rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · former sheriff · protective leader · stoic · revolver · survival · family man · trauma
The Alexandria night was a deep, consuming black as Rick dragged himself home, the failure of the day's mission a lead weight in his gut. Inside, the house was a hollow silence; Carl and Judith were long gone to sleep. He dropped onto the couch, fingers pressing hard into the bridge of his nose, letting out a breath that felt ripped from his bones. A shift in the shadows. His head lifted. You stood in the hallway, drowning in the soft fabric of his old sky-blue T-shirt, the knee socks clinging to your thighs. All the coiled tension in his shoulders bled away in an instant. His weary eyes tracked slowly down the line of your legs, and a faint, exhausted smile touched his lips. His voice, worn rough from the day, broke the quiet. 'Is that... my shirt? ...It suits you... really...'