AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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They had days where everything went so smoothly that they could have all sat around the fire while they ate supper and sang camp songs together.
Other days, it seemed like everyone was ready to claw the eyes out of everyone else.
That was the nature of the beast, perhaps, when you were trying to pull together so many people who really had nothing in common beyond the fact that they were trying to survive in a world that really seemed to want them dead.
The biggest problem, perhaps, was that it was virtually impossible to tell what kind of day it was going to be until things just started to either fall into place or to go to hell.
Daryl had broken up the fight that broke out between Merle and T-Dog somewhere not too long after the sunrise—something that had started because of Merle making comments about T-Dog's chosen name that the man didn't like. Then, Daryl had later broken up the fight that started between Merle and Morales.
Andrea heard about the second fight when Morales' wife, Miranda, who had been doing her shift of watching the children while others were doing various chores around the camp, had found Andrea washing clothes and had practically dragged her off to the edge of the camp to yell at her in private.
"I'm not a puppeteer," Andrea had finally declared, growing annoyed with the woman. "I don't know how you handle your husband, but I don't control Merle."
"Maybe that's the problem," Miranda said.
Andrea couldn't have sworn, if anyone had asked, if it was the woman's words or her tone that felt like a hot knife in Andrea's gut, but one of them felt like it sliced through her. She swallowed back against the desire to cry over the hurt of it.
Andrea normally had no problem with Miranda Morales. The woman was quiet and, for the most part, she seemed content to keep a decent amount of distance between herself and everyone else. She had her family with her, and she was trying to survive. Andrea could respect that.
"I don't know what happened between my husband and your husband," Andrea said, holding her voice as steady as she could—something she could normally handle, if she concentrated hard enough, thanks to her past in law.
"Your husband is insane," Miranda snapped. "And—he says things he shouldn't say."
Andrea laughed to herself.
"And he's loud, and he's crass, and he's an asshole," Andrea said. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry. And I can stand here and apologize to you all day long for the fact that Merle probably said something to piss off your husband—he does that at least once a day and twice on Sundays. But I can't control Merle. I can't change him. All I can do is—accept him for who he is and…and hope that he makes changes for himself. For all of us." She shook her head. "Look—he's already off the drugs, and that's been a big change…"
"You think people are supposed to accept that he acts like he acts because he quit taking drugs, and so we should celebrate that?" Miranda asked.
"No," Andrea said. "I only mean—it's a step in the right direction. And a step in the right direction means the possibility for another step, especially if…if he feels like he's supported by the people around him. Appreciated in some way, even if I understand that it's not always possible to appreciate everything about him. Just a little acceptance, maybe." Andrea could feel her face growing warm and her patience growing thin. "But—if that's too hard for you? Then, maybe you just learn to tolerate it because, as far as I can see? It's been my husband, and my family, that's been putting food in your mouth and in your kids' mouths since we got here. So, let that buy us whatever fucking grace you've got to give, or see how long you last without the meat to stretch that one can of corn for a week."
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"They'd rather deal with Daryl," Andrea said.
"To be fair," Carol said with a laugh. "So, would I and, sometimes, so would you."
"He's not a bad person," Andrea said. "It hurts me—it physically hurts me—when people think he's nothing but a monster."
"He's certainly not a monster. And I know he's not even a bad person," Carol said. "He's just—an acquired taste."
"I'm not making excuses for him," Andrea said. "I know he's an asshole."
"You know better than any of us, except for maybe Daryl, how big of an asshole Merle Dixon can be," Carol said. "And you're not making excuses for him. In fact, as long as I've known either of you, you've never made excuses for Merle. You accept him. You love him, even during the times when the whole world wondered how you could, but you've always made him answer for his shit."
"I do love him," Andrea said with a sigh.
Carol laughed to herself.
"I know you do," she said.
"If he'd just stop fucking with people," Andrea said.
Carol hummed and shrugged her shoulders. "That's part of who Merle is. He's going to fuck with people. Sometimes that's a sign of affection from Merle. Sometimes it's just because he's in a pissy mood and he's going to get someone before they get him. One of the biggest problems we've got around here, if you ask me, is that we've got a lot of overgrown little boys who haven't learned that old nursery rhyme about sticks and stones."
Andrea hummed in agreement and laughed to herself, after a moment, before she got up to bring another basket of clothes and, wedging it into the space in the water beside her, let the clothes begin to soak before they started scrubbing them.
"Do you know Shane called me spoiled this morning?" Andrea mused.
"Spoiled?" Carol asked.
Andrea hummed and picked up her board, resting it against her knees again, and started scrubbing at the next piece of wet clothing that she picked up. Carol used a brush to gently brush at the wet clothing she draped over her knee in the absence of enough scrubbing boards for them all. It was easier work for her, given that her shoulder wasn't entirely healed, despite the few weeks that had passed since Ed's death, and it had especially not healed to repetitive motions. Andrea did the heavier soiled pieces on her board, leaving the light work to Carol. They continued to add scrubbing boards to their lists of things that people should search for as they scoured new locations on exploratory runs that took place every few days. If they had more boards, after all, they could bring in more workers at one time to help with the laundry.
"I was pissed because Amy sent me to get a pole for her this morning and I swear that half the people around here—probably those overgrown little boys, as you said—can't put anything back neatly. They get near our little tool area and I swear they stand eight feet away from it and throw whatever they're returning to the area. Things are getting damaged. Something's going to end up broken. And regardless of the fact that we don't have enough things to be ruining what we have, a lot of those tools belong to Dale and he'd be upset if they got broken."
