Daryl yawned widely as small tears gathered at the corner of his eyes.
The sun rose over Georgia, basking it in lovely spectral light. Even the birds had began their morning chorus, giving Daryl a good wakeup call as he straightened on his branch. For the entire night, he and the Indian had spent it high up in a tree, alternating between vigilance and sleep. Slumber hadn't been come easy, the thought of walkers kept Daryl from closing his eyes for the majority of the time. Even the marshal was too coiled up to sleep properly as she kept waking up every twenty minutes and checking for danger. Walkers wouldn't be able to reach their height, but that still didn't keep them from being highly suspicious.
The hoard had moved on hours ago, leaving nothing but a few stragglers trailing behind. Daryl had breathed in relief once the last of the corpses dispersed and they were finally given respite. The man just wished he had slept even remotely decent since he would need energy to continue on their journey towards the prison.
Blue eyes slid over to the sleeping marshal on the other side. Like him, she was positioned awkwardly, straddling the thick branch with strong hands…hands that not several hours ago tried to beat him into the dirt.
Thoughts darkened as the hunter was reminded of yesterday once again. The instant she had climbed out of the car in her mad scheme had been one of the most heart-pounding moments of his life. For just a few bleak seconds, Daryl had believed that would be the last time he would see the Indian—that she signed her death warrant and he hadn't been able to prevent it. Again. The thought that a repeat of the farm was happening right before his eyes had left him thunderstruck, unable to utter even a word as his stomach constricted in anxiety.
She's gonna die—that was the only thought revolving around in his mind. A twisted, gut-churning thought that propelled him to leave the car in search for her. If he was able to help her this time then he wasn't about to shrink away from it. He would not repeat a past mistake. Alive or dead, it didn't matter, Daryl had to reach her. He had to know for sure.
Finding her had proven to be both mentally and physically exhausting. He hadn't been kidding when he said that tracking her down hadn't been easy. It had probably been one of the most challenging moments of his life. The woman's step had been almost indiscernible in the barrage of walker prints. After a few dead ends, he had to hurry up his pace since each wrong track left him further and further away. Only by a stroke of luck did he manage to finds hers. Stealthy and light, he recognized the cautious way they were positioned and spaced apart that no walker could produce. Though he still couldn't breathe easily since Samara could yet still be in danger. Hours passed with no sight of her except for the occasional walker. Like a hare he managed to evade the bulk of the hoard and be one step ahead of them. With each passing hour, he felt hope dwindle as sometimes her steps disappeared and, frantically, he broadened his area search, terrified of finding just bloodied pieces. Sadistically, his mind would conjure up grotesque images and Daryl vehemently ignored them. From experience he knew Samara wasn't that easy to take down.
Daryl couldn't believe that almost being struck by an arrow could have given him such joy. Samara was alive and well. Yet, despite his happiness, he hadn't been able to restrain himself. It had been instantaneous. After so many hours of worrying and general stress, his relief at her safety came out under the guise of anger. Whatever this woman did, she always managed to evoke such extreme contradictions within him, and like the haughty woman that she was, she just shrugged off her dangerous death defying stunt, further aggravating the hunter's fickle temperament. Why couldn't she just stay put and not throw herself into the fire? How many times must he pull her out of harm's way? That frustrated him more than anything. It wasn't her job to safe guard them and neither had she ever been inclined to it before, so she had no reason to act so chivalrously. Daryl couldn't accept her reasoning. Practicality and rationale only went so far. So he shouted and cussed at her for her stupidity, for making such severe decisions….for making him worry when he swore he would never again for her.
He hated this feeling that tore at him. No matter how mad he got, there was still that pestering pull that gravitated him towards her. Always within range, yet never touching. It was pure mental and physical torture, and he honestly couldn't understand why he put himself through it. He hadn't asked for it. He just wanted peace of mind, not frustrations atop tribulations. He swore that not even death could keep his mind from venturing to her, case proven already.
Daryl truly wished he could cut the cord and forget about her. He had never had any predilection towards affection or relationships beyond camaraderie for anyone. Even now he didn't, but no matter what he did he couldn't shake off that undeniable pull. Like the sun and moon orbiting around each other. But like with them, the moment they got too closer, gravitation would have them collide resulting in disaster.
