"Fuckin' dumbasses only had one bullet between 'em," Daryl hisses in the dark kitchen, across from Rick. The two M & P handguns are on the table between them, next to Rick's hat and the unlit battery-powered lantern. No lights tonight, no fires burning, no candles or flashlights, just to be safe. "It misfired the only fuckin' one."
Rick hums thoughtfully. "Maybe they're low on ammo."
Daryl grunts skeptically. "Or they used up today's supply gettin' there. They weren't real subtle. Who fuckin' knows."
Either way, Daryl is disgusted. No wonder the guy never even drew. There was no point. It pisses him off.
"Shoulda just shot 'em," he grumbles under his breath, readjusting his jacket and shirt collar around his sensitive neck.
They're talking low, underneath Abraham's snores from the living room. The people not on watch are sleeping, or trying to, anyway, before they leave here in the morning. Daryl can't close his eyes right now, and Rick won't let him take a shift. Everyone's anxious, no one likes the idea of staying anywhere near the cops' group. The other two recon groups had already returned: one mansion a burned-up husk, the other in an area crawling with dead and signs of living, so they didn't even try to get close. They'd been waiting on Daryl and Beth, scavenging the town and spitballing solutions.
On short notice, the mansion in the mountains is the best bet for now, and the farther from some rogue law enforcement settlement, the better. Hopefully too far up the mountain, too deep in the trees, to be found.
"Nah, Daryl, you did good," Rick asserts, frowning down at the handguns. There's enough moonlight from the small kitchen window, he can see enough of Rick's troubled expression when he says, "One bullet's all it takes. You made the right calls."
Daryl grunts again, neither agreeing or disagreeing. One jammed bullet was all that stopped him, he'd been in control the whole time– till he laid the bow down. He doesn't wanna talk about it right now, though, his head hurts too much to put up an argument. He picks at the formica table with his thumbnail
Eventually Rick asks, "Real cops, huh? Atlanta PD?"
Daryl mumbles resentfully, "Acted like all the other cops I ever knew."
Rick lets out a soft short laugh.
Daryl shrugs, not bothering to apologize. He shifts his collar again, not wanting to talk about this part, either. "They wanted Beth."
He hates speaking it out loud. It's vulgar and foul coming out his mouth. Rick's face turns sour, too, not liking the implications. The motivations. The shadows darken his face, making him look dangerous, and Daryl wonders if he's thinking about Carl and the Claimers. But then Rick's eyes flick over Daryl's shoulder, his eyebrows both raising with concern, "Hey Beth, everythin' alright?"
Speak of her and she appears. Daryl feels like he's been caught at something. By her, and by Rick, for different reasons. He keeps his back to the doorway, where she must be, but his shoulders are unsettled.
"Yeah, the kids' are fine, they're both sleepin', up with Maggie and Glenn." She murmurs behind Daryl, slowly stepping into the room with them. Rick relaxes back into his chair. "You talkin' about the cops?"
"Yeah," Rick responds, giving Daryl a quick glance. "You remember somethin'?"
"Yeah– I mean, not about… earlier." She stops near the table, where she can probably see Rick better. She crosses her arms, moving nervously. She almost angles away from Daryl, and he wonders what she's about to say that he's not gonna like.
"Gabriel…" Daryl huffs a breath, ignoring his own urge to get up. Beth continues, "He talked a lot. He used'ta say a lotta stuff. He… Well, you met him. He said a lot of stuff, so… I didn't think."
He doesn't like hearing about Gabriel, and it's obvious she doesn't really wanna be talkin' about it in front of him either, but she gets a little more comfortable rambling, the words tumbling out faster. Rick is nice enough not to acknowledge Daryl's obvious distaste.
"He talked about cops sometimes. The police comin' to get us. He talked about the sons of Samuel and righteous terror and… I dunno. Cops comin' in and takin' people– I guess I thought he meant to jail, like, from before. But maybe it's somewhere else, to their– Maybe he wasn't mixin' up times. Maybe he'd seen them."
Rick hums again, taking in her words.
