AN: This is in a series of "shorts" that I'm doing for entertainment value as I rewatch some episodes. Some of them are interpretations/rewrites of scenes that are in each episode. Some are scenes that never happened but could have in "imagination land". They aren't meant to be taken seriously and they aren't meant to be mind-blowing fic. They're just for entertainment value and allowing me to stretch my proverbial writing muscles. If you find any enjoyment in them at all, then I'm glad. If you don't, I apologize for wasting your time. They're "shorts" or "drabbles" or whatever you want to call them so I'm not worrying with how long they are. Some will be shorter, some will be longer.

This one is partially from the show and partially of my own creation/embellishment.

I own nothing from the Walking Dead.

I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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When Dale found Andrea clinging to the toilet and attempting to empty her stomach of every last bit of food or drink that she'd taken in, his first instinct was to scold her. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn't have drank so much—she should have been careful.

But he knew, from his own life experiences, that there was nothing he could tell her in that moment that her brain probably hadn't already offered her. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. The damage was done and she'd simply be sick until she wasn't. Now the concern was just making sure that she was safe—that she didn't choke herself and that she didn't get hurt—while she slept off the mistake that she'd made.

It wasn't the first time that Dale had cared for someone who was sick and in no condition to care for themselves. He coaxed her to give it up—not to fight it—and to get it all out. The sooner it was out of her system, the sooner he could offer her water or try to get her to sleep it off.

When she seemed satisfied, she backed across the small bathroom and sat with her back against the wall, tears in her eyes from the efforts she'd put into emptying her stomach.

"Everything's gone," she said.

"It's always better going down than coming up," Dale said. He was glad that everything was gone. He was glad that, within a few moments even, he could get her on the road to recovery. There was no use holding onto something that your body simply didn't want.

"I don't mean the wine, Dale," Andrea said, almost sounding as though she were choking on her own words. "It's over. There's nothing left. Don't you see that?"

Foolish optimism.

That's what he'd told himself it was after Irma had passed. He'd spent his final bit of time with her almost like a madman. He'd taken her anywhere there was to go—even if she didn't want to go—because he was desperate for more time with her. She'd known that the fight was over even before the doctors had told them that there was nothing more they could do. Dale, though, had clung to his optimism until the very end. He'd clung to the hope of a miracle. He couldn't let go of her. He couldn't give up on her. So the only choice he'd had was to cling to the false belief that everything would, somehow, get better. He'd held onto his hope of a miracle.

And he'd realized, later, how foolish he'd been. But it had been the only thing that had gotten him through. If he'd given up? He wasn't sure he'd still be alive. He might have, as Jenner had put it, simply opted out to save himself the pain.

He heard what Jenner said, just the same as the rest of them. He knew that, more than likely, they weren't going to simply find a place where the world was exactly as they remembered it. He was fully aware that there was a good chance that they'd just stay here until they died. Or, if they had to move on, they'd just move on until they died.

But he was clinging to his optimism. Because, before all of this, he'd been alone. And now? He had Andrea. And she needed him. She needed his foolish optimism, even if she didn't realize it.

"I see a chance to make a new start," Dale said.

She stared at him, disbelief on her features.

"Oh my God, Dale. Didn't you see the look on Jenner's face? There's nothing left," Andrea declared.

There was something left.

It wasn't much, but they were left. Dale wasn't going to give up. He wasn't going to give up on the world and the people left in it. He wasn't going to give up on Andrea.

There might not be what they'd thought was there before, but there was something left.

"Come on," Dale said, getting to his feet. "It all looks better in the morning."

He moved to put his hands under Andrea's arms. He'd lift her like a child and bring her to her feet if that's what he needed to do. If that's what she needed him to do.

She scoffed at him, pushed him away, but then she let him help her. She sunk a little into her despair. He'd let her—for just a little while—because it was all so new to her. Her loss was profound and it was fresh.

"Nothing is going to look better in the morning, Dale," Andrea said.

He laughed to himself.

"Well, you certainly aren't," Dale said. "But you'll feel better. Once the hangover's worn off. You want to brush your teeth?"

He found her toothbrush—or rather he found one in a plastic wrapper that he was claiming for hers—and he opened it. He found one of the small tubes of toothpaste in the organized medicine cabinet and he smeared toothpaste onto the bristles. Andrea stood beside him, supporting herself with the wall, and she watched him.

"Are you going to brush my teeth for me, Dale? Like I'm not old enough to—to brush my teeth?" She asked. Dale decided to ignore, entirely, the bite in her voice.

"If that's what I have to do," Dale said. "But I'd rather you brushed your own."

Andrea took the toothbrush from him. She rolled her eyes at him somewhat and she brushed her teeth while he hovered just far enough away that he could catch her should her body sway in any direction and threaten to throw her off balance. It wasn't the best brushing her teeth had probably ever had—Andrea was one that had walked around the R.V. with her toothbrush in her mouth having conversation and brushing her teeth for at least five minutes at the time—but it would do for now.

When she was done, Dale took the toothbrush from her, rinsed it, and rested it on the side of the sink. He pulled her into him and let her wipe her mouth on the shoulder of his robe since she had no towel readily available. And then he walked her to his room because it was the closest. She looked ready to drop and he had no problem coaxing her to lie down on one of the couches. He covered her with one of the blankets they'd been given, expecting her to fall asleep immediately.

"There's nothing left, Dale," she lamented again, her voice quieter than before.

Dale sat gently on the edge of the couch, balancing himself on the limited space. He stroked her hair.

"Close your eyes," he commanded, putting a little more force behind the words than he had before. "Andrea—you need to sleep. You haven't slept in days. Of course you feel this way. You're exhausted. We're all exhausted. There's something left out there. There's something left in here."

"You heard Jenner," Andrea responded.

Dale swallowed.

"And I know what I know," Dale responded. "And right now? I know you need to sleep. I'll be here. And tomorrow? It's another day."

He continued, for a few moments, simply stringing together words to keep his voice going—to keep the sound going—so that Andrea wouldn't interrupt him and she wouldn't focus, any longer, on the things that were bothering her. He stroked her hair and he petted the side of her face and cheek softly.

And it must've worked, because when he finally stopped speaking, and moved his hand away from her face, her eyes were closed and her breathing was steady.

Maybe the world wasn't what they'd once known it to be. Maybe Jenner was right about that.

But there was still something left.