An impossible situation, Daryl thought as he let his head fall back on the cold bark. They were doomed for calamity because both were too set in their ways to change. Pride and stubbornness were practically their nature. For all her efforts in trying to talk him about that night, not once had she apologized. Maybe if she had started with that he would have listened, but no, Samara would need to have her teeth pulled with pliers before she uttered those two words.
Daryl sighed heavily as he stared out into the blooming canopy as the morning sky bled scarlet and orange. After he had calmed down from his initial rage of that night, he had looked at the situation rationally. Samara had been drunk and drunken people were bound to say a lot of things, true or false. What he couldn't discern at that time was which side her words favored. Her continuous failed efforts had led him to believe that she had been truthful, but for different reasons and not the ones he imagined. He wished it had been for the motives he conjured because then it gave him clear evidence to hate and to stay away from her distracting presence.
While he did come to this realization, it didn't mean that he would suddenly forgive and forget. Daryl hated having his ego bruised. The only other person that ever managed to hit so precisely and cuttingly had been Merle, and he wanted no part of his brother to be associated with the Indian.
Daryl's fists clenched at the memory of their altercation before the hoard caught up to them. She had called him a dog. That one word cut more deeply than any cuss word in existence. He knew he had been a nobody before the virus. He hadn't been anything like her with responsibilities and he never wished for it since life had been too complicated without the addition of a woman. Moreover, his own family hadn't exactly been normal. He would be a bastard to wish that on a wife or a child. If there was one thing in life that he had adamantly strived towards was never repeating history.
And then, to add insult to injury, she uttered Grimes' name. A sort of red haze settled over Daryl's sight and he felt his blood simmer. Like a festering wound being applied lemon juice and salt just out of spite. He knew this and yet hadn't been able to remain undisturbed. That name spoken by her at that time had probably jarred him more than anything else she had screamed.
—Was that what he was? Just a choice between him and Rick? Then why not go for the sheriff instead? He seemed the better alternative and they actually got along. She wouldn't have to go through all the trouble that she had with him. Maybe it was because Rick still had a wife, although estranged, and the woman had proclaimed once that she despised home-wreckers. In the end, Daryl proved the safest choice because he had no such ties. He was the practical choice. If Lori hadn't been in the picture then—
The man grimaced, finding these thoughts both offensive and repulsive.
His features blanched once the echo of words reached him.
"I'm done, Daryl."
How such simple words could cause even someone as hardened as him to break out into a cold sweat. It had been unexpected as it inexplicably gripped his heart like a tight fist, ready to crush it into a gooey pulp. Despite wishing for such an end, to hear it actually voiced out loud had dropped a cold stone in his stomach. It left him uncoordinated and troubled, resulting in him impulsively swiping her off her feet and stopping her from cutting that fragile bond entirely. He wasn't ready to let go, not yet. As the Indian bit, fought and struggled, it just hammered in the instinct to keep her even closer and confined. She didn't have the right to just walk away like that, not after everything.
He wondered what would have happened if the walkers hadn't interrupted them. Would the fight have continued or would they have stopped to actually talk, something that neither had tried doing after all this time. As much as it pained him, Daryl was willing to make the first step in understanding, but the question was, would Samara even try or would she shun him as she had proclaimed.
Rustle.
Looking up, Daryl witnessed the first signs of the woman awakening. Shutting down his musings for the day, he did a quick and thorough perusal of the area before deeming it safe. As he descended the tree, he heard the woman yawn loudly as she straightened out and hissed. Daryl could see her pained grimace, no doubt a product of her damaged spine.
Dammit, their pace would have to be slower than usual for today. Samara will have to strain herself to keep up, further delaying their arrival.
"Any stragglers?" He heard her whisper.
Daryl shook his head as he planted his feet on the ground. His own features contorted as he craned his stiff back and neck. They were as straight as boards.
Samara soon joined him and they both shared her rations. The food will only sustain them enough for today. After that, they would have to either starve until they got to the prison or hunt. Hunting meant more time wasted, but it seemed they had no choice.
