Southern Comfort, a Wii, and a big bowl of spaghetti.
Word Count - enough
Perspective - 2nd person
When - we’ve jumped back in time! This takes place right after That mangy hick!. If this intrigued you, be sure to click on this to find the rest of the Slowpoke Series.
Relationships - you and the gang! But you hop into Daryl’s truck for the final chunk of this story, making it’s just you and him for the final ride to the CDC. On that note, apologies for the poor photo of Daryl in his truck lugging around Merle’s bike.
Genre - a mixture. Starts off sad (RIP Jim), becomes more fluffy. You’ll see.
Pronouns - ain’t got none in this one
TWs - language. Personally, you end up owing two quarters, but that’s only for the words the kids hear you say...
“Stay here and rest a little more, okay weirdo?”
“You don’t gotta tell me twice, loser,” you’d replied to Shane. He and T-Dog were going to check out the gas station down the road for another hose for whatever was going wrong with the RV. The radiator maybe? You don’t know mechanic stuff.
“I'll be back. Love you, okay?” Shane had been repeating that a lot more than usual since the attack last night. “And drink up that coke while I'm gone so you don’t pass out or nothin’,” he’d insisted, eyes on the unopened can of root beer in your hands. You weren’t sure why you were carrying it around at the time. Maybe so that Daryl would see that you appreciated the kind gesture of giving it to you.
Anyway, at least your migraine had subsided enough that you were able to be up and about (relatively). And good thing, because right after Shane and T-Dog headed off to the gas station, Jacqui had run out of the RV in tears about Jim.
Rick had immediately headed in, asking you to come check, too. You may have had the bare minimum of medical training, but what you could offer, you would. Giving Jim some NSAIDs and dabbing his skin with wet rags might have been like putting bandaids over a stab wound, but it was something.
But apparently, it wasn’t enough. Jim wanted to be left to die.
All of the adults were then discussing it outside, Shane and T-Dog having returned with the part needed (thank you Lord above).
The idea isn’t sitting well with many of you. Yes, Jim is in extreme pain and it's highly likely that he's dying anyways. So far, the fever somebody developed after a bite had proved fatal within a day or two. And yes, there isn't much chance that the CDC has a cure. But nothing is certain, which meant there's still a chance.
And even if he ends up dying anyway, the idea that you all are to simply leave him to die alone? Instead of trying to lessen his pain more? Instead of being with him in his last moments? It just doesn’t sit right.
Even if Jim said that he wants it that way, it still does not sit right. Is he even in his right mind to ask for such a thing? And should you leave him to become one of those things, or is it more responsible to wait until he turns to put him down? Or should he be put down before that point? Ugh!
“We just leave him here? Take off?” your brother asks, too tired to react with much emotion.
Shane still isn’t himself, not after last night. Not himself in the slightest.
On top of whatever he is feeling over Lori, he’s more than a little disheartened and worried that you were all going to the CDC instead of to Fort Benning. Even after you’d voiced your fear that a military fort would be the ideal place if you wanted to risk it falling into martial law enforced by scared jarheads with inflated egos and very powerful weapons. But Shane still held out hope that things wouldn’t get to that point. And a part of you wondered if he wasn’t just confident that even if they did, he’d be on the winning side. That worried you.
Not to mention that little power struggle between him and Rick. Shane backing down after shouldering the leadership since the onset would be difficult in itself, but was more so because the person to whom he was backing down—as much as he loves Rick as a brother—is making decisions that he believes might very well cost you all your lives.
You’re leaning next to him on your right, his arm around your shoulders, with Andrea leaning against your left side.
Dale just finished saying something, and now no one seems to know what to do.
In a sort of desperation, Shane looks at Rick. “Man, I’m not sure I could live with that.”
But he has to know, as Rick has to have already come to terms with, that ultimately they're powerless over it. God, this is shitty.
“It’s not your call,” Lori reminds them. “Either one of you.”
