The day had gone about as well as he coulda hoped for, but he can't calm down. Dread's been dug into his lower spine the whole time, since he'd woken from that dream.
The heavy tree cover out here, near the mountains, makes the dark come faster, and it fuckin' smells in the car. It was a messy-ass day. Once the sun was up, it was hotter than it had been in weeks, humid in their heavier clothes. Made the dead excitable and determined, slippery and desperate. Small herds of walkers were drawn to every and any noise- the car's engine, squeaking door hinges, even the squawk of birds taking off. Drawn to their body odor, their living sweat, even their breathing, seemed like. They'd abandoned scavenging gas stations and cars pretty quick.
Beth's sweater's ruined. She's smaller than so many of the dead, always under dripping mouths and heavy grabbing hands. Her clothes are torn and covered in thick rotted blood. Streaks darken her rumpled ponytail. Gore and dirt under her fingernails, on the back of her hands. Splattered on her cheek and forehead, in the shell of her ear. He's not in any better shape. They are what smells in the car.
Hadn't even made things any easier.
He shut the car door against the cool night air, but he turns the key to roll the window down. He can feel Beth staring at him, rubbing her palms on her stained jeans. He digs the cigarettes out of his pants pocket, the car going silent again. He sighs out the endless edginess while the car bings three times. It's an abrasive, too-loud noise from the past. He avoids Beth's gaze till she looks away. He pats his pockets down for his lighter, eyeing the mansion they'd found where Tyreese had said it'd be.
The road here had been a shrinking, slow wind upwards. No one would know this kinda place was here unless they knew. It ended at a tall gate, wasn't much of a fence. Metal bars close together enough that they can't slip through, but no razor wire or electric line or even sharp decorative points. The gate's closed and needs power to open. The guard's station stood still, windows unbroken. The door is stuck open by a pair of legs in pants, the shoes aren't far off, and dead leaves have blown inside.
The place beyond is huge, way bigger than Daryl pictured when Ty was talking about these houses.
Even thinking the word house makes him wanna laugh.
Parts of it could be considered cabin-style, like they made an effort to fit in the rustic environment, but there's no hiding it's a flat-out, for-real mansion. Nature started working at it, browning vines crawling up walls and support beams and through balcony railings. Maybe a winter's worth of debris on the roofs and balconies. An outbuilding had a corner of its roof caved in by a downed tree. The yard's overgrown.
All of it untouched for a while, he thinks, but he can't shake the bad feeling.
He'd made Beth stay locked in the car with weapons ready, hidden off the road, so he could walk the fence-line. She didn't like it at all, she'd argued in urgent whispers until he'd stalked off into the trees.
A couple walkers stumble around the backside, inside the fence; they immediately divert to him when he crunches sticks and leaves underfoot. He let them come and stabbed them through the bars, like they used to at the prison. Otherwise, it's quiet and still.
It takes more daylight than he thought it would to go the whole perimeter, and Beth glared at him on his return. She refuses to get back in the car when he decides to go in the fence, nearly daring him to make her. So he boosts her up and she held the crossbow for him to climb over. They carefully and quietly check the guard station, the crumbling outbuilding. They don't speak, tense and alert, ready to fight.
He imagines strangers looking down on them from one of the many high windows, watching Beth.
They use the rest of the light inside the mansion. It's cavernous, high ceilings and tiled floors, and not totally empty. It echoes with their footsteps, it's so quiet when they go through the front door, until other footsteps- not echoes- begin. They grow loud, fast, Daryl doesn't even have time to spin and aim. Beth stops it dead, swinging her machete baseball-bat-style into its head. They find one more walker on the first floor.
Feels like the place is still echoing, even after they kill the ones they find, but they only go so far. The shadows fill the large rooms fast. The old bubbling paint and peeling wallpaper, crawling water stains across the ceilings, the thick dust– some smears and handprints in aged green-brown blood– it's ominous. It feels full of ghosts. It's something eerie brushing against the back of his arms.
But everywhere is eerily empty now.
Daryl doesn't wanna stay trapped inside the fence for the night. The coupe was only a slightly better option, but he could at least run the heater some. So they'd gone back over the gate without even going upstairs.
It's a relief to be sitting in the car now, his knees didn't like the second drop over the tall fence. The chill feels deeper when he isn't moving, his sweat cooling. The blood soaked into his clothes didn't help either. Beth didn't even have a proper coat. He'd have to get a blanket out for her soon.