The journey home began once again, and this time it was kept in silence. The commotion from yesterday had drained them of their will to talk and considering how it ended, they'd rather not have a repeat of it. While it felt a welcome break from their usual bickering, it still aggravated the hunter. He wasn't used to having the Indian so quiet. Usually, she snarked a bit or mused of times passed, but now she was as quiet as a tomb.
—It disturbed his calm, surprisingly.
As he had predicted, Samara lagged behind. She twisted and turned the backpack and quiver as they added extra discomfort to her sore muscles. Having enough of it, Daryl had snatched them from her without a word and she hadn't even peeped indignantly. She seemed resolute in playing the indifferent statue, much to Daryl's chagrin. He'd rather have her snap at him.
They passed small patches of forests and crop fields, always heading east. As the day progressed, Daryl could tell that the Indian was getting worse, but she didn't complain. She marched on like a soldier, restraining herself from displaying her weakness. Daryl knew that they'd soon have to find a place to rest their tired bones, even if night wasn't upon them for many hours yet.
It was in a particular batch of a forest that they found their shelter and Daryl almost wished he had never once thought of it.
"Is that a drug dealer's house?" Samara panted as she narrowed her eyes on the shabby structure in the distance.
"Nah, that's a moonshine home factory." Daryl observed it with mild disgust. He was all too familiar with that type of building. "Might be empty, might not."
Unloading Samara's backpack, he picked up his crossbow readily. "Stay here. I'm gonna clear it out. If shit happens, don't show yourself. You run."
"Like I fucking can…" She huffed as she leaned against a tree with sweat pouring down her face and limbs shaking lightly.
Daryl gritted his teeth. He disliked seeing her in such a state. It devaluated her as a vicious fighter. Like a beast with its fangs clipped. He too himself hated being weak, even more if others saw that weakness and he was sure Samara was of the same mind.
Although reluctantly, Daryl pushed forward and inspected the house.
Samara plopped into the raggedy armchair, careful of her aching limbs.
The house had been empty after all as Daryl had waved her inside not even a minute of entering. It was a dirty place with two rooms, a small open kitchen and bathroom that had never seen the prickly end of a cleaning brush. Even the ground was clustered with newspapers and clothes and cigarette butts and other things she had no intention of touching lest she catch a disease.
Samara despised it. It was trashy and it reminded her of the rednecks back in West Virginia, instantly rising up her hackles. Of all places, she had to end up in a place like this.
From the kitchen she could see Daryl pop open every cupboard in search for something. She didn't really care what for since she had more pressing matters on her mind. Getting rid of all the weapons strapped to her body, she sighed in relief at the loss of such weights. She desperately needed to stretch her aching limbs and she'd rather do it now while she had time before they departed once more.
"Found it." Daryl's proclamation was followed by a clink of glass.
"What?" Samara asked barely interested as she focused on working through some stretching moves.
The man's fleeted to her for a moment as she worked out before settling a case of jars and bottles filled with clear liquid on the low coffee table.
Samara threw it a glance, deducing its nature. "I'm guessing that's the moonshine."
Daryl crouched low and unscrewed one jar. One sniff was all it took to have him lean away with a sneeze.
"Strong, too." He grimaced at the long forgotten scent. "Drink some."
The Native gave the jar a sharp look before traveling to the man offering it. She saw no reason to drink something as vile as moonshine, but it gave her an opportunity to bite at him.
"So you can accuse me of some other shit I didn't do? No thanks."
"No." Daryl breathed heavily. "It's to numb out the pain."
She shook her head. "One drop of that and I'm out."
This wasn't whisky or vodka, moonshine was almost pure alcohol. She wouldn't be surprised if it didn't send her straight into a coma if she drank it. Samara would rather brave through the pain than drink that hillbilly piss.
Daryl shrugged before taking a drink himself and groaning immediately. He held his throat as it burned him and Samara's lips quirked. He looked like he had just sucked on a lemon, all pursed and teary eyed.
"Second round's always better." He croaked as he regained his voice before steadying himself and downing another shot.
Samara shook her head at his macho display and returned to her exercises. As she stretched from side to side, she noticed a pink 'thing' near the armchair hidden by porn magazines. Pushing the papers away with her foot, she rolled her eyes at the offending bon-bon colored object.
