Daryl did not even have to look up from the bolt he was working on to see who it was that was approaching his camp. He knew those foot steps. Hell he knew everyone's footsteps at this point. Each one had their own cadence, their own distinct patterns.
He still didn't look up when he saw her familiar shoes come and stop next to his legs where he sat on the ground, working on new projectiles for his crossbow. "What'da'ya want?" he asked, his voice cold, brisk. He didn't want company, that was the whole fucking point in moving his camp out this far from the rest of them. And for whatever reason people were not getting that message. Fucking people.
"Can we talk?" she asked softly, her voice unsure.
He grunted. "Talk."
Her face scrunched up, her nose curling, her lips puckering like his tone was a glass full of sour milk. He hardly talked to her, never really did but she thought maybe they made headway at one point, that one point that seemed like months ago at this point. She chided herself, reminding herself it WAS months ago.
She sat down in front of him, purposely putting herself in direct line with the blade of his knife, knowing that no matter how bad he wanted to ignore her, he would be forced to either shift his work or stop and look at her. With an indignant huff, he turned so they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, her facing the camp, him facing the forest. That was not going how she wanted it to.
"Wastin' daylight," he muttered as he brought the knife-edge back down on the stick in his hand.
She reached a hand out, putting it on his forearm, stopping his movement. He gripped the blade tighter and jerked it out of her reach. "What'da'ya want?" he reiterated, his tone now harsh and filled with annoyance. "I've got shit ta do."
She pulled her hand away, running it through her short hair. "Daryl, look at me." There was a pause, the bade in his hand stopped for a second, and she could see his eyes flicker toward her, stopping only on her shoulder, not raising his head out of his crouch to meet her eyes.
The blade went back to scraping on the stick, all the bark long gone, gone before she even sat down. "You gonna tell me what ta fuck ya want?"
This is not how this conversation played out in her mind the hundreds of times she had it since she realized she had to talk to him. Then again this was Daryl Dixon. When did he ever do anything anyone ever expected him to? Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to collect her thoughts. Just because he couldn't handle having an adult conversation was no reason she should get pissed off and then have this turn into a screaming match.
She unfurled her legs from Taylor fashion, and fished in her pocket. With a flick of her wrist she tossed three completely different plastic sticks toward the pile of wood shavings at his knee. The blade paused for a second. She watched his face as he studied them, and she realized quickly he had no idea what they were. "What ta fuck?" he asked, reaching out, handle of his knife still nestled in his hand, and he flipped one of them over so that he could read what it said. His eyes widened, as recognition hit. He flipped all three so that the plus signs on each one were upright. He swallowed hard, his eyes finally looking up at hers. Narrowed eyes met wide ones just a shade or two lighter than his. She tried to read his features, but outside of his normal pissed off wall, she got nothing. He however saw the borderline panic that spread across her face, her eyes shimmering, two seconds from tearing.
"Fuck me," was all he could say.
She barked out a humorless laugh. "I believe that's how we got here."
"You sure?" he asked, finally setting the knife and stick aside.
"Pretty damn sure we fucked, Daryl," anger colored her words for the first time. She was not letting him get out of this conversation. This concerned him as much as it did her. They may not be anything more to each other than co-surviors but this was not something she wanted to deal with by herself, especially as complicated as it was about to become for both.
He let out a harsh breath through his nose, anger just on the brink of overflowing. "Not what I meant, Maggie," he mumbled, flinging the knife blade into the soft ground.
A/N: I know, not where you thought I was going with it. Don't hate me. I know that is not the pairing I usually write. These two have been dancing around each other in my brain since Lauren showed up on TWD- I have had a crush on her since Death Race 2. And today while i was out shopping, the two of them finally came to agreement. This is the result. And there will be more... there already is, so stay tuned.