"No." Everything's coming out sharper, more brittle--it's either that or break down, or maybe just ask to be taken back to Alexandria so she can hide up in the attic and wait for everything to stop.
She takes a breath through her nose and ends up silently mad at herself when it sounds like a sniffle. (Maybe it is a sniffle, but she doesn't want to let it be.) Her fingernails dig into her side. "But that doesn't mean I don't wanna know."
Unless she demands it, he's not turning around. He'd still-- even at this point-- do near anything asked of him, because awkwardness aside that's who he is. But having a task in mind, it's good-- it's giving him something to focus on and keep his balance while trying not to make this worse. Making this worse, that's his specialty, when it comes to emotional shit.
"Christ," he sighs, not looking at her. (No sniffling. He is going to just aggressively not notice, if she did.) There's no good answer. There's any number of things he could say, and they'd be true things-- that she's too young, that for all the ugliness she's seen there's more he doesn't want to show her, that she's not his type, if he even has a type anymore, it's been so goddamn long. But it all just sounds like bullshit.
"It ain't you. Ain't me either, it's just..." He shrugs a shoulder, awkward, risks a quick glance her way. There's something soft in it-- not apologetic, but gentle.
"'S just not how we are." At least not how he thought, but she thinks different. He feels like shit.
"We could be." Beth says it to the window, pretty much--there's no way she can put that out there while looking at him. Which means she misses the moment his gaze darts her way and sees none of the weariness it holds.
She wants to close her eyes, maybe curl up with her knees at her chest and fall asleep until all of this is over. That's not how it works, though. They're out here, and they both need to be alert. Until they get back to Alexandria, she has to be present, painfully aware of the truth. He doesn't like you, not that way, and now you put it all out there for nothing.
"No." She doesn't flinch, but answering like that feels like she did. But what's worse than getting turned down? Getting talked down to like a twelve-year-old who's been mentally testing out her math teacher's last name and doodling hearts in the margins of a notebook.
That what you wanna hear? Of course not. What she wanted to hear lives in a different universe from the conversation they're having right now, somewhere on tree-lined, walker-free Never occurred to me, but I feel the same way Avenue. Her hands ball up, because the alternative is crying for real--out of embarrassment and disappointment and just a little resentment that he's going to be like this--and there's no way she's crying about this in front of him.
Her lungs feel like they're grating against her ribcage, or maybe her throat's sandpapering against itself. Getting anything out at the moment is hard, and it doesn't sound quite right. "It doesn't matter. Never mind."
"What?" She's thrown forward a little, just enough to startle her into turning back toward Daryl. "No."
Get pissed off, he says, like she isn't already. Pissed off doesn't always look like hollering drunk in the middle of the woods. This afternoon, it's something gut-churning and internal, about the only thing left she can keep to herself.
Sure, she's already mad. Just, she's turned it all... quiet.
Stubbornly, he sits right where he is and stares at her. It's the Daryl Dixon special. Christ, she could at least call him an asshole who doesn't know what he's missing, or punch him. That'd work much better.
They've got work to do. She can't just stop everything and give him what-for. And right now, she doesn't even want to. Yelling won't make her stop wishing she could crawl into a hole and wait for him to forget she ever said anything. She'll just look stupider. More childish.
So Beth waits it, out, watching him with the same sullen gaze she's been giving the trees outside since she kissed him.
It's something he respects about her, how goddamn stubborn she can be. Right now it's kind of infuriating. Jesus.
He looks away first, staring at nothing in particular-- out the windshield, barely seeing the cracked pavement and faded lines.
"You wanna just..."
Not talk. Like, maybe ever, but at least for a while. He conveys this imperfectly-- with a tight half-shrug and, well, not talking. Sure as shit it'd be easier.
"Just?" Get angry, get drunk, start crying, open the car door and start walking home? Drop it, she decides, after a moment of watching him make that face. He wants you to drop it. And lucky for him, she's pretty sure that's all that's left to do.
So she says the magic words, turning back toward the window. All she wants right now is to fold herself up so small that the entire conversation stops existing. "Just forget it."
He can't help feeling if she yelled at him some it'd make them both feel better, but maybe that's not how she deals with shit. At least it's not crying, though maybe that'd make her feel better-- and he'd feel better about that, at least.
