Chapter Text
"Lincoln 7 respond to Old Ivy Road for an accident involving 2 vehicles, medics en route."
"Lincoln 7 responding 10-4 hold me en route."
Officer Rick Grimes had been working for Atlanta PD ever since the day he graduated from the academy straight out of college. He’d had his childhood friend Shane Walsh by his side on every call from the day they first set foot in their cruiser together, up until two years ago when Rick's wife; Lori, had packed her bags, handed him divorce papers and walked out of their marital home and straight into Shane Walsh's bed. It'd been years since he'd seen either one of them and honestly, after finding out they'd been having an affair for most of his and Lori's marriage, he never wanted to see either of them as long as he lived. He missed Lori sometimes. He'd wake in the morning and reach over to her side of the bed, still half asleep before he remembered, the cold feeling in his hand from the empty bedsheets beside him slowly creeping up through his arm and making it's way back into his heart. He misses Shane more in some ways. They'd known each other since they were small boys, always inseparable, where you found Shane, you found Rick and that sort of friendship was hard to replace. Not that he hadn't tried to move on, he'd made new friends on the force, of course, though none even came close to the type of friend Shane had been. He'd been on a few dates too, mostly set up by the guys at the station but none of them had really gone anywhere so he'd given up and thrown himself into his work instead.
It's already been a long night on patrol and Rick was feeling tired. He and his partner had just been about to drive to a diner and grab a cup of strong coffee each when the call came in. He flicks the lights and sirens on, with a quick nod to his current partner of 18 months, Morgan Jones, a man with whom he happily trusts his life on a daily basis. They speed through the darkened streets of Atlanta, the world around them already asleep in the small hours of the morning, hoping that this call won't end up with a bad outcome.
The EMTs are already at the scene when they arrive, two ambulances, one flipped SUV, a jeep situated roadside and a motorcycle which looked to be unharmed. The lights from the rigs flash bright in the darkness, they bounce off the trees lining the road and as Rick pushes himself out of the cruiser his eyes take a moment to adjust. Rick offers a grateful sigh at the stationary bike parked roadside and still intact, motorcycle versus car calls hardly ever have happy endings. He can only hope that the fact that the bike is still parked means the rider escaped unharmed.
They leave the cruiser in the middle of the road, lights still spinning in order to stem any flow of traffic and act as a warning to other motorists that may come their way while they head over to speak to the EMTs. Morgan hurries to to trunk and pulls the traffic cones from within, spreading them out behind the cruiser to warn oncoming traffic just incase they don’t see the flashing lights ahead.
The first rig they come across has a woman sitting with a small girl on her lap on the ledge between the wide open doors, they're roughed up with a few minor facial injuries seeping blood, the woman has her arm already trussed up in a sling but neither of them are critical so Rick heads over. The woman looks to be in her late forties, medium length brown hair tied in a complicated knot at the base of her skull, little wisps of hair escaped and plastered to the sides of her face with sweat and blood. The girl on her lap is around nine years old, same hair colour, same eyes. She has dark circles under them, evidence of the late hour. They’ve probably been on the road for a while; not from round here then.
"Good evening ma'am, I'm officer Morgan Jones can you tell me what happened here please?" Morgan steps forward and takes a knee beside the woman, holding a notepad and pen in his hand with a neutral expression on his genial face. Rick stands back and allows his partner the space to work while he swivels in place, taking in the scene around him and trying to fit the puzzle pieces together himself.
"I…god there was a deer and I swerved but…I don't know what…it all happened so fast." The woman babbles. Her voice shakes as she speaks, obviously suffering from shock. She clutches the girl who appears to be her daughter tighter in her arms, stroking the girl’s hair tenderly while the little body shakes with silent tears. Rick looks around, trying to make sense of the shadows. There’s no deer carcass spread across the road thankfully, that’ll make cleanup easier and he won’t be left calling animal control.
"It's ok ma'am, take a deep breath,” Morgan soothes. “You're ok now. What happened next?"
"The car rolled and we couldn't get out, he came and pulled my daughter out then me and oh god it was horrible it just came out of nowhere! I couldn't…" She begins to cry, body shaking from the cold and the shock. "He saved us then the car just hit him and he flew, God he actually flew through the air. He saved us. Please tell me he's gonna be ok?"
