FIC: PROTECTION (PART II)
Title: Protection
Author: KenoyerGrrl
Summary: The group is at the prison, some time after Andrea and Michonne have discovered them and settled in. Daryl and Andrea have stricken up a friendship and maybe something more. She invites him to hang out at her cell for an evening, but Daryl panics a bit...
Rating: T (Part III is going to be rated M, so just to warn ya ahead of time...)
A/N: Thanks so much to cemeterydreamer for being my Beta reviewer yet again. I owe you a ton! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead, but sometimes, it damn well owns me. This is just for fun; I have no intention of copyright infringement or making any kind of money or other profit from it.
Part I is here
As Daryl went to fetch himself an MRE from the cafeteria later that evening, he saw Michonne and Andrea sitting across from each other, laughing and chatting over a shared can of self-heating soup. He listened in to the women's conversation as he scanned the shelves for something that looked halfway appetizing.
“I'm telling you, girlfriend,” Michonne said between chuckles, “That is the first and only time in my LIFE that I have ever heard ANY judge answer to an objection with 'Oh, HELL, no!' Okay...'Sustained.' Yes. 'Overruled.' All the TIME, hell yes. But 'Oh, HELL, no!'?? Everyone in the entire damned courtroom was just cracking UP.”
“At a Murder Two trial?” Andrea asked, laughing incredulously.
“Oh, I'm telling you! Totally inappropriate. But funny!”
The women's laughter continued for a minute, but then died down, and Daryl noticed that neither of the two women said a word for a long while. He finally decided that the pasta with marinara sauce and veggie crumbles-whatever the hell those were-seemed like the least repetitive choice among beef stew with potatoes, chili with beans, petrified macaroni and cheese, and even more beef stew with potatoes.
He grabbed a stainless-steel fork, peeled open the lid on the self-heating meal, and sat at the opposite end of the long table-far enough so that he didn't seem like he was intruding upon Andrea and Michonne, but close enough so that he could still hear them when they decided to talk again.
“I wonder where that judge is now?” Michonne said thoughtfully, breaking the silence.
“I hope he made it somewhere safe,” Andrea replied, “The way you describe him, he sounded like a good person with a strong spirit. And a wicked sense of humor!”
“Oh, hell, what does that all mean anymore?” Michonne said ruefully, dropping her spoon in the empty soup can with a clang, “That and a bag of doughnuts. All that matters are the skills and the wherewithal to survive. And I damn well hope he and his family would have had those qualities.”
“Strong spirit counts for something, doesn't it?” Andrea said quietly, “That's often what it takes to survive. To make it through the worst that the world can throw at you. To know in your heart that death isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. As long as you can hold onto your humanity.”
Looking up from his food, Daryl turned his head sideways to look down the long table where Andrea sat. He realized that she was not the same person he knew from nearly a year ago, when her sister had died and she had nearly given up hope on...well, everything. In spite of everything that had happened to all of them, and even in the gloomy monolith of the relatively secure prison that protected them from the ravages around them-even if precariously-Andrea had learned to embrace being alive and hold onto hope. In doing so, her spirit had grown whole again.
Andrea must have felt his eyes upon her, because she turned her face down the table toward him and smiled. “What do you think, Daryl? Survival skills or strong spirit?”
“Both,” he said with a shrug, and continued eating his meal. Why did he have to choose? Skills and the spirit, head and the heart-combined, they both made far more sense to him in any aspect of life, under any circumstances, than one over the other. He could see this combination in Andrea, even though she couldn't yet see it in herself-or at least she didn't wear her confidence in her abilities on her sleeve. This aspect of her was something else he...whoa, well maybe “love” was too strong of a term right now. Admired, liked, respected, thought it was cool about her would have to do, for now.
He ate the last bite of his manufactured meal and stood up to toss the container in the trashcan near the door. He turned to leave, but then a thought came to him that he wanted to share. That didn't happen too often.
“You know,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and stepping forward to where the two women sat, “When...shit like this goes down-and I don't mean walkers. I mean what we do to us. Generations back. Slavery. The Armenians. The Holocaust. Y'know, the...what Pol Pot did to the Cambodians. The people in Rwanda. Genocide and shit. People who went through that shit-that was their extinction event.
“But you read about the ones who survive. They're usually resourceful. Y'know, they make do with what they have. And they also have hope. And not just the cheap-assed lip service from a political campaign or shit. A hope in humanity. That even with all of the shit thrown at them in life, they still had hope that they would make it.”
