Title: Cherry Garcia & Cookie Dough
Author: GageWhitney
Rating: T
Pairing: Daryl/Andrea
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: "It's funny, the way you miss stupid little things like hobbies," she says wistfully.
Note: I blame my recent interest in this pairing on my overwhelming attraction to Norman Reedus.
When Daryl announces that he's going to take a walk through the woods to see if he can scare up some food, Andrea volunteers to go with him.
They both know it's less an effort to learn new squirrel-catching techniques and more an excuse to get away from the rest of the group, but neither of them really cares. He just nods his head and starts into the woods ahead of her, and she shoves her gun into the waistband of her pants and follows.
He's mostly quiet, listening for animals and walkers, and she's thankful for it.
It's nearly an hour and half a dozen squirrels into their trek, though, that the combination of the terrain and the sun beating down on them start to really bother her, her calves burning and beads of sweat rolling down her back. He's perfectly at ease, of course, showing no signs of fatigue, and she's fairly certain he must have built up some kind of tolerance.
"Hey, can we just stop and rest for a minute?"
He looks back at her and squints into the sunlight. "Yeah, sure."
She practically collapses onto a tree stump and wipes sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. "Ugh. This heat. God, I miss air conditioning."
He takes a seat next to her, his eyes ever watchful of their surroundings. "Never had AC, so we learned to get used to it being hot. But I do miss being able to come home from hunting and have a nice, cold beer."
"Not much of a beer girl, myself. What I wouldn't give for a bowl of ice cream right now, though," she says dreamily. "Cherry Garcia."
"Cookie dough," he says quietly.
She grins at him. "Wouldn't have taken you for a cookie dough man."
After a long, silent minute, he says, "We used to go hunting on Sundays. Start real early in the morning. Come home, have a few beers, watch football. I miss my big screen."
"You sound like my dad. Every Sunday, without fail, he was parked in front of that television," she says with a sad smile.
"Good man," he says, like it's a fact he knows to be true.
She doesn't want to risk becoming maudlin, so she changes the subject. "I miss listening to music. You know, just driving around, all the windows open, radio blasting. Nothing like it."
He makes a noise of agreement. "I miss my guitar."
"You play guitar?" She can't help her surprised tone of voice.
He shrugs. "Little bit. Had one back home I used to mess around with. Merle always thought it was kind of dumb."
"You know, Dale was talking about how he found a guitar in one of the cars," she tells him. "I think he's still hanging on to it. You should ask him about it."
"Yeah. Maybe."
"It's funny, the way you miss stupid little things like hobbies," she says wistfully. "I used to take photographs. I was getting to be pretty good at it, too. Every once in a while, I get that itch to pick up a camera."
"Not a whole lot worth remembering lately," he says. Her face falls, and he winces.
"No, there isn't." She drags the back of her hand against her forehead again and looks at her shoes.
"Porn." He says it with a smirk, and she knows he does it just to lighten the mood and get a reaction out of her.
Not one to back down, she smirks back at him. "Vibrator." The memory of an earlier conversation tugs at her, but she ignores it.
They're quiet for a few moments, just staring each other. Then he tips his imaginary hat to her, and she bursts out laughing. He chuckles nervously and shakes his head, looking away from her so she doesn't see his face flush. "We better head back."
She beams. "Daryl Dixon, are you blushing?"
"It's hot out." He's already up and three paces ahead of her.
"Uh-huh."