"Lovely." She revoltingly kicked the boob shaped ashtray in a corner, spilling the contents all over the dusty carpet. "Who the hell buys this crap?"
"My dad."
Her confusion was understandable.
"Dumbass would set those up on top of the TV and use 'em as target practice." Daryl looked at the overturned ashtray with apathy.
"Inside the house?"
"It was just a bunch of junk anyway." As he got up, he paced around the house with his gaze lost in appraising every bit of the broken house. "You got your dumpster chair. That's for sittin' in your drawers all summer drinkin'. Got your fancy buckets. That's for spittin' chaw in after your old lady tells you to stop smokin' and here, you got your internet."
He kicked a neatly stack of newspapers and looked around in disgust, almost as if wishing the place would catch on fire.
Whatever memory this place instigated, it wasn't a pretty one, Samara thought shrewdly.
"We're gonna rest here until tomorrow." Daryl said as he picked up his crossbow and arranged it over his shoulder, business like. Whatever murky shadow haunted him before was now gone from his gaze, leaving him in his usual frowning state.
"We still have plenty of hours left until the sun sets." While Samara was glad for this reprieve, she desperately wanted to reach the prison. Being in this close proximity to this man was becoming almost suffocating.
"I wanna scout around. Get a feel of where we are before headin' out. I'll be back before sunset."
Samara nodded as she passed him her compass and returned to her work. She listened as Daryl's steps took him out of the house until they disappeared entirely from her hearing. With a deep exhale, she sank to the floor, no longer interested in continuing her routine despite the soreness. She just wanted to stew in her thoughts.
The pain combined with the emotional turmoil from yesterday had left her feeling hollow. There was nothing more she wanted than to lie down, stare in emptiness and think of nothing. She needed to clear her mind and focus once more on herself. It was March already which meant that in a month or so she'd be good to go. Another few weeks with Hershel and she'll get the gist of farming, and it will allow her to further strengthen her tolerance to pain. Even now, with the running and tree sleeping it hadn't produced the degree of pain she had been expecting, but a slightly duller one. She was healing along nicely. Another few months and she'll be down to a discomfort.
But as the thought of leaving came, it brought along a sense of displacement as if it was a wrongdoing on her part. Samara frowned uncomprehending at the slight terror that gripped her heart from the image of her walking passed those chain fences. She wasn't afraid to face the wild, open world. She'd done it before and knew what awaited her. She was smarter now with a few extra skills, so she had no reason to fear for her life. Then what was it?
…Leaving the others?
She scoffed. Like hell. Andrea and Michonne yes if they decided not to accompany her, but the others she wouldn't really miss all that much. Some she had no emotional connection to while others, while friendly and nice, weren't enough to dissuade her. Grimes…now, she'll miss him. But who knew, perhaps one day they'll meet again. They seemed to be inclined towards always crossing paths.
Daryl…
Her lips tugged downwards. She didn't want to think about him. She'll probably be glad to be rid of him once out of the prison.
The sight of him staring forlornly and in distaste at the house flashed before her eyes and Samara gritted her teeth harshly.
Keh.
What did she care? He could go rot.
Samara woke in a flash as she heard wood creak. Raising her upper body with gun in hand, she was for a second confused to her location. But the reappearance of the hunter had everything come crashing back—the hoard, him, the fight and the house. Daryl entered the house, externally unperturbed by the flash of her weapon.
She must have fallen asleep sometime ago, Samara thought as she yawned wide and stretched her arms over her head. Even f it had been just three hours it was a welcome respite from her earlier sleeping bout on rough bark.
"Found what you were looking for?" She untied her low ponytail and combed her fingers through the rat's nest that was currently her hair.
Daryl nodded as he settled at the coffee table with, surprisingly, a map.
"We're half a mile from Roopville." His finger pinpointed the small town near their location. "We pass that and we'll end up in Chattahoochee Bend State Park. Quickest way to get to Newnan is by goin' though it."
"That has to be thirty miles, more or less." Samara deduced as she looked over the map.
"More like twenty if we go in a straight line. First light come morning, we leave. This way we reach the prison sometime afternoon."