Andrea and Michonne eyed him with more than a small bit of surprise and curiosity. They knew as well as he did that he didn't open his mouth to convey deep thoughts that often, and when he did, it meant something.
“Hope I'm making sense,” he said, with another shrug.
“You are,” Andrea told him softly, a light in her eyes that moved Daryl in ways he didn't feel he yet understood.
“You're way intelligent for a redneck, you know that?” Michonne remarked, but it wasn't a dig. There was warmth in her voice.
“Thanks for the stereotype,” Daryl told her dryly. Paradoxically, though, there was warmth in his own voice as well.
“Join the club,” Michonne replied. Daryl realized she was referring to not only the racial stereotypes with which she had to live all her life, but his own remark from a while ago, when they'd first fought walkers outside the prison gate together. You're a bad-assed killer for a lawyer type n' all, he'd said that day.
“Went to community college when I got outta high school,” he said, lifting a foot onto one of the cafeteria stools and resting an arm on his knee, “Wanted to be an anthropologist. Travel the world and shit. I read a lot. Took a lot of crap from my big brother about it. He thought I was turning into some egghead or latte-sipping elitist or something, so...”
He trailed off. Did these chicks really need to know about how he let Merle run his fucking life-almost into the ground? Opting for expediency, he continued with an ostensible truth. “Didn't have the money to keep paying the tuition, so I worked fixing Harleys and shit. Paid decently. And who needs travel when you can get on a chopper and just ride?”
“Daryl Dixon, the college student,” Andrea marveled, a smile growing on her face. He knew she must've been wondering where all those “mountains of Tibet” references came from.
“Yeah, I guess. Back when the world was normal. Whatever the hell 'normal' means.”
“Those were the days,” Michonne murmured, wiping up the table space between Andrea and her with the paper towel she was using as a napkin, “Well, I hate to cut and run, but I have to wake up early tomorrow morning and do my shift. Six to noon, guard duty at my post.” She picked up the empty tin of soup with the soup spoons and leaned over to give Andrea a hug.
Hugging her back, Andrea took the soup tin from Michonne's hands and said, “Don't worry about cleaning up, Mich. My shift doesn't start till three tomorrow afternoon, so I'll handle this.”
“Lucky bitch!” Michonne teased, giving her a wink before walking out.
“Sleep well, Mich,” Andrea called after her, getting up from the table.
Michonne gave the two of them a wave as she exited the cafeteria's double doors. From his spot at the table, Daryl nodded her goodnight, but he doubted she'd noticed him. All he knew was that he was alone in the cafeteria with Andrea, and he still owed her a visit to her cell that night.
Andrea was already walking over to the kitchen to wash the spoons and the tin can. Rick had advised everyone in the group to save all of the tin cans-what for, he wouldn't say, but Daryl reckoned that it must've been one of those resourceful instincts that the former cop had up his sleeve. Storage, makeshift bombs to scare away the walkers outside the fences-who knew?
“You still going to swing by tonight?” Andrea asked, giving Daryl a smile as she dried the flatware and set the tin can on the shelf with the other empty soup cans.
“Was planning on it,” he told her, “that is, if you're still up for it.”
“Yeah, come on over,” she said, walking up to him and giving him a kiss on his cheek, “I managed to bribe Maggie for some of her wine. Of course, that means I'm taking over her laundry job for the next week, but it'll be worth it.”
“That sounds nice,” Daryl told her, giving her an arm-hug.
“I've got to take a shower,” she told him, gently pulling away, “so give me about a half-hour or so, but come over anytime after that.” She walked toward the double doors and turned her head to give him a soft smile before leaving. “See you in a little while.”
“See you,” he said, feeling a smile play at his own lips. Smiling wasn't something he was used to doing that often, but Andrea made doing it a little easier.
A shower. Damn, that was a good idea, he thought. If she was going to take the time to primp before their low-key “date night,” then he figured that maybe he ought to return to his quarters and clean himself up. He remembered Glenn's care package in his vest pocket and wondered if he was actually going to go through with the whole sex-with-Andrea thing tonight. He was still nervous as all hell, but somehow, Andrea's smile and welcoming manner just then had put him a little more at ease.
He knew he felt something for Andrea that he hadn't ever felt for anyone else in his life. Again, he thought, he wasn't yet ready for the word “love.” He didn't know if he'd ever be ready for that shit. All he knew then was that Andrea wanted him, and for the first time in his life, he trusted a person like Andrea well enough to let her have him.
