#rick grimes

It makes you shy. Makes you quiet, prone to self-isolation. But you're different; special in a way that sets you apart from everyone else who's developed hyper-vigilance after the shitty hand life's dealt them.

You're soft. Sweet. Fucking kind.

And he isn't really sure how he managed to lure you under his arm, but he did. And he's determined to keep you there.

Which, at times, honestly seems too easy. He thinks it should be harder. That you should give him a harder time. That you should ask for more, maybe give him shit every now and then.

The first time he tells you, you look at him strangely. Like he'd just suggested you run naked into a hoard instead of (what he believes) to be a pretty reasonable request. Then you'd given him awkward smile (that had no right to look as cute and pretty as it did) and said 'sure.'

Like you were placating him. 'Sure, Rick. I'll get right on that.'

The second time isn't as direct, but it does end in another awkward smile. You'd both been fairly busy all day. You, on a supply run —He doesn't want to toot his own horn when he says that he made a good decision making you a runner, but damn, you're good— and him doing day-to-day problem solving, scouting, decision making, and all the other exhausting shit he wishes he didn't have to do.

So you'd both been lying on the couch, just kind of taking each other in, and he asked you:

"What do you want to do tonight?"

You'd lifted your head from where it was pillowed against his shoulder, eyes a little wider than usual. You'd stared at him for a beat too long to be considered normal, like you were looking for something in his face. An answer.

And then you'd asked him: "What do you want to do?"

And it wasn't really the answer he was looking for, but it did make something kind of click, in his head. He didn't remark on it out loud or make any sort of indication that something relatively important regarding you and your relationship has just occurred to him.

Instead, he said: "I'm pretty content right here."

And you'd smiled, but it wasn't quite right. It was just a little off. Like you were waiting for something.

He files it away for later.

—

Later happens to be much sooner than he thinks, because now he can't really stop himself from noticing all the myriads of ways that you just... don't ever state your opinion. There's a part of him that preens when you automatically defer to his judgement, especially when it involves giving you a command or order, and he gets to see that glassy look in your eyes, but the other part of him, that part that twinges uncomfortably when he can't manage to wrangle a clear answer from you about what you wan't for breakfast, kind of thinks that there might be layers to the whole fawn thing you've got going on.

It's honestly kind of confusing. On one hand, he knows that if he were to ever really cross a line, you wouldn't hesitate to stab him in his sleep. Or poison his food, or maybe just slap the shit out of him, plain and simple. You're not harmless or defenseless. You wouldn't have survived this long by yourself if you were. So it doesn't really make sense when you simply just... never interject or say "I don't want to do that."

He honestly doesn't think he's ever heard you say no to him before. Which makes him feel extremely slimy and gross, and he vows immediately the moment the thought occurs to him that he has to put a stop to this.

"Sweetheart," He says one morning, having finally worked the courage up, "I got a little something."

You rush over to him immediately, eyes sparking and your body practically vibrating with excitement.

"Is it a new water bottle? Cause I know mine is gross—"

"Slow down," He chuckles, though makes a mental note to add a water bottle to the list of things to do for you, "It's not that exciting I'm afraid. Just... a little treat."

From behind his back, conveniently hidden on the counter behind him, he pulls out a box of your favorite tea. Nothing crazy- he'd happen to spot it on a run-slash-get-away with Daryl, and he knew he could use it to enact a certain plan of his.

It feels so cruel, but he needs to test it. To make sure. And to see the severity of what he's dealing with.

Sure enough- you gasp, hands immediately reaching out for it.

So he interrupts you before you can speak. "It's Maggie's favorite. I know you and her have started to get closer, so I thought you could give to her as a gift."

Watching you falter and retreat into yourself is physically painful. This was a terrible idea. Rick feels awful.

"Oh. Yeah, I think she'd like that."

Rick sighs, full-bodied, and leans back against the counter and gently grabs you by the arms, pulling you forward.

"Baby," He says, voice pitched low and a little soft, just for you, "I did not get that for Maggie. I got that for you."

"Oh," You say again, voice too quiet for his liking, "Then why did you say you got it for her?"

"Because I wanted to see if you'd tell me no."

He waits for you to respond, maybe defend yourself, or something like that, but you don't. You just look at him, eyes a smidgen wet, expression carefully blank.

He raises his hands slow, slow, slowly, because he knows you, and if you're quiet that means two things: Content or scared. And you're definitely not content right now, and he doesn't want to give you a reason to bolt.

You don't though. Run, that is. You freeze in place instead, which almost feels worse, and close your eyes when his hand grows close to your face. He watches your whole body tense, he watches you suppress a small flinch when he finally touches your jaw, your cheek.

"Angel," He brings his other hand up, and your eyes flutter open, "I want you to say no to me. I want you to ask for things and I want you to give me shit. Can you do that for me, baby?"

You scrunch your face up, hesitant, and take your bottom lip between your teeth and nod.

"Uh-uh," He presses on your lip, tugging it free from your merciless bite, "None of that. Come on, use your words."

"I'm... not good at that," You admit, tone hushed, "And... I don't want to. I like it when you decide things, because then I don't have to think about decisions and it's not as stressful. I don't want to go back to stressing all the time."

"Can you honestly say you haven't been stressing this whole time? About what you thought I would do or say if you spoke up about something?"

Your silence is telling.

"If I ever, and I mean ever, raise my voice to you when it's not an emergency, or if I get mad at you for disagreeing with me or voicing your opinion, you have my full permission to slap the shit out of me. Or ask Daryl to do it."

You giggle a little. "That's not fair. Daryl would do that if I asked right now."

