The Walking Dead
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"Best quote"

Andrea waited. First, she waited till morning. Then, she went back to the room she at one time shared with Michonne and showered. After that, she waited until it was near dusk in her room, thinking. What did everything mean? Could she really wait until Philip offered up answers on a silver platter? What would that make her? Finally, realizing she did not having any weapons, she slipped a steak knife into her bag and set off. She knew what parts of town were on and off limits. Finding Daryl was only a matter of searching through the off limits.

It took her awhile and bribing one of the men she remembered from the wrestling ring with Daryl, but she found a guarded compound. Luckily, one of the guards was someone she knew from her short stay in Woodbury. After a quick and heated debate over why she wanted to see the prisoner and then an assurance that this was under to Governor's orders, she was let in to see Daryl.

Though she strangely feels like she's intruding, she shuts the door softly behind her, but doesn't move forward. "Daryl?" Her voice sounds unsure and hesitant even to herself.

An old warehouse construct, the room's musky and metallic— a shed for the chained animal that's their current new guest. Barely has it been cleaned from previous visitors, and the gnawing stink of decay is suspect. Sweat. That dark swatch on the floor could've been blood.

Besides the lack of interior decoration except a pile of rubble and pieces of a broken chair, captivity does not flatter Daryl Dixon. Andrea's recent city-living has cleared her skin, but her former friend still has an apocalypse's complexion, and his romp on the ground with the Woodbury guards has left him another layer. His lip's spotty with blood as he eyes her across the room with a fixed scowl. A sideways step tugs the cords locking his wrists, done up by a bit of rope that attaches him to a thick hook buried in the ground. He's leashed.

"Andrea— " he spits— for the blood; his eyes shine with indignant loyalty as his chin rocks back, "Man, we thought you were dead." Gruff accusation though it is, he attempts none to hide the flush of gratitude that she's not, in fact, rotting.

For some reason, seeing Daryl tied up is a shock to Andrea. Of course, he's a prisoner and attacked the town; it's only sensible to secure him. She takes in the room with a curious and wondered look. One block over is a well groomed street where she was drinking cold lemonade and beer a few days ago. This place looks like it's been used as a holding cage.

"Not yet." She shakes her head and comes closer, noticing the blood he's spitting out. "It was touch and go for awhile." The accusation of them leaving her is not exactly appropriate when he's tied to the floor. "I got sick, though. Almost died. Merle found us. Took us here. They patched me up." It's a short and almost telegram-like answer. Almost died, stop. Merle found us, stop. Finally, she asks what's really on her mind. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Merle," again, his grumble sounds synonymous with a less pleasant word substitute. Daryl's eyes flicker sideways, casting what might be a heavy look of guilty responsibility into shadow and unfeeling metal grating. Looking back at her, he's nothing but himself, sniffing around the gristle of dirt, flexing his fingers disagreeably against the rope till it twists into his wrist. "What do you think?" Scowl deepening, accented by dirt, he advances on her— is stopped. "S'more of your Governor's topnotch hospitality." A sway— step— backwards feeds his restless anxiety at being restrained more than that he's backing off of her; though, in fact, his hissing emphasis on 'Governor' rather than 'your' hints at his actual focus, not, really, it seems, accusing her at all. His tongue flicks against his lower teeth almost idly. "What'dya mean 'us'?"

"I meant other than…" Andrea waves her hands at the restraints. She's sure he'll get the general picture from her hand gesture. The look of guilt makes her almost take a step forward, but she stops herself. "He was looking for you." That's her judgement on Merle. "He wanted to go out to the farm and see if he could track you down. Make sure you were still alive." It's a neutral one, but she still has no idea what happened. She's hoping that Daryl will be able to help with that. As for her Governor, she looks down to the ground in her own bit of guilt. Maybe he didn't mean to accuse her, but she certainly feels as if some sort of blame is in her court. "Michonne. Woman with a sword. She saved me from the herd. We were together until we came here. Then, she left." Left her here, refused to talk about, refused to listen. "Did she come back here with you? Who else was here? I saw a man in a prison uniform."

"Yeah, her, sure," not a riveted investment from Daryl, who raises his hands in emphasis, rattling the hook in the floor, but passes little other obvious judgment on the close-mouthed woman. "But she never made mention of you." Usually brief of words, himself, the man appears discomfited at an interrogation as much as he does the act of being bound, caged, during it. Tongue shoved in the inside of his lower lip, he pushes out the swelling on his mouth from the previous punch. "Y'wanna know how many of us there are?" He asks brusquely, "So's he can hunt down the others, too?" Eyes narrow to slits as he glances at the suspect prison door before back to her. "I seen 'good cop, bad cop' before, y'know. Merle made sure of that."