Author: KenoyerGrrl
Summary: The group is at the prison, some time after Andrea and Michonne have discovered them and settled in. Daryl and Andrea have stricken up a friendship and maybe something more. She invites him to hang out at her cell for an evening, but Daryl panics a bit...
Rating: T (Part III is going to be rated M, so just to warn ya ahead of time...)
A/N: Thanks so much to cemeterydreamer for being my Beta reviewer yet again. I owe you a ton! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead, but sometimes, it damn well owns me. This is just for fun; I have no intention of copyright infringement or making any kind of money or other profit from it.
Part I is here
As Daryl went to fetch himself an MRE from the cafeteria later that evening, he saw Michonne and Andrea sitting across from each other, laughing and chatting over a shared can of self-heating soup. He listened in to the women's conversation as he scanned the shelves for something that looked halfway appetizing.
“I'm telling you, girlfriend,” Michonne said between chuckles, “That is the first and only time in my LIFE that I have ever heard ANY judge answer to an objection with 'Oh, HELL, no!' Okay...'Sustained.' Yes. 'Overruled.' All the TIME, hell yes. But 'Oh, HELL, no!'?? Everyone in the entire damned courtroom was just cracking UP.”
“At a Murder Two trial?” Andrea asked, laughing incredulously.
“Oh, I'm telling you! Totally inappropriate. But funny!”
The women's laughter continued for a minute, but then died down, and Daryl noticed that neither of the two women said a word for a long while. He finally decided that the pasta with marinara sauce and veggie crumbles-whatever the hell those were-seemed like the least repetitive choice among beef stew with potatoes, chili with beans, petrified macaroni and cheese, and even more beef stew with potatoes.
He grabbed a stainless-steel fork, peeled open the lid on the self-heating meal, and sat at the opposite end of the long table-far enough so that he didn't seem like he was intruding upon Andrea and Michonne, but close enough so that he could still hear them when they decided to talk again.
“I wonder where that judge is now?” Michonne said thoughtfully, breaking the silence.
“I hope he made it somewhere safe,” Andrea replied, “The way you describe him, he sounded like a good person with a strong spirit. And a wicked sense of humor!”
“Oh, hell, what does that all mean anymore?” Michonne said ruefully, dropping her spoon in the empty soup can with a clang, “That and a bag of doughnuts. All that matters are the skills and the wherewithal to survive. And I damn well hope he and his family would have had those qualities.”
“Strong spirit counts for something, doesn't it?” Andrea said quietly, “That's often what it takes to survive. To make it through the worst that the world can throw at you. To know in your heart that death isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. As long as you can hold onto your humanity.”
Looking up from his food, Daryl turned his head sideways to look down the long table where Andrea sat. He realized that she was not the same person he knew from nearly a year ago, when her sister had died and she had nearly given up hope on...well, everything. In spite of everything that had happened to all of them, and even in the gloomy monolith of the relatively secure prison that protected them from the ravages around them-even if precariously-Andrea had learned to embrace being alive and hold onto hope. In doing so, her spirit had grown whole again.
Andrea must have felt his eyes upon her, because she turned her face down the table toward him and smiled. “What do you think, Daryl? Survival skills or strong spirit?”
“Both,” he said with a shrug, and continued eating his meal. Why did he have to choose? Skills and the spirit, head and the heart-combined, they both made far more sense to him in any aspect of life, under any circumstances, than one over the other. He could see this combination in Andrea, even though she couldn't yet see it in herself-or at least she didn't wear her confidence in her abilities on her sleeve. This aspect of her was something else he...whoa, well maybe “love” was too strong of a term right now. Admired, liked, respected, thought it was cool about her would have to do, for now.
He ate the last bite of his manufactured meal and stood up to toss the container in the trashcan near the door. He turned to leave, but then a thought came to him that he wanted to share. That didn't happen too often.
“You know,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and stepping forward to where the two women sat, “When...shit like this goes down-and I don't mean walkers. I mean what we do to us. Generations back. Slavery. The Armenians. The Holocaust. Y'know, the...what Pol Pot did to the Cambodians. The people in Rwanda. Genocide and shit. People who went through that shit-that was their extinction event.
“But you read about the ones who survive. They're usually resourceful. Y'know, they make do with what they have. And they also have hope. And not just the cheap-assed lip service from a political campaign or shit. A hope in humanity. That even with all of the shit thrown at them in life, they still had hope that they would make it.”
