The skywalk would be quiet, if not for the moans from the walkers still trapped in the intact tent. Owen stands in the same place he was when Sydney hit him – both times. And Daryl stands in the same place he was when he told Sydney to leave with Carol. Neither of them, boy or man, speaks right after the double-doors clank closed, right after the girl and the woman leave them behind. No, it takes time for the conversation to begin.
Daryl's the one who declared they needed to talk, so it would probably be right if he started the conversation. But Owen is no stranger to disregarding what's considered to be "right."
No. He's all too familiar with that.
So, after what he feels is too much time has passed, he clears his throat, pops his eyebrows, and asks, "Is this the part where you tell me to get the hell out of Dodge?"
"No."
"Why not? You don't like me."
"You don't know nothin'. I like ya fine." Daryl turns away from Owen, and for a second the boy thinks he's changed his mind about this talk, is ready to hit the road and find this girl that's so important to him, leave the Owen situation – and the Sydney situation – in the backseat. Daryl takes two steps – but then he turns again, comes back. Just pacing. Like Sydney sometimes does. He comes to a stop, he looks Owen in the eye.
So that's where you got your baby blues from, Miss Dixon.
"Thank you," says Daryl. "For calmin' her down up there. For keepin' her safe while . . ." He swallows.
It's the most natural thing Owen's ever done, saying what he says then. "While you weren't looking for her."
Daryl's body goes rigid. His eyes widen a millimeter.
"You weren't, were you?" Owen nods at the double-doors, patiently waiting at the end of the skybridge. "She knows that, by the way."
"I know she knows," Daryl snaps. Owen tilts his head, eyes narrowing some . . . just listening. Daryl keeps on looking at him – no, looking through him. Straight through him. "I'ma make it right. I'ma find a way, and I'ma make it right."
"Good for you."
Daryl focuses his eyes in on Owen again, ready to kill. "Y'know, it seems to me that you're the one not likin' somebody," he hisses.
"Well. I got this thing about absentee fathers."
That's enough to make Daryl jump for him. Owen braces himself, anticipating getting pinned to a wall for the second time that day – or maybe just punched straight-off – but Daryl stops a few inches from him. He jabs a finger in Owen's face. "Man, you weren't there!"
"No. You weren't there. That's the point."
Then there are just walker moans again, and Daryl panting. He can't seem to catch his breath. He takes yet another step forward, and this time, his hand slams into Owen's chest. The boy stumbles back a foot, but catches himself soon enough. "You tryin' to get your ass kicked?" snarls Daryl.
Owen rubs his chest, squares his feet, and smiles his usual smile, the kind that never reaches his eyes. "I learned a long time ago that if you go through life not doin' shit because you're afraid of gettin' your ass kicked, well, you end up being – ah, what's the word? – a pussy."
It's a staredown then. A long staredown. It lasts right up until Owen's plastic smile can't hang on anymore and slides off his face like the glue couldn't hold. That's when he says, "It's gonna take a long-ass time for her to forgive you. If she even can."
Daryl has never resisted punching someone for this long. Holding out is getting harder and harder.
He saved Sydney. He saved Sydney.
"You don't know her," he spits.
"I know she's stubborn," Owen says, "and I know she's loyal to the point of keepin' with a group of murderers to find her people and save their lives. I know what I saw when I was a kid – her, jumping up and down whenever your truck showed up on our street. And I know how she feels about her mom. About what she did. What I get from all that is that she adores you, that she puts too much stock in people she loves because she's better than most of them are, and that she's capable of holdin' one hell of a grudge." His voice lowers an octave. "And that leavin' her is about the worst thing you can do."
He saved Sydney. He saved Sydney.
And that's the only goddamn thing savin' your ass, boy.
"Abandonment issues," continues Owen, nodding his head and then shrugging. "It's common with children of divorce."
Fuck the kid. Daryl spits and heads for the double-doors.
"Does this mean you don't like me anymore?" Owen calls from behind him.
Daryl stops. Bites his tongue, damn near off, and looks at the ceiling. Then he turns back and says, "Why do you even care about her?"
He caught Owen off guard. Something in the boy's expression shifts – one of the rocks in the wall falls out. The gap it leaves is surprisingly telling.
For a moment, Daryl is looking at the kid he met twelve years ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Wells dragged their solemn four-year-old son to a dinner too uncomfortable for words. The kid who gazed down at his baby brother and told Daryl he loved him more than anything.
"She's the last thing that means somethin' to me," Owen says. Solemnly.
And Daryl believes him. For better or worse, he believes him, and that's when he decides he needs Owen here.