i want you to want me, too
Daryl grumbles to himself, shaking his finger out, "Damn knife," he mutters, shoving his index finger in his mouth, sucking the blood from the cut he'd just given himself. After another moment, he goes back to sharpening the arrow he's been working on for the last two days.
Andrea watches him from a safe distance away, teeth digging into her lower lip. There's something attractive about that, taking the old 'rub some dirt on it' approach. Anybody else would have cried like a baby after giving themselves a cut with a hunting knife. But really, who is she kidding? Everything that man does is attractive. He could probably spit a tooth out and she'd swoon. She shakes her head, closing her eyes. She's been creepily staring at him for the past ten minutes.
She sometimes wonders if she should tell him. Buck up and say, hey, you're hot, I'm horny, let's do something about it. But she's too scared, even though the worst thing he could do was say no. She couldn't handle that type of rejection, not when there's not a bar to crawl into and there's no retail therapy to be done.
"Fuck me," she mutters, matching across the grass between them and sinking down onto the log beside him. His eyes flick to her for a moment before he goes back to his arrow. She watches him work for a few minutes, admiring his calloused hands and the scars and scrapes across his arms. She's glad he takes long sleeved shirts for granted. She doesn't think she could survive without a daily dose of his arm porn. She starts laughing, shaking her head.
"What's so funny?" Daryl asks, distracted. The cut on his finger has started bleeding again, the red spilling from his finger onto the arrow. He glares at the offending digit, looking like he wants to chop the finger off and be done with it.
"Nothing." Andrea murmurs, shaking her head, smiling.
"You're a liar, an' a terrible one at that." Daryl tells her, giving her a pointed look.
Andrea stares off into the distance, watching Lori and Carl pick clothes off the line, "I was just thinking...I would've given you my number if I'd met you before." she says, cheeks turning pink under his gaze.
Daryl snorts, and she snaps her head to the side to look at him, "The fuck makes you think I would have taken it?" he asks, amused.
Andrea's mouth falls open, "Ass!" she cries, punching his shoulder. He snickers, moving away from her fist. "You totally would have taken it."
"Nah, lawyers really aren't my type," he tells her, eyes twinkling in a way that they usually don't.
"Are you telling me, lawyer aside, that if I would have walked up to you in a bar, wearing a sexy dress, fresh out of the shower, makeup on, hair actually brushed, that you wouldn't have taken my number?" she asks, dumbfounded.
Daryl smirks, tongue running across his teeth, "Nope," he says, popping the 'p'.
Andrea gives him a knowing smile, standing up. "Now who's the liar?" she questions, smirking.
She feels his eyes on her as she walks away.
"Huh," he murmurs to himself, going back to his arrow, "little spitfire."
Things get interesting after that.
Andrea's got no idea why she's being so bold, no idea why she brushes her hand across Daryl's back when she walks by him, no idea why she bumps her chest against his on 'accident' when they're working in the kitchen together.
All she knows is that it's really, really fun.
Daryl had stopped jumping in shock whenever she touched him after the first few times, and now he only glares at her, cheeks turning pink. She laughs at him quietly, casting her eyes around to make sure nobody had seen her playfully grope his chest.
Andrea clicks her tongue, "Still wouldn't take my number?" she asks.
Daryl's glare darkens, "No." he says firmly.
Andrea shakes her head, disappointed.
The weeks after that are filled with Andrea's playful flirting and touching and her making eyes at him.
He'd kill her if he didn't like it so much. It was nice to see her relax and focus her attentions on making him uncomfortable rather than thinking about her sister or Shane or Dale or anyone else.
Daryl takes great joy in seeing the look of defeat on her face after she asks him the same question she's asked him a zillion times this month, "Still wouldn't take my number?" and he says no.
Andrea throws her hands in the air, growling, "I give up! You happy now?"
Daryl gives her an amused look, "You gonna quit flapping your lips 'bout your number now?" he quips back.
Andrea stomps away, and Daryl slaps a hand over his mouth the stop his laughter.
Andrea rings her hands together, staring out the window in the kitchen. Daryl stands outside, swinging the axe in his hand in an arc, chopping wood for the fire they're planning on having that night. She shakes her head, picks up the knife she'd been using, and goes back to cutting up the fruit Maggie had found.
She'd come to the conclusion that he just wasn't attracted to her, and that really did wonders for her self esteem. She slams the knife down into the fruit, marking the counter, "Damn," she mutters to herself.
She looks back up, and Daryl's looking back at her, contemplative look on his face. She blinks at him for a few moments, and he smirks at her. She growls, reaching out and shutting the blinds.
Andrea runs her tongue over her teeth, watching Daryl teach Glenn how to play poker. The fire gleams over all of them, and she looks around the circle. Rick and Lori are off in their own world, Carl on the fringes. Carol is idly stitching away at a t-shirt, chatting with Hershel and Maggie. Everyone else is otherwise occupied, and she's left out, always the extra.
The spots on the log on either side of her are empty, and—well, she's had it. She stands, brushing her jeans off and walking away from the fire. She slams the RV's door open, crawling into Dale's bed and pulling the covers over her head. She could always count on Dale to make her feel better, wanted, useful. But he was gone, and stupid Daryl Dixon didn't want her number.
Andrea knows she's being stupid for getting so worked up for this, but she can't help it. Her beauty had been the only thing she'd had before; she wouldn't have made it far without her looks. Sure, she had her brains, and that helped her with her career and everything else, but she could always count on her blonde hair and blue eyes to get her a date on Friday nights. And now she doesn't even have that; no makeup, no hair products, nothing. And she feels like crap because of it. What's the good of being surrounded by attractive men if they don't find her attractive right back?
Andrea growls into Dale's pillow, and the RV's door bangs open. "What?" she growls.
"What're you stompin' all over the place for?" a voice grouses, and Andrea pushes her face further into the pillow. So not the voice she wants to hear right now.
"Because." she snaps, "What are you, the stomp police?" it's a stupid jab, but she uses it anyway.
The blanket's flip back, and Daryl glares at her, "Get up. Tell me what's wrong." he takes her arm, grip surprisingly gentle, and lifts her into a sitting position.
She nibbles her lip, scratching a hand through her hair, "Do...do you think I'm pretty?" she blurts out, cheeks instantly coloring.
Daryl's eyes widen, "You still on that number kick?" he questions, snorting, "Girl, with the amount of time you've put into trying to get me to take your number, we coulda been married with kids by now." she cracks a smile, "'Course I think you're pretty." he tells her gruffly.
"Because you're funny when you're mad," he interrupts, shrugging, and she slaps his arm.
"Are you kidding me?" she cries, and Daryl just laughs. He catches her hands at her wrists and holds them tightly in his own, and he stares at her for a few moments, contemplative. Andrea licks her lips in anticipation. For what, she doesn't know.
It's then that he kisses her. And she shouldn't be surprised that it's full of passion because he's passionate about everything he does; from his arrow making right down to squirrel hunting. He drops her hands and they enclose around the sides of his neck. She holds him tightly to her, and his arms snake around her waist, pulling her onto his lap.
Her hands trails down his chest, his abdomen, stopping at his belt buckle. She pauses, pulling back. Their lips brush together, and his eyes ghost open. He reaches down, deftly popping his belt buckle open and tossing her back onto the bed.
Later, she asks, "So you really wouldn't have taken my number?"
Daryl slaps a hand over his face, groaning.