"I think…" She trails off, uncertain, peeking over at Daryl, gauging his reaction. Her mouth thins in a quick flat line before she turns back to Rick and keeps on anyway: "I think he thought he was helpin' me. That house… He abandoned the funeral home before we found it. It wasn't his, before, but he knew the owner, his parish used their services. He was still tryin' ta take care of the dead, but he said it wasn't safe anymore and then he'd talk about corruption and cops and God's judgment and protecting his flock…"
Beth's voice tapers off into the tense silence. He'd like to tell Beth fuck that, but he bites his tongue with Rick facing him, a confused frown on his face. Much as he'd rather keep it between the two of 'em, he reluctantly answers Rick's unasked question: "The place we were at. Before Beth was– We was at a funeral parlor. Caskets and dead folks included."
Beth's boots scuff the floor, her arms tightening around her middle, looking down at the floor, but she still mumbles, "And peanut butter."
For some reason, her words kinda feel like a dare. Daryl clears his throat again, trying to move the stones– and the feelings that come with the memory. "Weren't all that abandoned when we found it."
Beth's very quiet, but firm, when she replies, "Gabriel didn't know about the food. He didn't leave it. He woulda ate it a long time ago."
Daryl grunts again, wishing he could avoid all talk of Gabriel and how inept or broken he was. She wasn't gonna convince him to think kindly of him. He distracts himself getting a smoke.
"What food?" Rick asks.
Daryl broods, lighting the butt behind a tightly cupped hand. He thinks of laying in a casket, listening to a young girl sing along to a piano. Thank-you notes and sickly sweet concord grapes. Letting down his guard.
Beth answers when Daryl doesn't. "A lotta peanut butter and jelly. Still fizzy cokes. Stuff you don't find anymore. No dust on it, either. Wasn't there long."
It's weird to hear her recall that place at all. The Marlboros in his hand make him think, too. The only place with a closed fence, but an unlocked door, nearly untouched, an oasis in a desert. The missing knives. The almost full pack of cigarettes– a prized find in this world, in one of the first places a person would look.
And the cop, hollering up the stairs, All the stuff's still here!
Was there pigs' feet and peanut butter in those cupboards too?
"They're traps," Daryl mutters, tapping the pack of smokes against the table. He sighs, even more disgusted and annoyed. After Terminus, it shouldn't be that surprising. He asks Beth offhand, "That's what you're thinkin', huh?"
She shrugs uncomfortably, but he remembers how quickly they decided they were taking Beth, regardless of what she thought. She says to him, "Too good to be true, right?"
Something about it makes him meet her eyes, even through the dark. Something about it sticks with him, a thorn working under his nail. His frown deepens, scowling at her.
She interrupts the moment, saying, "I don't know. But I know it wasn't Gabriel's stuff. He–" She falters slightly when Daryl stiffens back up, "-wasn't makin' long term plans. He couldn't hardly feed himself. And that house today…"
Daryl takes a hold of the change of subject. "They ain't right. Full'a top shelf scores. Too clean. Makes people forget themselves. You ain't thinkin' it's bait on a hook, neither."
"So these officers are drawin' people in, too… for what?" Rick asks, but it's mostly rhetorical. Maybe they want to eat people. Maybe they were more like Joe and Len, more concerned with quick cruel gratification. Daryl gives him a long look, refusing to glance at Beth, to give away his thoughts. He knew enough of what they want some people for. They all did.
If he thinks too hard about it, the systemic, planned nature of it, the different houses, far apart. Set up with supplies– important ones, too; all the supplies they must have to waste– that would distract whoever came across it. Lull them. It makes his blood feel cool in his veins. Made his head pound.
"Don't matter," Daryl says, brushing off his own dread. "We're gettin' the fuck outta here."
"Soon as the birds start singin'," Rick agrees. He sighs in the long pause. He rubs a hand over his face. "We'll talk more about this later. I'm gonna go up and check the kids. Keep watch out the window. You alright, Bethie?"
