"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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"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"