She's just as edgy as he is. She asks tentatively, "We stayin' here tonight?"
He lights his cig and exhales loudly. The smoke is a wave breaking against the windshield. "Yeah."
She nods and looks down at her dirty hands. She picks at the crusted blood, tries to wipe some of it away on her legs. The nervous fluttering of her hands and jittering feet kicks up Daryl's anxiety. He slides his seat all the way back, stretching his legs out, leaning the lit cigarette out the window.
He's been too alert too long, since they'd left the farmhouse. He's more than aware of her, so tuned to her he can nearly feel her agitation himself. Good when they're fightin' to stay alive, unsettling and unnecessary in the small car. It goads him, pressing on his already pushed nerves.
She's been just as guarded, just as rushed with adrenaline and anxiety. She's the closest he's ever seen her to crawling out of her skin. She grabs one of their dwindling, half-empty bottles of water; she offers it to him first. It's tepid and tastes like the plastic it's in, but he drinks cause he knows he should.
She takes a few gulps after him.
He lays his head back and does his best to just smoke. A redneck breathing exercise, an effort to ease the knots in his muscles and stomach and head. He'd get out and pace if he wasn't sore, his knees feeling old as fuck. Dealing with the walkers hadn't taken the edge off. It's still growing each hour.
Their luck is gonna run out. It has to. The more good luck they have, the worse it'll be when it finally flips on 'em.
He knows it's coming. He feels it.
They're silent for a good while. Like most of the day. They'd only quarreled. Beth rummages in the bag she'd filled last night and pulls out some clothes. He rolls the window down for her when she asks, quickly fumbling the overhead light off in case. He keeps his eyes on the building, watching for movement or light. For anyone who might be hiding in that humongous place, who might've spied their light popping on.
He isn't sure if the dread is 'cause they are being watched, or if he feels watched because of the dread. Maybe it's just all the dark windows like too many, yawning black eyes.
Her elbow draws his attention back inside the car; she pulls the sweater over her head. She bunches it up and chucks it out the window. The long-sleeve t-shirt underneath is soiled too; she peels it away from her stomach where tacky blood pastes it to her skin. She doesn't even check to see what he's doing, just sorta turns her shoulder and strips that shirt off too.
No warning. No shame.
He doesn't like feeling trapped in this tiny car and he does now. Too fuckin' close. Too alone. The uneasy quiet filled with shit he doesn't know how to sort out. Her pale shoulders and back stand out in the dark. She grabs the water bottle from the cupholder and he can see the curve of her small breast in her bra.
A flash of sharp frustration piles on his misery.
She's not paying him any mind, and he's a stupid teenager again. She carefully spills water on a cleaner spot of her old shirt and wipes at her hands and wrists, her arms and shoulders. It takes too much effort to keep his breathing even, like it's his first peek at any girl's underwear.
Resentment heats him up again.
He should close his eyes, but he doesn't. He should get out and just say he's gotta take a piss, but he doesn't do that either.
He takes another drag.
He doesn't want to look, and he does. He wants to not give a shit again. They've done a lotta things around each other, within shouting distance, in the woods; it didn't allow for much modesty. But they weren't taking their clothes off around each other. He knows he should be doing something else, not just acting like he's not paying attention. Ignoring his heart pickin' back up again.
Pretending he's not mad about it.
A better man would turn away and it wouldn't be difficult.
She doesn't care, so he tries not to care, too. He longs for indifference. For the days he barely noticed her.
She makes a discouraged sound that yanks his eyes to her. She's leaning closer to the side view mirror, touching her matted ponytail. She can't really do anything about it tonight. She pours just a little more water on the shirt and forcefully rubs it over her neck and face. There's splatter still on the back of her neck, where her sweater didn't cover. He doesn't mention it.
He can nearly hear Merle's- or Joe's- whistle, low in his ear.
He glares at the long pale line of her back. There isn't a single scar, but there is a large bruise splotching her left shoulder, a dark uneven shape. Maybe from the walkers on the road today. Her ribs and spine are too obvious, she's very lean, but he knows she's strong too. From running and fighting, the effort it takes to survive. He can see it: her muscles flex with her movements, roughly scrubbing at the shit in her eyebrows. Her belt and jeans are bowed a bit from the way she's stretched. A teasing shadow he shouldn't even notice.
