick. An endless litany of insults, hatred almost bleeding into every word.

He couldn't prove him right, couldn't allow him to be right. Had to figure a way out, somehow. He could die after, after he shut Negan up, face to face. Couldn't allow him the satisfaction of dying here alone, delirious, much as his body wanted to.

His next move was hard, harder than anything he had ever done. More painful than he had imagined. Each tiny move mocked, the laughter echoing in his mind. But he did it, mainly because of the wall behind him, but he was on his feet, even if the entire room was spinning and there was now two Negan's standing in front of him. Stomach rolling, arm hanging uselessly, stomach cradled by his forearm. The wall was the only thing holding him up at this point, and he wasn't even going to try to move until the shack stopped moving. It was vaguely reminiscent of drunken college parties, but with his life on the line.

Despite all this, a sense of glee shot through him. He hadn't yet moved, but he was up, more than Negan had thought he could do. He realized how ridiculous gloating to an imaginary presence would be however, so he shut up, eyes narrowing at the still talking male now hovering by the walkie. At least until another sound caught his attention, the distant sound of footsteps, fading it seemed like, but he'd lost enough blood and was just woozy enough that he couldn't guarantee it. Hopefully whoever was out there was leaving, assuming the damage was enough, that Rick was laying in here dead. Which, with an imaginary Negan hanging around was very possible. He could be laying almost dead and all of this was some vivid dream as he faded away, that whole life flashing before your eyes thing. Only chock full of annoying Negan. Negan who had moved on from how weak and useless he was and straight into how many would be thrilled with his death, how he should just do everyone a favor. Wasn't gonna happen. In fact, the room had stopped moving under his feet, and despite not being able to stand completely straight, he managed to shuffle a few steps, not far, but a few shaky steps. The blood covered wall seemed so far away now, even though he could reach out and touch it. He didn't care give into that urge, instead he took step after shaky step, forcing his body forward, focused only on the sound of Negan's voice now.

Unfortunately, bending wasn't an option, he tried, he did, god did he try, but inertia caught up, vision once more going hazy, and he hit the floor. His hand closed on the walkie just as consciousness left him, everything fading to dark, body seeking rest, needing rest. Rick gave in, the floor feeling cool against his face, even as he felt new pain from his fall, knew that on top of everything, his eyebrow was now split. He only knew that because blood clouded his vision in the seconds before he passed out, happily giving in.

He wasn't sure exactly how long he was out, but the room was now pitch black, the tiny window in shadows, everything silent. Even imaginary Negan was gone. But he was still gripping the stupid walkie. Rolling onto his back, eye burning and hard to open from the now dried blood sealing it shut, or maybe it was swollen shut, probably a little of both by this time. Aches and pains were all over, not an inch of him didn't hurt in some way, consciousness growing harder once more. But before he gave in again, he had to say his peace, hadnt done all that simply to die clutching the fucking walkie. Not just yet.

The thing maybe weighed five pounds, but it felt like lifting a hundred pound weight, almost impossible, but he was just stubborn enough to do it. Barely. Despite that, when he clicked the little button, heard that familiar crackle of an open line, he spat out, hoping his words were audible, clear, hoping. Praying Negan was listening. Especially if he was about to fucking die here.

"Hey /babe/! I fucking did it, I fucking did it despite your taunts. I got up. And if I survive this attack, I'm killing the guy you sent to do this"

He didn't know why, but he was suddenly certain that guy was a savior, that his darling husband had sent him here to kill him. Had probably succeeded. The walkie got dropped onto his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the pain once more giving way to numbness, the cold creeping back in, this time enough to get him shivering, entire body shaking, coughing as blood rose once more, no doubt from severe internal bleeding caused by the blade that had torn open his stomach.

The walkie remained silent, there wasn't a single indication that anyone had heard his message, or cared, the party probably well under way celebrating his death.

Curling up on his side, he spit up more blood, blackish, and once more darkness threatened. Maybe some sleep would do him good, just a quick nap, not too long. Just gathering energy. Heal a bit hopefully. Something. His eyes had just slid shut when the walkie sprang to life, the sound unusually loud, making him start, eyes flying open at the cheerful voice echoing through the static. Two words, that's it, words he couldn't figure out the meaning of.

"Almost there!"

He sounded so happy, so cheerful. Rick figured he was coming to finish him off himself, but couldn't bring himself to care. Instead he pondered how exactly Negan knew where here was. Almost here. How? Two options, both very plausible. Negan had accompanied the guy who tried to kill him, or the damned walkie had a lojack, some GPS thing rigged up. Neither would surprise him, in fact it could be both. Gps and a desire to be the one to land the actual killing blow.

