Oneshot set slightly after the CDC blew up when the group was travelling. Perhaps slightly AU considering we don't know just how long they traveled before reaching the mash-up on the highway. Or maybe that's just me.
Perhaps Andrea should have been afraid of the forest. After all, the forest had belched out the walkers who'd attacked the camp and killed Amy. But the birdsong lured her, the fresh aromas of multiple types of flowers caught her, and the enticing thought of aloneness drew her away from the group's circle of protection. She felt like a caged bird here with the others suppressing her, breathing down her back like starving felines. Nevertheless, she decided she'd help out the group in her own way. But that would mean going off on her own, too. She rather liked this idea.
Dale wondered offhandedly what she was rummaging for in the RV. She didn't answer him full-on, just told him she wouldn't kill herself. He looked at her skeptically but ultimately left her alone. She found what she needed after rummaging through a couple drawers and was delighted to find extra buttons in the same drawer. She scooped them up and put as many as she could in her jeans pockets. Then, taking the small box she'd found, her prize, in her hands, she exited the RV.
By the time she gathered the last of her supplies, it was lunchtime. Lori passed by and handed her a sandwich, the bread having been found in one of the gas stations they'd passed, and she thanked the woman with a nod. Lori had enough sense, thankfully, to not ask what she was doing. Sticking the sandwich on top of the box she'd found in the RV, which sat on top of the rest of her supplies in a basket, she checked once to see if anyone was looking, picked up the basket, and slipped into the woods.
Her arms had begun to strain from the weight of the contents of the basket by the time she reached the clearing. She'd seen it from the car when they drove past, though only a glimpse. It was a beautiful little meadow, small but perfect for her work. She walked out to the middle, dropped her heavy load (promptly crushing a lot of poor flowers), rubbed her arms for a second, and then paced out to the edge of the clearing. She walked the diameter, searching both woods and clearing for telltale signs of the undead. She surprised a pair of deer, who bolted off into the trees, and wondered if she should tell Daryl later or if they'd be too far gone to track.
She ate the sandwich after she'd ambled her way back to the middle. With one hand firmly holding her food, she used the other to pick up and drop her little box on the soft grass and then overturn the basket she'd carried. Out spilled clothes of every color and size, all dirty and in various states of disrepair. Keeping the sturdy basket upside down, she sat on one side of it, picked up the small box she'd taken from Dale's RV, and set it next to her, open. It was a sewing kit. She hated doing the laundry, yes, but sewing gave her a sense of calm and it was something she was actually good at, as opposed to that laundry thing that she was never good at.
Next she emptied her pockets of the multiple buttons. Then she straightened the clothes, ensuring that they might at least have less wrinkles than they would have had if she'd left them crumpled. She placed them into different piles pertaining to how much work they needed and how much time she was willing to spend on them. Finally, after she'd finished her sandwich and took a swig of water, she picked up a shirt, threaded a needle, and began to mend.
"The hell is my vest?" Daryl mumbled to himself as he looked through his small pile of clothes. His vest was not there, of course, but he thought that if he looked this time, it would magically appear. Surprise, surprise, it did not appear at all. "God dammit! I did not leave my vest at the damn CDC."
He exited his tent and kicked one of the poles holding it up. The tent wobbled from the kick but didn't fall down. He didn't care either way. T-Dog glanced up at the ruckus. "What's wrong, Daryl?"
"Someone stole my vest. You seen anyone go in my tent?" Daryl snapped back, glaring at the dark-skinned man.
T-Dog blinked. Then shook his head. He was about to say something else but Daryl stalked away before he could hear Black Man's grating voice. Blegh, he didn't want to talk with snotty lowlifes. Or Chinamen, and one was heading his way.
"Hey, Rick wants…" Glenn trailed off as Daryl pushed past him, intent on his own path. He was running the names of all the people who might want to steal his things in his head. So far his list contained… no one. Because they knew that if they pissed off Daryl Dixon they'd get it. So he thought he'd better go check on the ladies, the ones who handled the washing of the clothes.