Rick can see the woman is obviously distraught and places a soothing hand on her shoulder, after glancing briefly behind him at the other EMTs working near to the ground. "The paramedics will take good care of him don't you worry," he says kindly, "you just worry about healing up, you and your daughter, they're going to take you along to the hospital and we'll come and take an official statement when you're all patched up ok?" Rick glances down at the little girl, aiming his comforting words in her direction to ease her fear. She looks back up at him, her eyes wide and watery, tear tracks leaving a trail in the blood staining her cheeks.
They stand and head over to where the man who'd pulled the woman and her child out of the car is still lying on the ground. The EMTs are trying to stabilise his neck in a brace and lift him onto a stretcher, his helmet already having been removed. Rick winces when he sees the shape the man is in, he looks horrific, blood pouring freely from a head wound, road rash covering one side of his cheek. Thank god he was wearing leathers, Rick thinks, but that hasn't saved him from the worst of the impact. He can clearly see even from this distance that his shoulder is dislocated and his left leg looks a mess. The man is unconscious, pale and grey in colour, Rick’s stomach drops as his gaze travels over the mess of a man on the ground, fear coiling around his insides that maybe the ambulance crew had arrived too late this time.
"He was hit and thrown a fair distance, seems like he's a bit of a hero," the female EMT says. "He's got a fairly bad head lac so we need to get him moved pronto, you won't be getting a statement from him anytime soon, if he makes it that is," she says with a grimace as they bundle him into the ambulance, doors slamming with a ring of finality before taking off towards the hospital, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
"Excuse me, sir." Rick approaches the driver of the second car sitting on the gurney inside the second rig with a vacant stare as another EMT takes his vitals and flits around the truck. "Officer Grimes,” Rick says, kneeling before the man, dipping his head and catching his gaze. “This is my partner Officer Jones can you tell us what happened please?"
"I was just coming over the hill back there and he….I didn't see him. God, is he gonna be ok? I saw that woman's car and I was slowing down then suddenly he was there and I hit him. Fuck please don't tell me he's dead. I can't have killed someone, please tell me he's ok? I didn't see him! I swear!" The man looks horrified, scared and pleading as his red-rimmed eyes bore into Rick’s as if he’s the one that holds the power to change whatever outcome they’re facing.
"Ok sir try to calm down,” Rick tries to help soothe the man by lowering his voice and keeping eye contact until his breathing starts to slow and he receives a subtle nod to continue. “So far he's alive but he's critical,” the man’s shoulders drop along with his chin as a clear wave of relief washes over his frame. “We'll be able to find out more as soon as we get to the hospital. Now, can you tell me your name?"
They manage to get a rough preliminary out of the man; Martin Roberts, 48 passing through from Jacksonville, before leaving him to the EMTs. His licence checks out, he’s just a regular guy. He didn't have any obvious injuries, just a touch of whiplash from the impact but he'd be taken to the hospital and treated for shock alongside the woman and her child.
Once they are all packed away into the ambulances, Rick calls in for highway patrol to come and section off the road and for recovery to head over and move the vehicles. He thinks it's a small mercy that it's quiet tonight and no one else had been hurt. It’s far from the first time he’s been called to an accident on this stretch of road, it’s what he likes to refer to as a ‘red spot’ claiming more than a few lives since he’s been on the force.
"Dispatch, this is Lincoln 7, all casualties en route to the hospital, I need a licence plate check please," Rick says into the radio, reading off the bikes plate and waiting for the response. Rick leans forward, his forearms braced across his knees and head hanging low. He scrubs a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that’s accumulated there in the last half an hour as he waits for dispatches response.
"Lincoln 7 those plates are for a Triumph Bonneville TR6C registered to one Daryl Dixon."
"Dispatch can you repeat that please?" Ricks heart freezes in his chest, skips a beat completely and he feels as though he's got something lodged in his throat because surely he'd heard that wrong? The blood rushes so loud in his ears that he barely hears the static on the radio crackling through again as Dispatch reply.
"Lincoln 7, I repeat licence plate belongs to a Mr. Daryl Dixon registered to Atlanta 4409."
"She said Daryl Dixon, right?" Rick asks, his head whipping round, staring wide eyed at his partner beside him in the cruiser. "You heard that? Dixon? Right?" The last word comes out a faint rasping whisper as his throat closes in panic around the sound.