For a moment, she wondered if the group was there to find her. It didn't make sense, but she had hoped for a moment. Andrea shrugs. "She doesn't really make mention of much." Though the group must have only known her for a day or two, she's sure that the lack of talking would be noticed. With an exasperated sigh, she shakes her head. "Why would I want the others hunted down? I thought you all had died. I just… I wanted to know who…" she trails off. What she wants to know is who made it off the farm alive. Despite the long months, she still holds affection for their caravan from Atlanta. That's why it hurts to know they didn't wait for her or go back for her. She puts a hand over her face, attempting to cover up the pain she still feels at being left behind - left for dead. She thought she was over it, but seeing Daryl there - knowing they all made it - hurts. There's a long pause while she gathers herself. Then, she gives a soft laugh. "I'm not much of a good or bad cop. I'm not here to get anything out of you. I just want to know what happened."

Though nothing of Daryl's expression softens, when he drops his chin as she trails off, it holds something of a similar sentiment. She's cowed his easily flared temper— for that second. When she laughs, he squints up, a look as though he means to read her. "Rick made the call that we couldn't go back." A hint, only— an edge suggesting this wasn't Daryl's original opinion— mostly hidden in respect for Rick's right to decide; the group's leader reflects something of the unwavering obligation that's reserved for solely one other: Daryl's own brother, Merle.

That respect for Rick was already present before Andrea left. She can see it's only grown in the months since. Her response to that is only a nod. Of course Rick would say that. The farm was overrun. Andrea was probably already dead. Why risk anyone else? She can practically hear Rick's arguments against going after her in her head. Of course, that's if anyone suggested it. After that ordeal, maybe there was an unspoken consensus against it. They might have assumed her dead from the start. And she would have been if it weren't for Michonne.

She doesn't say anything for a bit, but her eyes stay focused on the chains around his wrists. "Look, the people here are scared and they think you came here to kill them in their sleep and take over the town. I know you wouldn't do that. If you say Glenn and Maggie were here, they were here. I don't know who took them or why they hurt them, but you can't stay here." He killed some of the townsfolk and they'll want justice. Blood for blood. "Rick's still alive, right? I'll find him and bring him back to get you out."

A slow blink, Daryl's head slightly cocked as he observes her, registers faintly that she's trusting him — taking his word. It serves as a varying distraction from his wrists' restraints until it's time to unarguably addendum, "And Merle."

For some reason, that's not the answer Andrea was expecting. With another shrug, she tells him, "I'm bringing Rick back for you. He can decide if he wants to break Merle out with you." She looks to the walls on the side - presumably where they're keeping the elder Dixon brother. "But, he may not want to leave." Merle, that is. He's been pretty invested in Woodbury.

"He can decide to take Merle, or he can leave me here." Daryl's not shy in his conviction, staring her down— perhaps in preparation for how he'll have to convince Rick. "If my brother's in trouble, I'm not leavin' him alone." And next to the conviction, there's a scar; an old hurt, irritated to redness at the suggestion: loyalty not shown in the past, but it feels older than Andrea's abandonment. Feels personal. Like this isn't the first time Daryl's been left behind.

The one thing that Andrea knows is that if Daryl is in front of Rick, he won't leave him behind. The expression on her face easily conveys that. "He turned this place into his home. I think he wanted to bring you back here." With a shake of her head, she adds, "He's a part of this community, I don't think they'd harm him." Daryl, on the other hand, is an outsider who killed people. It wouldn't matter who his brother is; that wouldn't save him. "But, you can't stay here." She repeats her words from before. His own hurt, the way he holds it echoes somewhere deep in Andrea. Before thinking it through, she takes a few steps toward Daryl to give him a hug.

"You mean that fight club out there? That community— ?" Mockery interrupted when she infringes in on his space. Rather than avoid her, Daryl freezes up and down except to flinch as arms close in. Head turned to the side, he avoids her, tied hands awkwardly strung between them; his filth and dried sweat against her nicely pressed and laundered. "Hey…" he murmurs, sounding annoyed, embarrassed, and younger than his years. "Come on— "

Andrea doesn't care about dried sweat or dirty clothes. She lived in them long enough. The hug doesn't last incredibly long. She pulls back awkwardly and shrugs. "Sorry. I'm just… I'm glad you're alive." And she means it. Despite everything in the past, it's good to see him.

Daryl's abruptly dismissive, "Yeah, yeah," in the way of the socially inept, gruffness covering his various inabilities; the rope cuts short what might've been a typical physical retreat, so he's left standing there as he grumbles, "You too." And he means it. As much as, a few seconds later, he heatedly, but plainly, describes, "But next time I see him, I'm gonna take out the Governor's other eye for what he did to Maggie and Glenn. You can tell him that."

The moment of tenderness - such as it is - is gone. Andrea makes for the door. "He couldn't have done anything to them. He didn't know they were here." For now, she'll believe the Governor. It's the town that will hurt Daryl. As for the Governor, she'll find out more when she can. "Don't try to escape until I bring Rick back. They'll kill you if you try."

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