"And Shane called you spoiled for that?" Carol asked.
"For the tantrum, I guess," Andrea said.
"What'd you say to him?"
"Nothing," Andrea said, shrugging her shoulders. "I was too upset. I swear—it's been one thing after another today. I was either going to scream or to cry, and I'd already screamed at the tools, so I was afraid that I'd cry. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Hell—I don't know. Maybe I am spoiled."
"I don't care if you're spoiled or not," Carol offered, "that's still pretty rich coming from Shane. All things considered; I'd say that his wife is the most spoiled of everyone here."
"You mean Miss nosebleeds?" Andrea teased. She rolled her eyes at Carol when Carol made eye contact with her. "Or—Miss fainting spells and heat stroke?"
"Madame anemia," Carol added.
Lori was Shane's woman. They called her his wife, and he'd never actually corrected anyone, but Sophia told Carol that Carl—the boy that everyone thought was their son—told her that his real father had died just about the time that everything had begun with the virus. Carol had never questioned Shane or Lori about it, because it really wasn't any of her business, but Sophia wasn't a child that usually told lies, so she had no reason to believe that the girl would create something like that as a story to simply tell.
Lori was friendly enough. She got along with most everyone, as long as they didn't cross her, or say or do anything that she didn't care for. Since Shane had self-appointed himself the leader, and since none of them really cared to dispute that because they needed a figurehead and he had the personality for dealing with every person and every situation, Lori was the unofficial First Lady of the camp. She was very good, as a First Lady, at delegating roles and giving speeches about the importance of things they needed to accomplish around the camp, and how they needed to handle things like chores and rations, but she wasn't much good at actually pitching in and doing her share.
She was anemic, she said. She had trouble with the heat which, thankfully, would be breaking a little before too long. The sun, too, caused her problems. She was good at sitting in the shade, drinking cool water and watching the children—except when she disappeared without warning and without telling anyone and came back half an hour later, laughing and excusing herself because she had to help Shane with something dealing with the "camp perimeters" – but she wasn't good at too much else that needed to be done.
Lori was the number one reason that Merle snipped and snapped at Shane these days, and she was one of the reasons that Daryl got up, on more than one occasion, from whatever he was doing and went to clean traps that couldn't be full, or to kill Walkers that hadn't bunched up, usually while muttering a "fucking hell" or two under his breath as he went.
For as much as they might not like Merle, it wasn't as though any of the Dixons were really winning popularity contests. Of course, it wasn't really as though they were trying or were too concerned.
"Maybe it's better if Daryl goes," Andrea said. Carol only realized she'd begun to daydream a moment when Andrea spoke and drew her back to the present moment.
"What?" She asked, using her hand to splash a little cold water on her face. She didn't care if she was soaked. The sun would dry them both quickly when they quit with the laundry.
"Maybe it's better if Daryl goes on the run," Andrea said. "Merle can stay here. Hunt, clear traps. He can guard the camp as well as Daryl can."
Carol hummed.
"I don't think—who could guard the camp was the reason that they decided for Merle to go," Carol said. "Daryl's strong, but Merle's stronger. Physically, out there? Merle's got a little more brawn than Daryl does. He and T-Dog will be the main muscle of the group if it comes down to handling a bunch of those creatures up close and personal. And, besides that, Merle's the stronger tracker and survivalist of the two. You know that. Everything Daryl learned, he learned it from Merle. He doesn't hesitate to tell anyone that. Daryl's worried about that many people not making it back. We know the area here. The camp is up and running, and we're doing all right. The real danger, now, is in going down there. Let's say that something happens and they can't come back the way they went. Daryl's worried that he wouldn't know how to get them back here safely. Merle might get lost, but Daryl believes he's got a better chance of figuring out where he is and leading them back if something were to happen."
"Merle found this place," Andrea said. "Years ago. It was the first place he ever brought me for a weekend." She laughed to herself. "Back when I had just graduated high school. Maybe I'd just started college, and I could disappear for a weekend. Back—not long before we got married. Might have even been where…you know…where I got pregnant. We pitched our tent over there—right where we've got the cooking fire now. He told me—he said, Andrea, if you're ever gonna be a Dixon, you gotta learn how the hell to survive. Now, Sugar, you already know about survivin' the fucked-up people of the world. It's about time you learn how to take care of yourself when you finally have to tell 'em all to go to hell."
Carol laughed at Andrea's impression of Merle.
"That's not a bad impression," Carol offered. "And, considering how everything happened after that, with your family, it's kind of prophetic."
"That was—during one of the many, many times that Merle was on the wagon," Andrea said. She sucked in a breath and let it out with a sigh. "I came out here thinking he was crazy for talking to me about being a Dixon when I hardly knew him and I was just starting college. I wasn't ever going to get married, and certainly not to Merle Dixon. But I left that stupid camping trip thinking there wasn't much else that I wanted in the world—and then a couple of lines on some cheap pregnancy tests sealed the deal. But that's not the only reason I married him; you know?"
"I do know," Carol agreed. "Better than most."
"They'll use him," Andrea said. "Daryl and Merle…they'll used them both. Find a safe place. Find safe passage in and out of different parts of Georgia for runs. Find food. Build shelter. They'll use them, but they'll never appreciate them. Not really. Merle's not wrong when he says they'll always see them as something else. Something outside. Some kind of freaks."
Carol laughed to herself.
"And they'll always see us as freaks for marrying them," Carol said. "But I've been called worse. And so have you. I guess we'll all survive. That's what Dixons do, right? Here—pass me those undershirts."