He didn't stay awake to find out, eyes closing again, sighing in something akin to relief as he once more gave himself over to darkness. Negan better hurry if he wanted to make it in time. Rick had the sneaking suspicion that this time he wouldn't wake. The damage done to much.

He heard the car at the same time he faded, a single car door, seemed far away, most likely his imagination. Like everything else. He didn't even try and look, he was that sure he was hearing things. Instead he let himself slip off to blissful sleep once more, smiling slightly as darkness surrounded him, pain easing, coldness leaving. Sleep was definitely good.

It was the last clear thought he had, at least for the time being. Anything else could come later. Much much later.

2 notes · View notes

whiskey-dreams-and-lullabies · 5 years ago

Text

The words scrawled on the paper in front of him blurred, his handwriting shaky, hastily written as his ears listened to the now familiar sounds outside. Grunts, groans, growls, fingers dragging along wood and glass. They knew he was in here, could smell him, his sweat, his blood, the sounds the walkie made, static bursts now and then,maybe even his desperation.

But he didn't care.

Not even a little bit.

The small cabin was isolated, and it was currently surrounded by the undead, at first only a few, but more and more drawn by the second. He hadn't checked in over an hour, but he could tell by the sound. Once fairly quiet, now maddening, a low roar as they fought to be the first in.

But, he didn't move from his seat at the old table. His pen kept moving rapidly as he wrote. Wrote everything. Thoughts. Fears. Resolutions. Resignations. Thoughts coming faster than he could write. Two pages full of the things he couldn't say, didn't dare speak out loud. Things no one would ever read, a manifest to be lost until some other lost soul stumbled across this place in the future. And even then, the words wouldn't make sense, the names within would mean nothing.

They may try to picture Judith or Carl, laugh at the name Jesus, assuming the author was some deranged religious nut, wonder about Negan. But, they wouldn't understand the desperation in his words, the hurt, the loss. After all, it wasn't written for them, or about them. It was written only for himself, in these moments, maybe his last moments on this earth. And he was oddly okay with that. At least he'd written it all down.

And with each word scrawled out, images flooded his mind's eye, memories, voices, the moments that made him, him.

Voices so vivid, his eyes lifted at times to search shadowy corners for the source, shaking his head before returning to his writing. Every few minutes, he brushed at the steady stream of blood that dripped into his eye from a head wound, ignoring completely the stitching that had torn in his side. Maybe he should be more worried about his injuries than the paper, but he wasn't. That was secondary. The pain an annoyance, but something he was used to. He wouldn't bleed to death here, the bullet wound hardly that serious after days with stitches, the head wound a long cut that would too heal. After all, head wounds bled the most. He hadn't passed out, and although touching it sent waves of pain through him, it wasn't fatal. He'd had worse. He'd survived worse.

But, he had to take a break, his fingers cramping up, wrist tired, eyes exhausted. Maybe curl up on the small for in the corner and get some sleep, or at least rest for a bit before continuing.

The sound the chair made as he shoved himself away from the table riled up the walkers outside, made them louder, more insistent on getting in. On feeding. His gun, his prized weapon that had been by his side for so long sat on the table, four bullets remaining, out of reach. Three to use on the undead, the last, as always, saved for himself. His axe laying out as well. Ignored much as the gun was.

Instead of laying down, he moved to the nearest window and looked out, meeting the dead eyes of a walker stationed there, rotted teeth clacking together as if he could taste Rick through the window. And, as had been happening all day, a loud voice in his mind, a baby voice. The ‘Daddy!’ that had him turning, half expecting to see Judith, eyes lit up, bright smile as she ran to him, blonde curls dancing across her shoulders. But of course she wasn't there, he was alone, well he had plenty of company, just not the kind you'd invite to Sunday brunch.

“What the fuck, Rick?”

The annoyance in that voice, how done he sounded. Rick turned, an empty room, but he answered quietly regardless.

“Stop glaring, asshole,” as if Negan could hear him. As if he was really standing here judging him like that for getting himself in this predicament in the middle of nowhere. “How much ya wanna bet I can make it out in one piece?”

He could easily imagine the look that would earn him, Negan wanting to forbid him from trying, but definitely knowing better than to say the word ‘'can't” around him. Could see him rolling his eyes, barely holding in the anger, reminding him, ‘'This is why I shot your dumbass’ once more. It almost brought a smile to his face.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah” he muttered quietly, the imaginary Negan crumbling away and giving form to Jesus who was by far much more judgemental than Negan and much more wordy about it.