And so, you watch as Shane swallows his tears, nods in acknowledgment, and grits his teeth in defeat. Rick seems to be avoiding eye contact with everyone, but Lori takes his hand in hers for a while.
Everyone looks empty. You’re glad that the kids are playing in the station wagon right now. That little haven you’d all shared since the world ended was gone, and you have to accept that another one of your own was not going to make it.
Shane squeezes you in an embrace, then heads with Rick inside the RV to get Jim.
Carol and Lori wrap Jacqui in their arms to comfort her, then try to explain to the kids what was happening in a simple way. Carl looks confused and upset, and Sophia is tightly hugging the doll that Eliza gave her.
T-Dog and Glenn are reacting to the decision to leave Jim by pacing and letting the tears flow as they will.
As for you, you share a tired, sad look with Andrea and remain silent. No point in speaking. Dale simply walks over and clasps you two in a side hug, mumbling “What a day, huh, kiddos?”
And Daryl is very quiet, standing off to the side a as usual. But, he eventually moves closer and asks how your head feels.
“I don’t think I’ll have to amputate it, anymore,” you lightly joke. Your heart and stomach is in knots over Jim, so you feel weird about using humor at a time like this.
Looking into your eyes for a moment, Daryl makes a little hum in response and one corner of his mouth twitches upwards.
And then, Rick and Shane emerge from the RV carefully carrying Jim out, and you all follow towards the grove of trees.
The poor man even finds it in himself to joke about being put under a tree again, bless him.
You hate this. You hate what he wants you all to do, and you hate that he was bitten and had to make the choice in the first place.
Shane’s eyes are red as he again begs, “Hey man. I mean—you know, it doesn’t need to be this.”
But Jim looks at peace as he breathes “No. It’s okay.” He's gonna be with his family again soon, after all.
Jacqui goes to him next, and through her tears, gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Just close your eyes, sweetie. Don’t fight.” They’d been close, that much you knew.
When Rick says his goodbyes, he offers him a revolver, to…you know.
Jim declines, stating that you’d all need it, before repeating again that he is okay.
Dale does his best to keep his tears in check when he says his goodbyes, then it's your turn. You end up making a blessing on Jim’s forehead like your mama sometimes did, and ask if he was sure that he wanted to be alone for the end. “We’ll wait. Jim, we’ll stay with you ‘til the end, we want to.”
But again, he shakes his head and says that he's okay.
Your lip wobbles and you hang your head. This is his end, you have to accept it. “You said your family was Jewish, right? Are th-there any prayers you want said?”
Closing his eyes again, this time Jim nods, and tells you the words to a short, simple prayer, then thanks you. You try to repeat it in your head a few times so you don’t forget them while everyone else goes to him.
The familiar, numb fog settles around you, and before you can digest it, the group is walking towards the cars.
Glenn and you touch each other’s arms in solidarity, and he politely asks if your headache is gone.
As you start to answer, you fall silent upon looking back to see Daryl still hanging around Jim. You can’t tell if they’re speaking, but that crossbow in Daryl’s hands is troubling you. Then you watch as Daryl’s head nods once before he turns away and starts towards you.
“For a sec," Glenn says quietly, slowly exhaling the breath he'd been holding. "I was worried he was gonna drive a bolt through Jim’s head.”
“For a sec there, I think I was, too.” You realize you’d also been holding your breath. “Daryl can be...confusin’ sometimes.”
“‘Confusing’ is one word for it.”
"‘Troubling?’”
“Closer.”
“How about ‘work in progress?’"
“Very diplomatic.”
With a gentle elbow to Glenn's side, you 'diplomatically' turn around and wave Daryl over. “C’mon, join us.” Though, you aren’t sure what that look he gives you both means. You just don’t want anybody in your group to feel alone right now; mangy, fiery, work-in-progress hicks included.