"Dammit, Lori." Daryl accused as he approached her and Shane doing God knows what, "You know full well not to take my clothes."
"Excuse me?" Lori asked, folding her arms across her chest and looking at him with confusion. "I only touch the clothes you put in the laundry.
"Then who the hell stole my vest?" Now Daryl glared at Shane, who held his hands up in defense.
"Now, Daryl. No one stole your vest. Did you check your tent?" Lori reasoned.
"Oh, ain't that a great idea?" Daryl scoffed sarcastically. "Ya'll ain't no help."
As he turned around, intent on chewing on Dale's ass now, Lori shifted. "Ah, but Andrea might be able to help you find it. She took some clothes a while ago."
Daryl didn't answer her, just rolled his eyes as he walked away. Yeah, Blondie with clothes. Like hell. She hated laundry—and he knew that only because she'd complained loudly enough for him to hear and often enough that he'd begun to hear that stupid wench in his sleep—so why the hell would he believe Lori? But he had a gnawing suspicion and as he passed Dale, Dale asked him if he knew where Andrea had gotten to.
"No, why the hell would I?" He smart-mouthed back, "Ain't no one's babysitter."
Dale seemed taken aback. "Uh, okay. Just thought since you were a tracker and all, you'd know if she went off into the forest."
Daryl stopped in mid-stride, "Y' seriously think she'd leave?"
The old man shrugged. "She just lost her sister. She might not want to stay with us."
Daryl scrunched his nose, "Dammit, man. She lived for you; if she ain't stayin' with us, she might as well just kill herself."
Then he stormed off, thoroughly pissed with everyone. He didn't understand them. What the hell did they know of losin' a sibling? Sure, a husband was lost, a friend, many friends. But losing his brother, Andrea losing her sister. He could relate. Still didn't mean she could steal his vest.
"Andrea!" He yowled as he rounded the corner of her tent to find it and the area surrounding it empty. Angrily, he paced back and forth in front of her tent. All this for his damn vest, and that's all he wanted was his damn vest.
Then he saw it. The slight indent in the soft ground as she had probably slid down the slight slope into the forest. The broken batch of twigs as she'd stepped on them, the faint stirring of the pine needles. He stopped pacing and, interested, he set off after her, following her trail.
She'd worked her way through two piles of the worst clothes and could feel her fingers begin to ache. She'd forgotten that feeling, like her fingers were about to fall off, but she'd already decided that she would do this for the group. She wanted them to know that she was going to try to live. That she could do more than mope or pout if they gave her a chance… which they hadn't given her yet because they were too cautious around her. Like she was fragile and would die if they even looked at her wrong.
Sometime during the beginning of the second batch she'd started singing. The woman had little tone and couldn't hold a high note to save her life. But the song didn't need tone and didn't have any high notes she would fail to catch. She hummed at first, glancing around to see if any walkers would hear, and then, when she forgot that she was supposed to be somewhat quiet, she started whistling. It was her own tune, of course, and it took her mind off of other things. Amy liked music and had loved to sing. Andrea had never had Amy's singing voice… or a singing voice at all. So to think of Amy in a happy light like this was pretty good considering the fact that all Andrea had been able to do recently was a great step forward.
As she reached down for the next bit of clothing to stitch up, she noticed the vest lying on the top of the pile and her hand lingered over it for a moment, knowing this was Daryl's vest. How had that gotten in there? She tensed but only for a second and glanced around as if Daryl would jump out from behind a tree any moment to call her out on stealing his vest. When he didn't, she laughed awkwardly at her own thoughts. Then she picked up the vest and looked at it. It didn't need repairs, so why had she picked it up? It had probably just been with the other clothes she'd picked up.