"He'd do it for free," Rick amends, a smile tugging at his lips. "But I'm serious. Ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you if you tell me what you want for breakfast."

"I dunno," You shrug, "I might spontaneously explode."

He snorts, then opens his arms and beckons you forward. You collapse against him without a second thought, a little whine expelled from your lungs and muffled by his chest.

"I know, I know," He coos at you, half-mocking half-serious. "But you were so brave, and brave girls get treats."

"Like tea?"

"Yes, like tea."

You hum against him, easily placated, and he thinks that you really aren't difficult at all.

—

A few weeks go by, and you really do make a concerted effort to speak up. For him only, of course. You still have the habit of keeping to yourself, and you seem to just be quiet by nature. Which is fine, because he's taken an awful liking to having such a cute and quiet little thing around him. And your effort is adorable.

Still, though, it's not without it's hiccups.

You got home from a supply run a little bit ago, and you've been avoiding him. Not so glaringly obvious that he feels like he has to say something, but. You definitely are. You just seem on edge. Skittish. Like you were when you first got here.

So he goes about making dinner, cause he's not the kind of man to expect his girl to do everything for him. Especially you, because he knows you would if he asked. You would do anything if he asked. Which really only makes him want to make you do less. Sweet little thing like you shouldn't worry about things like that.

Except here you are, in the kitchen, hovering, and very obviously worrying.

"Sweetheart," He says, absentmindedly flipping a pancake —you've never said it out loud, but he knows breakfast for dinner is one of your favorite meals, "Sit down."

You comply- and quickly at that. But in the absence of hovering near him, you begin bouncing your knee and staring at him, so he dishes up a single pancake and slides it to you.

"Eat that. And when you're done, I want you to tell me why you're upset."

"I"m not—"

"Didn't I tell you to eat first?"

You do actually grumble under your breath a little, much to his satisfaction.

Once you've finished wolfing down the pancake, you tap your fork on your plate, staring at the silverware and clearly avoiding his gaze.

"I've been trying harder to speak up."

"Mhm. You have. I've noticed."

You start chewing on your lip.

"Am I... Am I not trying hard enough?"

Rick's eyebrows furrow. "Why would you think that?"

He quickly flips the last pancake, plops it on the stack with the others, and carries it to the table where you're nervously fidgeting.

"You haven't- um. Usually, you..." He watches you clench and unclench your hands, body tense like you're two seconds away from skittering right out the door, and when you speak, it's hushed and mumbled. "You usually tell me I'm doing good."

Oh. Oh you poor thing.

"Oh baby," He murmurs, sitting down on the chair next to and patting his lap, "Come here,"

You rise from your chair slowly, your eyes briefly flickering from him to the door, and then back to him. Weighing your options. A prey animal weighing comfort over safety.

In the end, comfort wins out, cause you gingerly shuffle forward and plop yourself into his lap, burrowing your face in his shoulder. It doesn't seem like a comfortable position, with you all scrunched up like that, but he's not going to fight that battle right now. Not when your hands are shaking with their grip on his shirt.

"My poor baby," He coos, rubbing up and down your back, "Have you been stressing this whole time? You been worrying? Thinkin' you ain't good?"

"Mhm." You mumble, voice dejected.

"Oh, sweetheart, that ain't true, not one little bit, alright? You've been doing so good, haven't you? Yeah you have. Working so hard to be good on top of being the best runner here, ain't that right?"

You nod into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think you weren't doing good. I'm so proud of you, you know that?"

You make a little wounded noise, kinda soft, kinda whiny.

"It's true. I am. I don't like that you were stressin' this whole time. Defeats the whole purpose, don't it? You know why I wanted you to start speaking up for yourself in the first place?"

Your breath hitches a little before you speak.

"Why?"

"Cause I could tell it was making you worry. And if you have anything to worry about, then I'm not doin' my job properly."

"It's your job to make sure I'm not worried?"

"Yes ma'am," Rick lets his hand come up to rest on the back of your neck. "Sweet things like you shouldn't have anything to worry about. You're too kind for that."

"You think I'm kind?"

"Course I do." He says, readjusting his grip, one hand squeezing your hip, just a tad possessive, It's too hard to resist, when you're clingy like this.

You pull back, bottom lip jutted out and the perfect shade of bitten-pink, entirely irresistible. He doesn't even try to stop himself from kissing you, soft and deep. You've earned it.

"Now," He says, a touch breathless, "I reckon you've worked up a bit of an appetite with all that worrying. And it looks like someone made your favorite dinner."

You give him a quick kiss on the nose. God, you're adorable.

"You're too good to me."

"No," Rick mouths at the side of your neck, lazy and slow. "M' just giving you exactly what you deserve. My pretty girl."

—

After that, he makes sure to praise you each and every day. Honestly, it's as much for him as it is for you. On several occasions, he has to pull you aside from your daily chores just to kiss you, to hold you, because you're just too enticing, all sweet and kind and so happy when he tells you 'good job' or calls you 'good girl'. You're a menace to his blood pressure.

Watching you slowly bloom is a special treat, though. Kind of intoxicating, if he's being honest. Because now he knows with absolute certainty that when he gives you an order, a command, you comply because you want to. You want to listen to him.

It's a miracle he manages to leave the bedroom every day.

You'd confided him one night, curled up into his side that you'd been worried that you'd be difficult to handle. That he'd get tired of putting up with you and your skittish nature.

"Sweetheart, I fuckin' love handling you."

He spent the rest of the night putting your fears to rest. You both sleep through your alarms the next morning.

He's pretty sure it was worth it.