"Yeah that's what I heard. Hey, Rick, are you ok?" Morgan asks, placing a hand on Rick’s shoulder and gripping tight. His face showing concern regarding the absolutely horrified look on his partner's face. "Someone you know?" Quieter this time because he knows just by looking at Rick that yes, Daryl Dixon is someone his partner knows.
"Dixon is a common name right? But Daryl Dixon? No, it can't be the same." Rick's not even really talking to Morgan. His mouth is vomiting words in disbelief and abject horror, the blood, the body sprawled on the ground, strapped to a stretcher and carried off. It couldn't be the same Daryl Dixon could it?
It'd been so long ago, the last time he set eyes on Daryl and the man on the ground looked in such a bad state it was difficult to make out his features. Of course he'd not been looking to see if he recognised the man before he was carted away, just scanned over the injuries. He couldn't be sure it was the same Daryl he once knew, though part of him hoped it was, that he'd found this man again, that fate had somehow pulled them together across a wasteland of time. The other part pleading that it wasn't, that it was just a coincidence; that the name Daryl Dixon was common enough to be someone else. He remembered Daryl like it had been yesterday. They'd grown up in the same town, though they came from opposite ends with very different backgrounds, separated by the social divide.
Daryl had been the first boy he'd ever had a crush on, long before he even knew what the term 'bisexual' meant, before he even knew what love meant. It was only years later when he was already dating Lori that he finally realised that his fascination with Daryl was infatuation, not curiosity.
Daryl Dixon was the local redneck boy, kids whispered about him and his family in the schoolyard, parents warned their kids to "stay away from the Dixon boy, he's trouble just like his brother." His family lived on the bad side of town, past the trailer park and hidden away within the woods where stolen cars were dismantled in front yards and men sat on porches drunk and waving shotguns around. The women wore short skirts and bad perms or dirt stained pants and no bras. Daryl came from rough stock and none of the kids Rick hung around with at school would even dare set foot across the invisible divide along the town.
Rick hadn't listened to all that shit though. He'd tried to talk to Daryl many times throughout high school, sometimes he'd get a glare and a low "fuck off Grimes" for his troubles before Daryl would pull up the hood of his hoodie, shove his hands into the pockets and stalk off, not even bothering to look back. Other times though, the times he'd find Daryl hiding behind the school buildings smoking, those times Rick would be allowed to stay, to talk for a bit and share the cigarette with him. They’d lean against the worn old brick, out of sight of the teachers and other students and pass the stick between them. Daryl would always pull off the most perfect smoke rings, thin lips pursing into a tight circle and Rick would reach out and slice a finger through each one before the wind took it away. Rick used to love the way Daryl could make the smoke pour out of his mouth and up into his nose like some kind of reverse waterfall. Whenever Daryl did that trick, Rick would watch transfixed at the way Daryl’s lips would fall open softly and his eyes would always find Rick’s and hold his gaze.
He remembers seeing Daryl riding on a motorcycle then. Was it the same bike they'd just left with highway patrol? He couldn't remember, he hadn't looked close enough at it before Morgan had set off for the hospital. It could have been, he thinks. He remembers the bike had been Daryl's brothers, Merle Dixon. The first time he'd ever seen Daryl pull up at the high school, legs wrapped around the sleek machine, strong arms gripping tight to the handles and bulging with the muscles of youth had made him feel light headed. At the time he'd put it down to the four mile run he had done after breakfast that morning but as he got older he realised it had nothing to do with the run and everything to do with the vision that was Daryl Dixon on a motorbike. He’d looked like something out of a movie, with a thick and worn leather jacket wrapped around him and pulled tight across his slip waist. His strong legs would grip the bike powerfully and Rick would never forget the sight of those old, ratty biker boots with the denim of Daryl’s jeans shoved roughly inside and how it didn’t matter that they weren’t brand new and shining. They made Daryl look older, rougher; bad.
"Rick, you ok?" Morgan breaks him out of his reminiscent reverie with a gentle pat to his knee. He must look bad because Morgan is driving and it's always been Rick who drives.