Andrea and Michonne eyed him with more than a small bit of surprise and curiosity. They knew as well as he did that he didn't open his mouth to convey deep thoughts that often, and when he did, it meant something.
“Hope I'm making sense,” he said, with another shrug.
“You are,” Andrea told him softly, a light in her eyes that moved Daryl in ways he didn't feel he yet understood.
“You're way intelligent for a redneck, you know that?” Michonne remarked, but it wasn't a dig. There was warmth in her voice.
“Thanks for the stereotype,” Daryl told her dryly. Paradoxically, though, there was warmth in his own voice as well.
“Join the club,” Michonne replied. Daryl realized she was referring to not only the racial stereotypes with which she had to live all her life, but his own remark from a while ago, when they'd first fought walkers outside the prison gate together. You're a bad-assed killer for a lawyer type n' all, he'd said that day.
“Went to community college when I got outta high school,” he said, lifting a foot onto one of the cafeteria stools and resting an arm on his knee, “Wanted to be an anthropologist. Travel the world and shit. I read a lot. Took a lot of crap from my big brother about it. He thought I was turning into some egghead or latte-sipping elitist or something, so...”
He trailed off. Did these chicks really need to know about how he let Merle run his fucking life-almost into the ground? Opting for expediency, he continued with an ostensible truth. “Didn't have the money to keep paying the tuition, so I worked fixing Harleys and shit. Paid decently. And who needs travel when you can get on a chopper and just ride?”
“Daryl Dixon, the college student,” Andrea marveled, a smile growing on her face. He knew she must've been wondering where all those “mountains of Tibet” references came from.
“Yeah, I guess. Back when the world was normal. Whatever the hell 'normal' means.”
“Those were the days,” Michonne murmured, wiping up the table space between Andrea and her with the paper towel she was using as a napkin, “Well, I hate to cut and run, but I have to wake up early tomorrow morning and do my shift. Six to noon, guard duty at my post.” She picked up the empty tin of soup with the soup spoons and leaned over to give Andrea a hug.
Hugging her back, Andrea took the soup tin from Michonne's hands and said, “Don't worry about cleaning up, Mich. My shift doesn't start till three tomorrow afternoon, so I'll handle this.”
“Lucky bitch!” Michonne teased, giving her a wink before walking out.
“Sleep well, Mich,” Andrea called after her, getting up from the table.
Michonne gave the two of them a wave as she exited the cafeteria's double doors. From his spot at the table, Daryl nodded her goodnight, but he doubted she'd noticed him. All he knew was that he was alone in the cafeteria with Andrea, and he still owed her a visit to her cell that night.
Andrea was already walking over to the kitchen to wash the spoons and the tin can. Rick had advised everyone in the group to save all of the tin cans-what for, he wouldn't say, but Daryl reckoned that it must've been one of those resourceful instincts that the former cop had up his sleeve. Storage, makeshift bombs to scare away the walkers outside the fences-who knew?
“You still going to swing by tonight?” Andrea asked, giving Daryl a smile as she dried the flatware and set the tin can on the shelf with the other empty soup cans.
“Was planning on it,” he told her, “that is, if you're still up for it.”
“Yeah, come on over,” she said, walking up to him and giving him a kiss on his cheek, “I managed to bribe Maggie for some of her wine. Of course, that means I'm taking over her laundry job for the next week, but it'll be worth it.”
“That sounds nice,” Daryl told her, giving her an arm-hug.
“I've got to take a shower,” she told him, gently pulling away, “so give me about a half-hour or so, but come over anytime after that.” She walked toward the double doors and turned her head to give him a soft smile before leaving. “See you in a little while.”
“See you,” he said, feeling a smile play at his own lips. Smiling wasn't something he was used to doing that often, but Andrea made doing it a little easier.
A shower. Damn, that was a good idea, he thought. If she was going to take the time to primp before their low-key “date night,” then he figured that maybe he ought to return to his quarters and clean himself up. He remembered Glenn's care package in his vest pocket and wondered if he was actually going to go through with the whole sex-with-Andrea thing tonight. He was still nervous as all hell, but somehow, Andrea's smile and welcoming manner just then had put him a little more at ease.
He knew he felt something for Andrea that he hadn't ever felt for anyone else in his life. Again, he thought, he wasn't yet ready for the word “love.” He didn't know if he'd ever be ready for that shit. All he knew then was that Andrea wanted him, and for the first time in his life, he trusted a person like Andrea well enough to let her have him.