A/N: So….I am really really glad I put "eventual Caryl" in the description of this story, because it's gonna get there, but it might take some time. I have to be honest, I forgot how different both of these characters were before Sophia walked out the barn. Anywho, I am glad that for the most part, y'all seem to be enjoying the story thus far. I am trying to be as true to the characters, not only as to who they become, but who they were.
NB: I know I paraphrased the conversation between Andrea and Daryl about his experience in the woods. I am sure you all understand, and the gist of it is still there (along with my entirely fabricated intro). ;-)
Some of them decide to stay. For Sophia, just in case. Just for the night, until they can figure out a solution. But for Daryl, there's only one answer, the one he spit in Carol and Andrea's startled faces earlier in the day: they are gonna locate this little girl, and she's gonna be just fine. These people, they all talk about everything too goddamn much. Doin' is the only thing that really matters. Words mean a whole lotta nothin', from where he's standin'.
It's just the four of them left on the clogged, lonely stretch of highway. Dale, keeping uneasy watch outside. He's glad he's not that dude, getting the evil eye from Andrea every other minute. He watches her in the dimness of the RV, fussing with the gun clip, thinks about how much she loves her sister: so much, she didn't want to live anymore. He knows that he's never loved anyone that much. Not his momma, dead from a careless cigarette before he was ten. Not his daddy, gone most of the time, smackin' him around when he was. And not Merle, even though, if pressed, Daryl would admit that he loves his brother more than he's loved anyone in his life. Though it's such a broken, uneasy love. And certainly not a love worth dyin' for.
He approaches the blond woman, Carol's incessant sobbing from the bunk behind him making his insides itch with frustration. He wants out of this tin can, and now. Her abject sorrow in the face of her daughter's disappearance tugs at his heart, moves him. No one ever loved the child he was that much. But her passivity throughout the past few days irritates him as well. He knows Carol's not the type to kill herself (putting aside all of the Jesus stuff); she'll keep going, no matter how they find her daughter, because she thinks she deserves what's been laid at her feet. Daryl's not sure about the answer to that yet, himself. In his mind, her desperate love for Sophia is marred by the fact that she lived with that brute of a husband, and let her daughter live with him, for far too long.
Mothers ought to protect their kids best they can. Not keepin' 'em in dangerous situations. Not dyin' on them from shear laziness or stupidity.
He sighs roughly, looks down at Andrea. Her blue eyes glisten in the low light. "Headin' out to search a bit. Wanna come?" He coughs out.
She sizes him up. "Yeah, let's go." She glances over at Carol's curled form momentarily, and they head out. Daryl ignores Dale's hang-wringing and the glimmer of hope glowing in Carol's eyes.
Something loosens in his chest once they are out of sight of both of the others. He doesn't do recrimination or guilt very well. Walking with Andrea is uncomplicated. He needs that right now. They walk about a half mile or so in silence, the only light coming from the moon, glancing off her pale eyes and hair. She's not totally comfortable with the gun, he sees. He understands why Dale is hesitant to give hers back to her, for a few reasons.
"See anything you like?" She finally pipes up. Damn. Guess he had been starin' a little. Just not for the reasons she thinks.
But, well, since she's asked, he takes a longer, sidelong look. She's good-lookin', for sure, not in that soft, easy way her sister was, but he pictures her decked out in her fancy lawyer gear, heels, tight business suit, and yeah. She probably didn't look half bad. Better than that.
"Maybe," he says to his feet.
"Wow, there's a rousing endorsement," she chuckles a little. "You really know how to make a gal feel special. Probably a real ladies' man, right?" Her perfect, white teeth gleam, her smile not entirely kind. She's someone who doesn't let go of anger quickly.
His sexual experience is something he really doesn't want to discuss with this woman, with her hard voice thinly veiled with humor. He does take a passing glance at her tits, though. Pretty top-notch.
She seems to realize she'll get nowhere with him with this tack, changes the subject. Her face clouds with genuine concern when she begins speaking again.
"Three nights in these woods," she says, glancing over at him. "Sophia must be terrified."
He thinks a moment, looks over at her. Easier to talk about this than flirt, that's for sure. "Nah, she could still be okay. I was lost for 9 days myself. No one even noticed I was gone. Merle was doin' another stint in Juvie, dad was off on a bender with some waitress," he pauses, remembering. Cheryl. That was the waitress' name. She has shocking, dyed orange hair and smelled like Juicy Fruit and stale pancakes. She'd hug Daryl sometimes, when she saw him, press his face into her horrifying enormous bosom. She'd cackle, tell him his face was as red as her hair. He smiles a little. "Only problem, was the itchy ass from wipin' it with poison oak."
Andrea's mouth falls open, then she starts laughing. "I'm sorry...I don't mean to laugh...that sounds terrible." She arranges her face back into a look of concern, but her mouth is bending back into a smile.
He can't help but smile back.
oooOOOooo
"Got bit
Fever hit
World gone to shit
Might as well quit."
He reads the poem as the walker, who apparently was the dumbest person on the planet prior to hanging himself, thrashes above him, his wasted lower legs flopping uselessly.
Andrea gazes up at him, her mouth a "U" of disgust. She leans aside, pukes delicately.
"That's payback for laughing about my itchy ass," he aims at her, stopping short of actually laughing at her. She shoots daggers at him, stumbles over to look more closely at the dangling zombie.
"Dumbass didn't know enough to shoot hisself in the head," Daryl scoffs, turns to walk away.
"You're just going to leave him like that?"
"Why not? He's not hurtin' anybody up there," he gestures. "Why waste an arrow?"
She turns back, her body rigid, staring up the dangling husk of a fool.
He asks her while her backs turned: "Do you wanna live now, or not?"
She spins around, defiantly: "Answer for an arrow?"
He considers, wonders if maybe she'll say something meaningful. Something worth an arrow. "Fair".
"I don't know if I wanna live, or if I have to, or if it's just a habit," for the first time all night, she looks unsure.
"Not much of an answer," he responds, but a deal is a deal. He puts the dangling idiot out of his misery. "Waste of an arrow."
They turn to walk back, and Daryl thinks again what a waste words are most of the time. No amount of hopin', or prayin' or talkin' is going to bring Sophia back. But he can, and he will, bring that little girl back to her mother. And Carol might have the chance she's not sure she deserves. The chance Daryl never got.