It was a plan.
Samara returned to her place on the cold floor while Daryl relocated to the front porch, leaving the door open. He unlaced the two squirrels attached to his belt.
Thud.
Absentmindedly, the Native spared the critter that landed near her side a glance. His actions were clear—skin your own squirrel.
With a hiss, Samara rose to a sitting position and dragged herself to the armchair to have some support for her back. Crossing her legs, she began working on the critter. At least this would give her something to do.
Only the swish of their blades and the squelch of raw flesh echoed inside the house.
Subtle eyes landed on the back of the man's head. Even now the teeth marks she had left behind shined red, but at least the inflammation had reduced. Thinking of his battle scars made her rethink of her own. With gentle fingers she prodded the bruise on her forehead and winced. It still hurt and no doubt there was a nasty purple bruise in place. Damn bastard had head-butted her with the force of a ram.
The unmistakable stench of blood assaulted her senses as she perforated the skin and muscle and reached the organs.
"How many squirrels can a person possibly eat before getting sick of them?" She asked this more to herself than anything.
A scoff resounded. "You'd be surprised."
The air was so strange right now between them. Fragile like a wound that recently stopped bleeding. One small wrong tear and the blood would flow once again. Both nursed bruised egos and both were cautious of falling in a squabble before they recharged their batteries. Their frustrations of earlier days had all culminated in that one fight and now they felt vacant. Besides, they were too exhausted to think of anything other than eating and sleeping.
"How's your back? Think you can make the trip tomorrow?"
Samara grunted as she straightened her spine. "It's better, but there's this low-pounding like a headache that just won't go away. I need Hershel's magic hands." A fist crashed against the floorboards, disturbing the thick blanket of dust. "Fuck, I hate this situation! I should just go back on the pills. At least then I don't have to deal with this shit."
No matter what she did, the pain will always be there with her like a second shadow. It might dull over time, but its presence was unfaltering.
A cripple's life for me, yo-ho.
Samara grimaced.
"Turn over."
She threw him an odd look.
"I can't knead your back without seein' it." He said this without looking at her as he seemed more fascinated with wiping the blood and guts off his hands. The squirrel he had been working on was laid bare on a newspaper.
What the hell is he talking about?
"Did you fall and hit your head while scouting?" That was the only explanation that would fit this bizarre request of his.
"Look, right now you can barely move for shit and I ain't carryin' you on my back all the way to the prison. And I sure as hell ain't stoppin' for another day because you can't walk."
"No." Without question.
"Don't be stubborn."
She chuckled snidely. "I'm just following your lead, Dixon. I don't trust you not to try and hurt me while my back is turned."
His eyes widened in disbelief. "Why the hell would I do that?"
"I don't know, but in your mind it might seem logical."
Daryl gritted his teeth as Samara threw his words back at him. She wasn't kidding, though. Right now, she didn't want him near her.
"Since we've both decided not to trust each other anymore, I have no reason to listen to you." Her eyes were as cold as two shards of ice. "At the moment, I'm simply cooperating since we're going in the same direction, but that's it. I wasn't kidding back then. Once we reach the prison, we both go our separate ways."
It's for the best.
A heavy silence followed. She did not spare him a glance, preferring to work on the squirrel. She just had a few more organs to throw out and it would be ready to cook.
"…What did you mean by those words then?"
Samara paused in her work dumbfounded only to quickly pick up the pace. She has not expected him to ask that. "Doesn't matter anymore. You think what you want, good or bad."
Again he scoffed. "You've been badgerin' me all week and now you give up? That ain't like you."
"Exactly." She frowned mildly irritated. Where was he going with this discussion? "It's not like me to act as bait, it's not like me to save a convict and it's not like me to sleep with you…but I did all those things." Her eyes cut him ruthlessly. "That's what you can't accept and why understanding each other will never work."
"How do you expect me to after everythin'?" He kicked the threshold in frustration. "I only anticipate what I know. We fight, we bicker, we shout. We ain't never once been friendly and even when we were it was just for some underlyin' reason. So, yeah, when you start bein' actually nice I start gettin' suspicious because it just makes me think you either want somethin' or you're up to somethin'."