Dropping it is what he wants, mostly. Except it doesn't actually feel like it helps-- the silence is oppressive rather than contemplative, and as surely as he doesn't want to talk about what happened he'd rather not have them never talk again. She's like a little sister in his mind-- he wants to do right by that, and even if he can't be what she wants him to be right now he wants to be a friend, because it's hard enough to come by that these days and-- hell, they've been through a lot.
After a few long moments he decides on changing the subject.
"You remember I was tellin' you about the ink on my wrist?"
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She takes a breath through her nose and ends up silently mad at herself when it sounds like a sniffle. (Maybe it is a sniffle, but she doesn't want to let it be.) Her fingernails dig into her side. "But that doesn't mean I don't wanna know."
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"Christ," he sighs, not looking at her. (No sniffling. He is going to just aggressively not notice, if she did.) There's no good answer. There's any number of things he could say, and they'd be true things-- that she's too young, that for all the ugliness she's seen there's more he doesn't want to show her, that she's not his type, if he even has a type anymore, it's been so goddamn long. But it all just sounds like bullshit.
"It ain't you. Ain't me either, it's just..." He shrugs a shoulder, awkward, risks a quick glance her way. There's something soft in it-- not apologetic, but gentle.
"'S just not how we are." At least not how he thought, but she thinks different. He feels like shit.
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She wants to close her eyes, maybe curl up with her knees at her chest and fall asleep until all of this is over. That's not how it works, though. They're out here, and they both need to be alert. Until they get back to Alexandria, she has to be present, painfully aware of the truth. He doesn't like you, not that way, and now you put it all out there for nothing.
Her voice drops low. "Things change. People do."
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"That what you wanna hear? Gonna make you feel better?"
It'd be a lie, and he doesn't lie, if he can help it. It's sharper than he means, but this-- it's not something he can fix.
"What'm I supposed to say?"
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That what you wanna hear? Of course not. What she wanted to hear lives in a different universe from the conversation they're having right now, somewhere on tree-lined, walker-free Never occurred to me, but I feel the same way Avenue. Her hands ball up, because the alternative is crying for real--out of embarrassment and disappointment and just a little resentment that he's going to be like this--and there's no way she's crying about this in front of him.
Her lungs feel like they're grating against her ribcage, or maybe her throat's sandpapering against itself. Getting anything out at the moment is hard, and it doesn't sound quite right. "It doesn't matter. Never mind."
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"I mean--"
Huffing, he brakes again-- not so sharp as to jar them but too sharp all the same.
"Look." They've gotta get-- somehow or other, they need to get through this. He can't leave things with her sulking.
"Just... get pissed off, or somethin."
That's usually how he copes with his feelings. Turning them into anger and burning it out quick.
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Get pissed off, he says, like she isn't already. Pissed off doesn't always look like hollering drunk in the middle of the woods. This afternoon, it's something gut-churning and internal, about the only thing left she can keep to herself.
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Stubbornly, he sits right where he is and stares at her. It's the Daryl Dixon special. Christ, she could at least call him an asshole who doesn't know what he's missing, or punch him. That'd work much better.
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So Beth waits it, out, watching him with the same sullen gaze she's been giving the trees outside since she kissed him.
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He looks away first, staring at nothing in particular-- out the windshield, barely seeing the cracked pavement and faded lines.
"You wanna just..."
Not talk. Like, maybe ever, but at least for a while. He conveys this imperfectly-- with a tight half-shrug and, well, not talking. Sure as shit it'd be easier.
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So she says the magic words, turning back toward the window. All she wants right now is to fold herself up so small that the entire conversation stops existing. "Just forget it."
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Dropping it is what he wants, mostly. Except it doesn't actually feel like it helps-- the silence is oppressive rather than contemplative, and as surely as he doesn't want to talk about what happened he'd rather not have them never talk again. She's like a little sister in his mind-- he wants to do right by that, and even if he can't be what she wants him to be right now he wants to be a friend, because it's hard enough to come by that these days and-- hell, they've been through a lot.
After a few long moments he decides on changing the subject.
"You remember I was tellin' you about the ink on my wrist?"