“Always gotta play the hero. Stupid ass” with that look. That look Rick hated so much because it was full of disappointment, as if Rick had let him down, which he seemed to do a lot of to a lot of people.

Everyone expected so much from him.

Be the perfect father.

Raise her right.

Be the perfect leader who solved everyone's problems.

Fix it Rick, we have no food, no supplies, you're the leader, fix it! We need you. We're counting on you.

The perfect mediator.

The problem solver.

And of course, the perfect husband.

Stop pissing him off.

You're a failure, Rick.

Can't do anything right for anyone.

Fuck your pride.

The expectations were too much, people needed too much. He was one guy. One fucking guy who everyone depended on. All issues were his fault, every problem rested on his shoulders. “If only you'd..then this wouldn't have happened, Rick”

Story of his life. Pressures mounting, everyone placing him into a neat box where he was expected to stay.

His life was no longer his, belonged to other's, and he was simply the good little soldier.

“You're the leader Rick, it's your job to provide for these people.”

Which is how he'd come to be here in this god forsaken little cabin in the middle of nowhere. Alone and clearly outnumbered.

Because he was the leader.

It was his job. And no one could be bothered to help, everyone scared to make runs anymore, eyes looking anywhere but at him. No one giving a fuck. No one sitting at home worried about him even though he'd been gone for hours. Probably already written off as dead with a new leader being nominated as he paced. Fair though.

The chances of him leaving this cabin were slim to none.

So, he returned to writing. Wrote it all. The city, the farm, the prison, Terminus, the people, the friends, the foes, the kids, the triumphs and the heartbreak. Why leave anything out. Page after page after page until he reached the last one finally. One final blank page to be filled. One last memory.. He would leave nothing out. A final story.

A story that was both tragedy and comedy, heartbreaking and hopeful. A story that ended in one fateful decision, a single gunshot that would echo for decades in those that remembered. The aftermath leading him here, to this place, alone, writing his heart out. Destiny finally played out maybe, the only way their story could end. After all, they weren't meant to be, polar opposites, yet exactly alike. The extreme of both sides of the same coin. One cocky and over confident, the other broken and stubborn. How many ways could a story like theirs end?

Only with one dead. The other the victor in the little games they played. Drawn to each other for all the differences, the flaws. Each determined to be the better, to outdo the other, to prove they were in charge. Hatefully reminding the other how insignificant the other was, yet unable to go their separate ways. Tearing each other down to build themselves up, refusing to cave. Except for once. One night that for most would have changed everything, but for them only drove a deeper wedge.

Too many unresolved issues and the more he wrote, the more regrets he had. The list of things they'd done wrong only grew. And he wrote it all. Unbiased, harsh words leaving behind their truth, a truth they'd never acknowledge to anyone let alone themselves.

And finally, finally he was done. Papers spread all over the table, his legacy, his story through his eyes. He put them in a neat pile, these blood stained papers stacked neatly, ready and waiting for the next fool to stumble across this cabin in the future. Maybe someone someday would read them, would understand his words. Maybe they'd imagine the people contained within and would feel for them, feel their pain and their joy. He doubted it. But, he felt lighter, he'd gotten it all out and was no longer holding everything inside.

Now he was ready.

Injured and all, he was finally ready.

It was time to go home.

Standing, he stretched out aching muscles, loosening up before holstering his treasured gun, checking the rounds a final time before doing so. A slightly crooked grin grew as he readied himself, kneeling to tighten his boots, lifting his shirt to check his side.

Axe gripped tightly, the familiar weight oddly comforting, and last but not least, the walkie tucked safely away, turned off for the moment, silenced. He wouldn't need that right now, he could turn it on if he survived, and if he didn't, well, it wouldn't much matter anyway.

Drawing a slow breath, he headed for the door, a brazen move he knew, but a necessary one. He wasn't one to back down after all.

Holding the doorknob, he bowed his head sending a useless prayer to a God he didn't even believe in, it was more for himself anyway, then yanked the door open.

His eyes squinted in the bright sunlight, momentarily blinding him, leaving him vulnerable for a split second before focusing. A confident grin forming as he eyed the walking closing in from every direction, the smell nauseating, far more than he could fight, all eyes on him.

As he liked.

“Here we go” he murmured before stepping outside, the door pulled shut behind him, his legacy neatly waiting for the next chapter to be written.

#RickGrimesAU

1 note · View note