His palm's clammy, fisted on the console. It wants to lay flat on her back. He wouldn't even really haveta reach. He keeps it curled, his elbow planted.
He shouldn't be thinking about her skin.
He shouldn't even be here.
He hates himself more than usual.
He knows right when she catches him. Her back, her arms, everything stills. He doesn't know if she sees him in the reflection or if she just felt it. Like he feels her sometimes.
He burns fast with embarrassment and annoyance. He expects her to jump for clothes, but she doesn't. Her face tilts in his direction like she might say something, but she doesn't do that either.
It's too dark for him to read her expression in the small mirror. She swipes again at her face, like nothing happened.
Now he should look away.
He still doesn't. The shame he should feel is all frustration. Really fucking frustrated with himself, the shit in his head, the ghosts. The kinda shit he knows Merle woulda said about his pussy, pansy-ass little brother, scared to look at a girl's back, for fuck's sake.
He knows her slight acknowledgement isn't an invitation. But it also isn't a Fuck off. It isn't a Get out or a Stop looking at me, you pervert. So he keeps scowling at her, memorizing the sharp shape of her shoulders, her thin waist, the indentations of her spine.
The cig burns close to his skin, the ash falls when he takes one last drag. He pinches the cherry off out the window. It's enough to finally break him from her draw. He sucks air, huffs it out. Glances at her again. She's pulling on a t-shirt for 97.3 Hit Music Now. She slips her arms into the farmer's flannel, too, and buttons it with quick-stuttering fingers.
"Sorry," He mutters, way too late. It's as good as a shrug. He doesn't sound sorry even to himself.
"For what?" Beth throws her soiled shirt off into the dark woods, too.
He puffs out another short breath, cause she knows for what. He fumbles out his cigarette pack again, checking the count. Only four left. Never enough.
Like their food and water. Like safety. Like time.
She pries her bracelets apart, unsticking them, the leather and fabric ruined. They wouldn't come clean, she doesn't even bother trying. He'll find her more anyway.
He pulls out a cigarette just to hold, to busy his twitchy hands. He answers with, "I'ma dick."
She makes a small amused noise. "I know."
Daryl focuses back out the windshield, on the windows and balconies. What he shoulda been watching in the first place. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers, loosening the tobacco. It'll smoke like shit if he keeps at it, but he needs something to do. He kinda wishes they'd fight, to exorcize some of the thrumming energy under his skin. He isn't drunk enough to start it this time.
Beth slides her seat back so it's even with his, it clicks loudly in place. She lays her head back and gives him a wry smile. "You don't need'ta be sorry."
"Prob'ly should be," he grumbles darkly. He can see her quizzical stare in his periphery
"Don't see why," she says back.
The list is long, he thinks.
He doesn't respond, and she doesn't press. With her gaze back on the mansion, she gestures half-heartedly towards it, and asks him, "What you think?"
"Dunno." He shrugs. "We gotta hole up somewhere for a while."
"Kinda reminds me of the prison."
He gives in and lights the cigarette before he destroys it. He questions her with a hmm? behind his hand.
She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. "I guess... false promise? I dunno. Don't think I can trick myself like before. Thinkin'- thinkin' anywhere's gonna be safe for long."
He slants his face to her. She frowns out the windshield, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her blood-darkened ponytail stuck to her neck. He can't think of anything to reassure her. He feels the same distrust, and a deep foreboding exhaustion. A fear- a truth- that no matter how hard they try, and prepare, and fight, it won't matter. Won't matter how many walkers they kill, or people. Ultimately, they're fucked.
It ain't for the good people anymore. And it ain't for the bad people either.
It just isn't for people anymore.
It's all borrowed time and wasted effort.
Beth rubs her hands together again, her shoulders slumped in what looks like defeat. He turns the key to accessory one more time and rolls her window back up. It interrupts her thoughts; she gives him a grateful smile, then adjusts in her seat to face him, her left leg curled up. Her eyes follow his hand when he brings the cigarette to his mouth again. He inhales, making the cherry flare, and she asks, "Can I try?"
He squints at her, she's still watching his mouth. It makes his stomach pitch. He warns her, "You'll regret it."
"C'mon, Mister Dixon," She cajoles, waving her hand at his.