She set it on her lap, her hand absently stroking the soft texture, and then her eyes caught another piece of clothing. Her shirt, creamy white with angel wings on the back of it. It had gotten slashed down the front by a mishap with a screwdriver, a sleepy Andrea, and a bumpy RV. She was going to fix it, but knew she probably wouldn't wear it again, what with the ragged gash down the front even if it was sewn properly, because she still wanted to look somewhat good around others. Maybe she could do something else with it, instead. She picked up the shirt with a quizzical look on her face, glanced at the vest, and shrugged. Ah, what the hell. It was just a vest. He could kill her later; perhaps she wanted him to kill her.
It took some work opening up the vest so she wouldn't sew through both layers of it and make it uncomfortable to wear. She'd done this before with Dad's fishing gear, so she knew what she was doing. When she'd cut the vest with the handy scissors she'd found in the sewing kit, she turned to the shirt and with deft hands cut around the wings. Then, with more precise cuts, she softened the harsh edges of the cuts and soon she had cut both of her wings out.
Then, with slow and precise movements, she set the wings on the back of the vest and began to sew them on.
Daryl kind of liked stalking this woman. She made no attempt to cover her tracks, none at all, but she also didn't make very many of them. Like she was a natural at being stealthy. But he could tell she was carrying a heavy weight, more than her usual buck thirty-something. He could see some light slips where she'd missed her footing. But she was going in such a straight line that no matter what, he couldn't miss her. Along the way he noticed deer tracks, too, not too far gone. Considered going after them instead, needed meat more than a vest, but he thought against it.
There were a few places in which he almost lost her tracks she was so good, or perhaps he had forgotten to look where he was going. He wasn't angry so much now as annoyed and slightly curious. Why would a woman go through this much trouble to get away? Ha, what a stupid-ass question, Daryl. Because her sister had just died and because everyone was overbearing. Except him because he didn't care nothing about what Blondie did. Didn't care nothing about what anyone did. Except when they stole his fucking vest.
The woman sat in the middle of a clearing and Daryl stopped onto the trailing edge of it. Grass, flowers, weeds, everything seemed in place. Except for the woman sitting on a clothes basket in the middle of the clearing, her back to him, whistling a tune that actually sounded not half bad. And she was working with something. Piles of clothes sat on either side of her, though one side held carefully folded clothes and the other side was just… clothes. He considered stepping forward to pull apart her nicely piled clothes to find his vest. His goddamn vest he told no one to take.
But she just looked so peaceful there and dammit he wished he could be that peaceful. He shifted his legs uncomfortably before pacing forward. "Hey, Blondie, you got my vest?"
She was actually startled and she whirled around so quickly, making to defend herself with her bare hands, that she knocked a small box of something all over the ground. "Daryl?" She asks incredulously, then her face contorted into something akin to anger, "Who told you to come find me? Rick? Lori? Dale?"
"Fuck, I ain't no babysitter!" Daryl growled out, "No one sent me. I want my vest."
Andrea settled then, but she was still over slightly wary. She stepped back and then looked down at the box she'd spilled and bent over to pick it up. He watched her do it, no thought in the world for helping her. When she didn't answer, he continued. "Ya got it or what?"
The woman stopped for a second and then gave up her attempt to pick up what he now saw were needles, thread, and… where those thimbles? Then she stood up and placed her hands on her hips. "If you want it, you can take it. It's right over there." She jabbed her finger in the direction of the folded pile of clothes.
He stalked over to it and, thankfully, he didn't have to rummage for it. It was right on top, folded with care. It touched his heart a little to see something of his cared for like that. He grabbed it anyway, unceremoniously, didn't even look at it. It didn't occur to him to look at it. "What're ya doin' with these clothes? Cleanin' 'em with yer sweat? Yer tears?"
He saw the reaction as soon as he'd said it and he grew angry at himself that he'd said that. He saw her freeze up, all of a sudden that woman in the CDC again, broken. But it was gone in a flash and Andrea was back, her defenses stronger than ever. "So what if I was? You gonna go whine to Rick?"