She nods when he stands, grabbing up his hat from the table, leaving the guns to Daryl. He drops a peck to the side of her head, a fatherly gesture that seems to comfort her. He pats Daryl's shoulder on the way by, saying. "Get some rest. We got watch covered, I'm serious. Both of you."
He leaves an awkward silence in his wake. Daryl's turning the pack over and over, thinking about traps, baited hooks, snares, and what they could be for. Trying not to think too deeply about what that big bastard had in mind.
When he glances through his hair at Beth, taking a draw of his cigarette and lighting up the room briefly, she's staring thoughtfully at the guns, her arms still crossed.
"Why ain't you sleepin'?" Daryl mumbles through smoke.
She meets his eyes again, one shoulder jumping. She says simply, "Can't."
He only dips his chin in understanding. He doesn't wanna lay down either. He'd close his eyes and see all the shit he's trying to ignore. Mind racing with everything. His head aches. His throat, and hand, too. For a brief moment, he considers getting up and going to her. He almost reaches out for her clenched hand.
"Just…" She pauses, reticent, and her arms tighten again, hugging herself. "If we get separated again–"
"Don't, Greene." He cuts her off, always harsher than he means to be, but he'd rather be fuckin' talking about Gabriel than hear whatever she's gonna say just in case. His head hurts too much for it. He's still back in that other house, with his hands around that man's freshly-shaved neck. His hand on the formica table is bruised, the knuckles a little split and swollen. Even after washing her hair, there's still blood under his nails. He squeezes them into his palm. He ain't interested in a goodbye beforehand. "Nothin's gonna happen."
She gives him an almost pitying look, a tight-lipped expression he don't appreciate. Like she's thinking, It almost did, Daryl. Don't be naïve. How he used to look at her and her childish, sunshine-and-roses world view, her hopes of good people and beautiful things and reasons to keep living.
He looks away and pulls another drag. But he says, quieter but not softer, "It ain't."
She plows on, "I just wanna say, if anythin' does happen, that I–"
"Quit it, Beth, ain't shit gonna happen." He coughs on the words, they scrape up his throat. "We're gonna be fine."
When their eyes lock again, and he glares her down, it shuts her mouth on whatever she's gonna say. She's hardly ever actually moved by his harshness, when he snaps, but this time she exhales slow. She holds his glare, and then nods, swallowing whatever it is. It's a relief. He ain't in a place to hear any of her damned doomed, terrifying fortune telling when she's still got that egg on her forehead under her hair, and he can feel how close he was to the end with each one of his swallows.
She only gives him a few moments of peace. "I forgot to thank you. For my hair."
She touches her braid when she says it, where it drapes over her shoulder. The reminder of earlier by the creek– another thing he's tryin' not to think about too much, her wet hair down around her bare shoulders– adds another layer of discomfort to him. He shrugs, chewing at the inside of his cheek. His dry throat longs for coffee, or tea, something warm and soothing and distracting. Their lukewarm water feels like pebbles. He takes another drag.
"And… for before." Her whisper's even quieter, barely enough to hear, like she knows she's pushing his limits. "The cops–"
"Stop," he says just as low, trying to be more gentle than he feels. He ain't sure why it leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. But he don't wanna be thanked. He coughs again, then to lighten the effect of his shitty attitude, he adds, "Should be thankin' you and your li'l secret switchblade."
It's dark enough that hopefully she can't see his eyes track down her still-dirty jeans, to her old cowboy boots. Happens without thought.
She shrugs, too. She fills the hush again with, "Michonne gave it to me."
"Hm," he answers, not that surprised, maybe a little amused. He takes another puff of the smoke. She looks at the guns again. He slides Alvarado's to the edge of the table, offering it back to Beth. She doesn't hesitate long before she takes it.
"Well…" She drawls, like she still wants to say more. Like she only choked it down so far. She keeps the gun at her side.
"I…I guess I'll see ya later," she whispers instead, unbalancing him, leaving the room before he can think of what to say back. He counts her footfalls up the stairs, the steps creaking just as quietly, like it knows they're hiding.
