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In the days after the prison fell Daryl wanted nothing more than silence. For the world to stop, for an hour or a week or maybe forever, and for there to be nothing left but seclusion and stillness and silence.
But a country club, a burnt down shack, and more moonshine that was probably sensible later and Beth Greene’s constant talking had become a persistent comfort in his life. Her endless questions and thoughts and observations were all he needed to remind himself that with her he was at home.
For those first few days he had wanted nothing more than for her to shut up, but now two hours of silence had him wishing for the girl walking a few paces ahead of him to mention on old dream from an old life or point out a castle of clouds in the sky or sing a song or say something.
But she was silent.
"You okay?” he tried.
Silence.
“Hey, you okay?”
Silence.
"Beth, hey” he said, stepping forward quickly, grabbing her arm to stop her “are you okay?” he asked as she turned to look at him.
"Yeah, sorry,” she said, “just been thinking.” They carried on walking, side by side, down the narrow trail through the trees.
Silence again. Minutes of silence.
"What were you thinkin’ about?”
"Just life, friends, you know?”
He didn’t.
“Old friends.”
He wasn’t sure what to say about that, so they walked in silence for a few steps more.
“In high school, I had this friend, Mary,” she finally said, “I knew everything about her. Ask me anything, I could tell you. Favourite colour? Light pink. Birthday? July 9th. I still remember her address, zip code and everything, before and after she moved when we were twelve years old. I could tell you her favourite TV show, the first boy she had a crush on. I could tell you anything.”
They walked a little further in silence again as the trees began to thin and the sun filled up the gaps between them.
“It just seems kind of pointless now though, doesn’t it?” she added, looking up at him.
He shrugged, "friends are still important though, even if they're gone."
“No, I know," she said, "I mean," she sighed, piecing together the words in her mind before speaking again, "I love Mary, and I don’t know if she made it, her parents dragged her and her brother out of Senoia as soon it started looking bad, but I hope she’s out there. But when I was younger I thought our friendship was the most important thing in the world. That me being able to list off all these that’s about her, and her about me, somehow it made our friendship stronger.”
He wished he had some idea where this conversation was going. Whether he was meant to be comforting her about her friend, assuring her that she probably is alive out there somewhere, or whether he was just meant to remain silent, to listen to her talk.
“I don’t even know how old you are,” she said, suddenly halting, stopping to look up at him as he paused to stand by her, the two of them static in the middle of the rustling trees. “It’s weird that, isn’t it? I don’t know your age, your favourite colour, I don’t know any of those facts about you, Daryl Dixon, other than your name and the fact you’re good with a crossbow.”
“I could tell you my favourite colour,” he said, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head, “what do you wanna know, I could tell you my favourite TV show, never really watched TV though. Ask me anything.”
“No,” she said, letting out a quiet giggle while her face molded into a perfect smile, “no that’s not what I’m saying,” she paused and bit her lip, looking up at the sky for a second, then back at him, meeting his eyes with hers, “I could list a hundred facts about Mary, but at the end of the day it doesn't matter, does it? There’s so many trivial little facts I don’t know about you, but the thing is I think I know you better than anyone knows anyone else on earth right now.”
“Oh,” he replied. The silence that followed was somehow more imposing than the two hours of silence before.
“Sorry, I don’t know what I’m talking about,” she said, turning back to the trail, “you probably think I’m crazy, forget I said anything.”
But his brain was suddenly changing up a gear, not whizzing through all the things he didn’t know about her, her birthday, her favourite colour, her shoe size and dress size and her favourite novel, the things Mary probably knew about her, the things she knew about Mary, but instead he landed on the things he did know: the way her face would scrunch up, her eyes shutting as tightly as they could, before they opened every morning, ready for the day; the way her fingers would tap against her knife once they set up camp and settled down for the night, as though absent-mindedly reciting songs meant to be played on a piano; the blue of her eyes when she stared up at him while the sun stared down at her.
“No,” he said, she snapped back round to face him, staring again at him as he talked, “no, I think I know what you mean.”
Sunlight shining down on blue irises shining back up at him, and silence.
He cleared his throat.
“We’re burnin’ daylight, we should get movin’,” he said, walking past her along the narrow trail.
The silence was building up again, pressuring him to say something, to ask some question or share some observation, while she contently stepped along behind him (he knew she was content because her steps were light, lighter than the heavy tread she stepped with when he’d pissed her off, he knew she was content because he was pretty convinced he knew her better than anyone else knew anyone else on earth too.)
He glanced at her over his shoulder. She smiled at him. He turned back to face the trail.
His mind flicked through possible questions he could ask. Anything to fill the silence.
“How old are you anyway?” he finally settled on.
“Eighteen. I’m pretty sure I’m eighteen. The leaves are turnin’, so I think my birthday was some time while we were at the prison.”
“Guess I shouldn’ta let ya have moonshine then,” he replied.
She laughed. “I’m not sure old laws really apply anymore Daryl, ‘sides, are you gonna tell me you waited ‘til you were 21?”
He could feel a smile creeping up on his face. The one he was starting to get used to since spending his days walking around Georgia and talking to her.
“What happens at 18 anyway? Can’t drink, what can ya do?”
“I can drive,” she said, as she started walking a little faster, matching her pace with his so they walked side by side on the trail barely wide enough for one, “I can move out, drop outta high school, join the army, smoke-“
“Alright,” he said, “I get it, you can do anythin’”
“Oh, and sex,” she said, turning her head to look up at him, eyes as innocent as her mouth was not, “I can consent to have sex.”
He could feel his neck start to turn red as she took a few longer paces to walk in front of him again.
By the time he could feel his whole face burning up he was wishing for silence all over again.