Daryl actually chuckled a bit, "I knew you were there." He halfway joked out, "What're ya really doin'?" He asked as curiosity stumbled into his stomach.
Andrea raised her eyebrows and Daryl was about to growl out 'yeah, I get into people's business, what'sit to ya?' but she just turned the upper half of her body to survey her work. "I was mending things. Overused shirts get worn out. But I wanted to be alone."
He shrugged, "Fine, then. I'm leaving. You can, uh, continue with what yer doin'."
He turned and started to walk away, happy now that he'd found his vest again, when her voice called after him. "You mean Rick didn't really send you?"
Daryl shrugged, "So what if he did?"
She was behind him now, he could tell. "Daryl, so help me I will have your balls."
"Fuck, woman." He proclaimed, turning around and immediately meeting her icy eyes. "I wanted my vest. Don't care what Rick wants."
She nodded, once, and then turned away from him. "I haven't finished your other plaid shirt yet; I'll bring it by your tent when I get back."
He blinked. He hadn't even noticed another of his clothes in the pile and he didn't search, either. He didn't even care why she was out here; why the hell would he tell Rick if he didn't care? He just turned around and waved his hand in the air, "Fine, See ya. Don't get bit."
He had just thrown the vest on his sleeping bag when he noticed it. A bit of white on the vest that hadn't been there before. She better not have done anything with his damn vest. That was his vest; that vest Merle gave him. He gnashed his teeth angrily as he picked up the vest and opened it to the back. Then his breath caught.
She'd sewn him wings. She'd sewn him wings on his vest, but he wasn't angry anymore. She had style, he'd give her that. He had no idea where she'd gotten the wings, either, but, damn, they looked fine. He sat cross-legged on his sleeping back and laid the vest in front of him, looking at it. Frankly, he still didn't know whether to ogle at the damn piece of clothing or be angry at Andrea for messing with Merle's jacket. No, not angry. He wasn't angry anymore. He checked all over it, but she'd completely redone the stitching and it was good.
But why the hell did she do it? Did she want something in return? Did she know this was Merle's vest and that he hated people touching that vest? Did she love ruining other people's things because she'd lost her sister? Or did she just genuinely want him to like it? Ha, whatever, why did he care now? It was done and over with. And he did actually like it. He likened her doing it do just letting go of stresses. Sure, he probably didn't need to pester her about it. So he wouldn't. He didn't care. It was his vest, but it was just a vest.
He didn't say anything to her about the vest and she assumed everything was okay. In fact, because she'd completely redone his vest for him, she really wanted to see him wear it. But he hadn't worn it once. Not when they went to the highway, not when Sophia got lost. The others had thanked her about the mended shirts, pants, and even Daryl had grunted out a thanks when she presented him with his mended shirt. But he hadn't said anything about the vest. And even as she got closer to the group, hell, closer to him, he didn't wear it.
Not until the day after Sophia's death… her re-death. And then he wore it. He was broken, she could tell. A fallen angel. But, and whenever she thought about it she smiled, this fallen angel still had his wings. His wings that had once been hers. A gift that she finally knew that he liked… perhaps even loved.
And Daryl wouldn't mention it, but he liked the vest. In fact, he'd liked it so much he hadn't put it on for fear of ruining it. He'd even forgotten about it in his haste to find Sophia for Carol. Because he couldn't lose Sophia like he'd lost Amy. He couldn't let another woman be as desolate as Andrea. But he'd found it one day in the bottom of his bag of clothes and he hadn't really had the time to wear it. But he wore it after Sophia's death because, in some way, he'd felt closer to her when wearing it. And when he saw the slight smile on Andrea's face it brightened him a little, lifted him out of the darkness that loomed over him these days. Because he'd worn it. He decided that he'd wear it more.
He never would know that he wore Andrea's wings on his back.