"That just proves that it's impossible to trust each other." If you were constantly bombarded by thoughts of distrust and always seeking that chink in the armor instead of accepting things at face value, then there was really no point in trying.
"…Sometimes you give me reason to and sometimes you don't." He said impassively and with little emotion. "That's the truth. I can't give more than I'm given. Can you honestly say it's any different for you?"
Samara said nothing. She didn't have to.
"I ain't nowhere near perfect, but I've been tryin' to make myself better." He sighed deeply as he settled against the doorsill, his gaze distant. "I've been told my entire life I was bad seed, but here I am with these people that say different. That I'm dependable. Someone that could be counted on for anythin' and I like that." Samara finally looked at him, but Daryl kept his gaze into the still forest before him. "I like knowin' that I'm needed and not just for catchin' game. If you think that makes me a dog, don't so be it. Dogs ain't bad, they protect what matters to them to their dyin' breath."
The furless squirrel lay forgotten in her lap as she stared vacantly. He was allowing her a glimpse behind that shell he protected himself from the outside world and she was troubled by it. He wasn't trying to lay the foundation of a new bridge, instead simply explaining himself. This would be the first time he actually talked about himself in depth and in such length that it left the Native anxious. The fact that he would initiate a deeper conversation with her of all people meant that he had a goal in mind. He wouldn't do it willingly otherwise.
Samara hesitated. To go into a heart-to-heart with this man could lead down a road foreign to both of them. They weren't in the habit to talk about themselves beside superficial matters, but her curiosity won her over. There were things they needed to clear out and maybe…that would give them a bit of insight about each other.
"You know, at first I thought finding that girl was your way of making up for whatever fucked up childhood you had," She held up a hand to stop him from interrupting her. "And don't say you didn't because you don't turn up like this from having family picnics and ice-cream Sunday's. That girl was your second chance, wasn't she? To become somebody in this new world. To reshape yourself. To be better…" She smirked derisively. "Redemption and damnation. I guess opposites do attract."
He understood her meaning and frowned. "You ain't damned."
"No, but I'm also not a nice person and I'm fine with that." She caught his gaze. "Are you?"
Silence.
There's my answer, Samara's smirk widened. Of course he couldn't. Once you shed off a skin, you don't burrow back into it. You keep moving forward. This was the only difference between him and Grimes. The sheriff had long ago accepted her for who she was. Maybe because he himself understood this dark world a bit better and was not so inclined to believe in the goodness of man anymore. Daryl still clung to that slither of redemption born out of this new world.
"I saw red."
Samara frowned in confusion.
"When you said those things that night and yesterday." He exhaled heavily. "I just saw red and couldn't think straight. Reminded me of everythin' before the virus. Had me so angry that I just went back to bein' that guy from the camp in Atlanta…" He scowled as if reminded of a particular nasty memory.
"I was drunk that night." She explained worn out. How many times must she stress this?
"I realized that days later once I calmed down. People say a lot of things, good and bad. I ain't no stranger to sayin' or doin' stupid things when drunk." He could count them by the calendar, some worse than others. "Just wanted you to know that."
"Then why did you avoid me?"
He shrugged still not looking at her.
Because of pride.
Samara understood finally. He wouldn't grovel, not to her and not after everything. They both had been in the wrong and neither wanted to say those words first. Even Samara had had no intention of apologizing, she had just wanted to straighten out the misunderstanding.
"…Do you really think my ass is ugly?"
The question surprised the hunter as he finally turned to her, baffled. Of all the things she had to say, that wasn't what he had expected.
"No. Didn't mean any of that shit I said."
"I did." The frown lines returned to his brow as Samara spoke calmly. "Some of them. Before and after that night." She shrugged hopelessly. She wasn't going to lie, some of the words she believed and some had just been out of spite. "Couldn't help it. You made me so angry and I knew what to say to hurt you. I shouldn't have called you a dog, though. I don't know what your situation was before all this."
An awkward silence soon settled.
That had to be the strangest string of apologies Samara had ever witnessed before between two people. But then again, the two of them never did follow the norm so doing things unorthodoxly was more of a calling card than anything.
She might not be able to say it straight, but to her actions spoke louder than any words.