First drink, first cigarette, things she should've been trying in school with kids her age. Normal little mistakes her daddy never would've found out about.
But those kids were probably all dead and he ain't her daddy. He flicks the ash, then holds it out to her in pinched fingers.
She holds it like girls do. Like his mom did. She gingerly inhales some smoke into her lungs, and then chokes and coughs, interrupting her draw. She makes a face, sticking her tongue out.
He doesn't laugh, but he's sure his face is shit-eating enough. "Told ya."
She fixes another glare on him, defiantly swallowing the feeling in her throat. She puffs again; it's obvious she isn't liking it much better, but she coughs less. She blows the smoke out at him. He can't help but watch.
"You like this?" She asks seriously. She picks a piece of tobacco from her bottom lip.
"You get used to it." He crooks his fingers at her a few times. "No more. Don't need two of us fightin' over smokes."
"No fight from me, you can have 'em. Kinda made me nauseous," She concedes, handing it back. She watches him drag long, deep into his lungs. The paper end of the cig is wet from her mouth.
"Yeah," he says, smoke seeping out around his words, "everyone thinks they're gross at first, then they're diggin' through ashtrays for old butts."
"Yuck."
"Yup. Ruin your voice anyway."
"Or give me a sexy rasp." She jokes, but her smile isn't full. She looks down, playing with her bracelets. "I wanna try as much as I can before..."
She shrugs her shoulder again. She doesn't say it, for once, and it's a relief. She's talked enough- for the rest of his damn life- about being gone.
Taking another drag, he wonders what other things she hasn't tried. He isn't gonna ask.
In the silence, she finds more grime on a fingernail, she scrapes it away with her thumb. Daryl smashes out the cigarette butt they'd shared on the outside of the car door. She's self-conscious when their eyes catch this time. She wrings her fingers together, smiling weakly, "Sorry for usin' the water. I had to get some of it off. Am I still a mess?"
She'd gotten the worst of it, but her hair is what it is, and there's leftovers. Inside her ear, the back of her neck. But it's the best that can be done tonight. He almost tells her she's fine covered in bullshit, too. She's further and further from that dead girl she was every day. A survivor.
His arm's off the console before he puts thought into it. He tugs at the end of her ponytail, soft and stiff, unsticking the strands from her skin. She doesn't flinch away. He tugs gently again. He says, "Well, you ain't ready for the debutante ball."
"Good," she replies drily. "I don't wanna go."
He pulls it one more time, and when she grins at him, he almost forgets himself. Almost touches her neck, nearly strokes where blood still streaks.
He lets her thick hair slip away from his fingertips. Forces his arm to relax back on the console. It's not easy. It's getting harder and harder to tamp it down. It overtakes him sudden sometimes, thoughtlessly- like their time in the funeral home. Except then, he could touch her shoulder or, fuck, pick her up without thinking about it so much. It's torturous now.
"You'll do," he mutters, and he hopes she gets it.
She's somethin' else. Some goodness still in this shithole. Something worth lookin' at.
She understands enough. He can read it in the way her face softens. He doesn't expect when she tips forward, steadying herself with a hand on the console, brushing his. He's slow to catch up. She kisses his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth.
"Thanks," she breathes the word against his face. It makes all his skin feel tight. If he turns his head, just a little bit, he could kiss her. He knows he'd taste cigarette smoke on her.
She starts to pull back, and his fingers seize around her wrist. He's not even sure why, he's just not ready yet. It takes time for his brain to turn, and it's a fight to let the feeling and the moment pass. She stays hovering there for a few long breaths, even after his fingers uncurl. Her eyes flick down to his mouth, and he feels it.
He thinks about kissing again. The expression on her face makes him think she'd let him, too.
It's too much. He can't think of a time like this, before, when he was younger.
When she moves, it's not towards him. He doesn't stop her this time. The skin of her wrist and hand graze his again when she sits back down. She sucks in a rough inhale; it lets all the air back in the car.
They should let it pass, but it only makes his agitation worse. All the futile adrenaline pushes him out of the car, on his feet like his knees don't hurt. He can't sit still in there and listen to Merle snicker in the backseat of his head. He takes a second to pop the trunk and get the farmer's dusty bedspread for Beth, tossing it in towards her.
Then he stalks off a little ways into the brush, finally pretending he's gotta take a piss.