"Yeah, sorry I zoned out, I think I know him," he explains trying to clear the frantic buzzing in his ears. He takes a deep breath and lists the dates of his parents birthdays to settle his nerves and bring him back to the moment, a tactic that never fails to calm him. "Knew a guy in high school called Daryl Dixon. There can't be that many men with that name even in the south surely? I mean, what are the odds though?" He's babbling and he knows it but at least the frantic shaking of his hands and the rapid pounding of his heart has slowed and he feels more in control. "Fuck, if it's him, I just hope he's gonna pull through."
"You wanna call in? Get Abe in to cover the rest of your shift?" Morgan asks as they pull up to the hospital and head inside.
"Lets just see how he is first and if it is really him," He says, before approaching the nurses station, handing over their badges and asking for an update on all four involved in the crash.
The nurse tells them that the woman, Jessica Stanford and her daughter Millie are fine, a few minor scrapes and a touch of shock but nothing else. They would be kept overnight for observation due to Millie's young age but released in the morning if all was well. The man from the jeep, Martin Roberts, as suspected, had whiplash and was also being treated for shock but otherwise showed no other signs of injury.
Daryl, however, was still being worked on, they were prepping him for surgery. Rick’s stomach churns and makes him feel sick. So far they had established that his shoulder was in fact dislocated and he also suffered a head wound which had caused a small bleed on the brain. They were taking him to surgery to try and stem the bleed and were keeping him sedated for the time being.
They'd managed to find ID on him and gave Rick a list of personal information, his age, address and next of kin. Morgan copied all the details into the report book while Rick stood, unable to move because it was the very same Daryl Dixon from his youth. He was the right age and his next of kin was listed as one Merle Dixon. Even if Daryl Dixon was a common name in the south, the chances of finding one with a brother called Merle, well that just didn't happen.
"Have we got a number for Merle Dixon?" Rick asks the nurse who checks the computer then shakes her head. "'Morgan, get onto the station and see if we've got any details on Merle. If he's anywhere near Atlanta no doubt we'll have him on record. If I remember right Merle is no stranger to the inside of a holding cell,” He says with a grimace at his memory of the brash, opinionated; knuckle happy older Dixon.
While Morgan gets busy calling in the station, trying to get hold of Daryl's next of kin; Rick goes and gets a full statement from Mrs. Stanford and Mr. Martin before heading to the vending machine and buying Morgan and him the coffees they now desperately need. One of the young nurses smiles at him as he walks past and Rick tries hard to return it but he can’t make his face work right. By the way her face drops, she must understand.
"Rick,” Morgan calls to him as he wanders over, clipping his radio back into its sleeve as he comes. “Tracey just called through, Merle Dixon died three years ago of an overdose. The only other contact on file was the father, William, but he passed away over 10 years ago now. Looks like our guy is on his own," Morgan says kindly, taking in Rick's state of exhaustion and knowing it's not solely from the long night they'd already experienced.
"Alright, ok. Shit. Damnit Merle ." Rick curses, banging his fist against the back of the chair beside him. Damn Daryl's brother for being a selfish asshole and leaving Daryl alone just to chase that final high. Rick clenches his fist around the sudden sting and takes a calming breath, "Right, I'll update the nursing staff."
"You sure you don't want me to call Abe? You know he won't mind covering for you, you've done him enough favours over the years," Morgan asks taking the coffee that Rick hands him and bringing it to his nose before grimacing at the smell. Hospital coffee is always the worst and unfortunately Rick and Morgan are far too familiar with it in their line of work.
"No, no, we've only got another few hours on shift,” he says absently, his mind fixed firmly on the memories of the Dixon boys. He checks his watch quickly, then straightens his spine, steeling himself for the rest of his shift. "We've got paperwork to do anyway."
"Ok, let's get back to the station, then we can get you home to get some sleep. You look dead on your feet." Morgan pats him gently on the shoulder as they walk back towards the nursing desk. There’s nothing left for them to do here, statements have all been collected and the hospital staff have their badge numbers incase they need to get in contact with them. All that’s left is for them to head back to the station, write up their reports and get a debrief before heading home. Rick just hopes fervently that they won’t get anymore call outs before they finish. He’s not quite sure whether he can keep his head in the game at this point.
"I'm not going home Morgan. I'm coming back here as soon as we're off," Rick says and the look on his face tells Morgan that there's nothing on this earth that could keep him away from this hospital as soon as he's free to come back. When Rick Grimes makes a decision about something, he sees it through to the end.
"Alright buddy, let's get on back."