"Have you ever given a massage before?"
"No." His interest piqued. "But it can't be that hard."
With a sigh, she grudgingly took off her denim jacket along with her hoodie and hiked up the shirt underneath, leaving her with her back exposed. Daryl remained expressionless as she turned with her back to him.
He didn't move.
"Well?" Samara snapped as a cool draft ghosted over her skin, prickling it.
Cautiously, the man moved. She felt his presence settle just behind her and along with it, his body warmth. His legs stretched on either side of her.
"How did Hershel do this?" He asked perplexed as he stared at her bare back.
"Feel for knots." She brushed her hair to one side. "When you find one put some pressure on it, but not too strong. They hurt like hell. Move your fingers in a circle until you can't feel the bumps anymore.
Samara flinched once the rough pads of his fingers settled on her warm skin. Images of sleek skin, panting breaths and lewd groans flashed before her eyes. Severely, she pinched her eyes shut to be rid of them lest her heart skipped a beat. Now was not the time to lose her cool.
Daryl's fingers hesitantly brushed over her back, still unsure of how to proceed. Samara could tell from his jerky and unsure movements how painfully inexperienced he was in this area. She had to hold in her winces and grimaces at the mistakes he made and was on the verge of dropping this whole ordeal when he stumbled across the first knot.
Samara almost melted into his arms when he applied just the tiniest bits of pressure. His fingers stilled once he heard her moan, thinking it was in pain. The Native dissuaded his thoughts and motioned to continue. It felt heavenly having her back tended after such a grueling ordeal. It might not be the best, but it was the only thing at hand at the moment. It was good enough.
Samara moaned again as his pressured pads moved in circles over the lumpy knot. Vaguely, she registered his legs beside her stiffen.
"Do you do that with Hershel?" The voice behind her sounded on edge, as if greatly holding back.
"What?" She peeked behind her, foggy brained from the release of ache. Daryl was watching her with guarded eyes and strained features, almost like he was in pain.
The hell is wrong with him?
"That. Moanin'."
It clicked then.
A dreadful grin stretched her features, making her resemble a sly fox. "Is it making you uncomfortable, Dixon?"
His eyes narrowed in response to her arrogant teasing.
"You sound like a bitch in heat."
Swiftly, he caught the elbow that headed straight for his face.
"I told you to stop tryin' to hit me." He hissed at the glaring woman.
Samara felt the veins on her forehead about to pop. Antagonizing her at such a vulnerable time was not a good idea, especially after she just apologized.
As the woman sent daggers with her eyes, Daryl felt it again. That same stirring from their fight yesterday in the pit of his stomach. Like a waking beast, it growled and grumbled the more he stared into the fire behind her glower. She was so close he could almost feel her heart beating against his chest. That faint herbal scent her hair gave off sent a shiver down his spine. He wanted to feel her again so badly and the fact that she was sitting before him, her smooth back bare for him to see was nothing less than painful. With that thought, an onslaught of repressed emotions spewed forth reliving him of his control.
Daryl did the unthinkable.
He kissed her.
Samara's eyes widened as she gasped in surprise, giving the man the edge to deepen the kiss. The Native felt his tongue slide across the roof of her mouth and, in reaction to his eagerness, she gave in. Her own tongue came out to play and stroked his own appendage producing wet sounds. Thrilled by her responsiveness, Daryl's hand came up to the side of her face and titled her further into him for better access.
That heat in Samara's belly was back, threatening to scorch her as rough fingers stroked her cheek with atypical gentleness. This could lead to a potentially pleasurable experience, her brain-turned-mush thought lewdly. But that one thought was enough to shatter the insanity and bring her back with her feet on the ground.
No.
She harshly pushed him off her and with a mighty slap, brought him back to his senses.
The strike on his flesh startled him enough to let go of her and realize his position.
Quickly, Samara crawled away and put a safe enough distance between them. She wanted to be sure she wouldn't be tempted again by that crafty tongue of his.
They both panted harshly in the stillness of the abandoned house.
"What the hell is going on through your head right now?" Yesterday they argued and fought, not five minutes ago he gave her a massage which resulted in her trying to elbow him in the face and he just kisses her? She was reasonably at a loss.
