Fifty-two hours after the fact, they finally address what happened between them on the night of Sophia's funeral.
During that time, they'd had sex twice (once in the tent, once pressed up against a tree) and then continued to politely skirt around the issue and each other, always finding something else to do or someone else to talk to when the potential for conversation arose.
On the first day, Daryl was only at the camp for brief periods of time. He'd go off hunting, return with his game and pace around for a half hour or so and then leave again, hands wrapped tightly around his crossbow. He wouldn't allow himself to be swept up in the sadness of the place; couldn't stand hearing Carol cry or seeing the looks of pity and sympathy on everyone's faces.
And he sure as hell couldn't face Andrea.
Andrea, with her pretty red toenails and tattooed back and her knowing eyes that tracked his every movement. Andrea, who he'd— what? Fucked? Made love to? Slept with? Andrea, who made him feel like a six year old boy with his first crush. Andrea, who made him feel hopeful for the first time in a very, very long time. Andrea, who made him feel like he actually had a shot at a real future. Andrea, who he feared had been too drunk to remember anything at all. Andrea, who he feared would want nothing more to do with him.
That was something he wasn't prepared for. That much he was certain of.
But when he'd returned to camp for the third time that day, string of squirrels bearing one new catch, she'd tugged him off into the woods and shoved him up against one of the trees. There, she'd kissed him, touched him, hitched her leg up around his hip, sighed his name, and quite effectively erased any sort of doubt from him mind.
On the second day, it was Andrea who had shied away.
She'd stuck close to Carol; had brought her soup, brought her tea, brought her tissues, brought her a fresh change of clothes. She'd sat beside in her in the comfortable silence of the RV, just thinking. She'd comforted her when she'd cried, giving her small pats on the shoulder and swift kisses to the temple. When dinner rolled around, she'd sandwiched herself in between Dale and Glenn and refused to look across at the opposite side of the fire where Daryl was sitting.
Daryl, with his broad shoulders, warm embrace and razor sharp tongue. Daryl, who she'd made a spectacle of herself running after not once, but twice now. Daryl, whose shoulder she had cried on. Daryl, who made her feel happy for the first time since Amy had been alive. Daryl, who had once asked her if she wanted to live, though he hadn't yet realized that it would be him who gave her a reason to. Daryl, who she feared would want nothing more to do with her.
But when she'd retired early that night, he hadn't been far behind. He'd pressed her down into the blanket that covered the floor of the tent and he'd kissed her, touched her, hitched her leg up around his hip, made her sigh his name, and completely eradicated all doubt from her mind.
They're fifty-two hours into whatever it is that they've gotten themselves into (they suppose they could call it a relationship, though it's functionality remained to be seen) when Andrea turns to him while they're out scouting for a new campsite. "So we're in this then?" she finally asks. "For real? This isn't just some fling?"
"I ain't in the habit of hoppin' into bed with just anyone," he says, sliding a narrow glance in her direction out of the corner of his eye.
"Me either," she says and then for the first time that day, Andrea smiles a genuine smile. "So we're in it."
"Looks like."
"Okay then."
"Your tent or mine?"