"I…I don't know." He shook his head unable to look her in the eye. "You just tried to hit me and I…just lost it."
Samara made an astonished garbled sound in the back of her throat. "I'm betting you don't just kiss everyone that hits you."
The man said nothing as he raked his hair in frustration to his impulsiveness. His was the face of a man who knew he had stepped mistakenly.
"Shit, Daryl…" Samara stared heavily at him. She could still feel his lips on her which flustered her. "Just because I relented with that massage doesn't mean it was going to have a 'happy ending'."
"Forget it." He spoke between gritted teeth. "Spur of the moment."
"Well, have your moments with someone else." The Native tried to rub off the sensation of flames on her cheeks. "I really don't want to repeat this whole fiasco all over again. Despite appearance, I don't like constantly being angry."
—To go through everything once again wasn't worth the effort of a few minutes of ecstasy.
A deafening silence reigned over them as Samara agonized over her loss of control. She abhorred such a feeling, letting go and just going with the flow was not an often occurrence. She calculated and planned with nothing left in fate's hands. This way she could maintain a level of sanity in this otherwise crazy world, but this man…Whenever it was about him, reason flew out the window.
"In spite of all the shit that's between us, you ever regret it?"
Samara found him watching her steadily, his previous uncertainty nowhere near in sight. Those blue eyes of his watched her determinedly and without falter.
What could she say? She enjoyed the sex immensely. Had felt like a suspension from their day to day lives of fear, anxiety and danger. But with it came other problems from the past that she couldn't ignore.
"Yes…and no."
She hated it but at the same time reveled in it. When everything piled up, it was good to have an outlet in whichever form it came, fists or sex.
"I don't."
Samara was startled by this.
He shrugged in response to her wide-eyed stare. "Knew what I was gettin' myself into. I would be an idiot not to. I had ideas how it could turn out which was the only reason I hesitated and almost didn't come to the gym. We ain't right, but I took that chance."
"Why?" Her voice was hoarse. "Knowing that at any moment we could turn on each other which we already did after no time at all."
"Because I wanted to, that's all."
Such a simple answer…
"Is that it?"
The pointed stare he gave her said that she should know better. "If it was somethin' else would you wanna hear it?"
If it was, she would be running for the hills. That was exactly the kind of situation she wanted to avoid completely in this new world. Samara had no need for such emotional ties. They got you killed in the end.
"No."
Daryl took a deep breath as he seemed to come to terms with something. "Do you remember that talk we had before we voted on Randal?"
Samara frowned, uncertain of what he was referring to when it hit her—the olive branch.
"I wanna offer you that same thing. Will you take it this time? We can't ignore each other. We've tried it before and it didn't work."
As much as Samara wanted to deny that, she couldn't. It would be like trying to ignore the elephant that suddenly walked in the room. Even with Grimes it didn't work all the times. Personal and emotional words had a way of seeping through the cracks every time they conversed, even for a short while. How then would it be with someone she had slept with?
Samara was sure that she wouldn't be able to keep her promise of apathy because sooner or later they'd cross paths once more, and fireworks that awed or burned would erupt. It would be stubbornly prolonging the inevitable.
"Instead of always fightin' and arguin' we could try to just work together. When he hunted that boar, we got along, didn't we? I just want that. For us to be able to live with the other quietly."
"It would be easier to pretend." She said tiredly, feeling her bones weight her down.
He shook his head, also appearing more worn out than ever. "It don't work that way with us."
Why, though? That Samara couldn't understand. It wasn't like they were two halves of the same coin or some other fortune cookie sweet and sagely phrase. They were just two contradictory people forced to share the same space by an unfortunate world event.
"Even though you know I'll leave. Again." She tried one last time to dissuade him.
"Yeah, even knowin' that." Daryl spoke softly. "I don't wanna part ways like we almost did yesterday. I don't need that in my life. I'd rather it go with no regrets."
If nothing else, just an amicable partnership until the end. Better than days or weeks spent in bitterness and anger.
Samara came to a decision.
She extended her hand to him and he clasped it.
Foot Note: I swear these two break up and make up at least once a day. But will it last this time, though? Time and their tempers will tell.