This also means that when Glenn unwittingly made that little groan in displeasure when you waved Daryl over, you grumble back at him.
“Important question: what do y’all want to do when we get to the CDC?” you ask them. Stupid question, actually, but today and yesterday have been very, very bad.
“To get my own white lab coat embroidered with my name,” Glenn decides, and remarkably quickly even if he still sounds on the verge of tears.
Daryl doesn’t answer anything. Which is fine, you can blab with Glenn about nonsense all day. “I will be very pleased to crash early after turnin’ my brain to mush playing video games. Ain’t no better way to get out of your head.” Speaking of which, if your brain could actually turn to mush for another hour or so until the migraine fully went away, you won’t complain.
“Video games?” Glenn checks. If you were in a laughing mood, you’d be laughing your butt off at his tone of voice. “At the…Centers for Disease Control?”
“Well, I'm hopin' they snuck some kind of system into the break room. What kind of self-respecting scientists would they be otherwise? ” Your smile is weak, but still there.
Glenn returns your smile and rubs his hands together when he says, “Heck yeah. So, what are we playing?”
“They’re scientists, so I’m guessing they might would have a Wii, if anything,” you venture, massaging your neck and shoulder on the side that hurts.
You get the hoped-for chuckle you’d been after, and Glenn of course mentions “If they do, I guess I’ll have to whup you in Mario Kart just like I do on runs.”
“Careful, buttface, 'cause I’ll knock your ass right off Rainbow Road,” you playfully threaten, the sadness feeling not quite as heavy as before.
“Quarter,” you all hear a little voice say.
Shit, you hadn’t noticed that Sophia and Carl were right there. Now you owe them one quarter apiece for your cuss. “Dang it.”
“Quar—oh, I thought you were gonna say the real one,” Carl corrects himself. He and Sophia still have that uncertain, sad look on their faces after everything that had happened.
“Which real one d’you mean?” you ask him, your expression thoroughly confused (in the hopes of tricking him, that is).
“The d-a-m one.”
“It’s spelled d-a-m-n, weirdly enough,” you let him know. With a little frown, you add “You prolly guessed I was aimin’ for you to say the actual word, that way I’d only owe Sophia one?”
He gives you a cautious smile in return, as if he's unsure if he’s allowed to do that yet.
Sophia quietly says, “My mom and I are gonna ride in the Jeep with Mr. Walsh—well, your brother and Carl.”
“That’ll be nice to feel the breeze on your face awhile, huh?” By now, you, Glenn, Daryl and the kids are with the rest of the group at the cars. “Just make sure he don’t drive too fast, okay little one?”
“Okay,” she promises softly, and heads over to the Jeep with Carl.
“So, um, this time, do you wanna ride in the RV with me? Um, with us, w-with Dale and me? Andrea’s gonna hop in too, she and Jacqui are switching cars,” Glenn stumbles through asking you.
“I kinda need to crash for a little longer,” you say, relieved that you have an excuse to avoid the fact that you may not only have a crush on Glenn, but that it might be mutual. That’s terrifying.
“Right, yeah, wouldn’t want your headache to get worse again or stuff, right?” he quickly nods.
You are telling Glenn the truth, you do need to sleep off, or at least rest, in silence until your migraine had completely ebbed. And, well, Shane’s Jeep already has four people in it, since Carol and the kids are joining him.
That breeze is not conducive to rest, anyway, as fun and relaxing as it can feel. And the station wagon with Rick and Lori has a whole backseat free, but you aren’t about to intrude on their private time. You suppose that T-Dog’s church van has ample space, but you wish to ensure that Jacqui can speak freely about what’s weighing her without worrying about waking you up or feeling self-conscious.
And yes, you know that you can ride in the RV with Glenn, Andrea, and Dale and that there is plenty of space and it would be quiet enough. But privacy would be nice, especially since you still have that tiny crush on Glenn.
But what’s more is that you truly do desire that no one in the group to feel lonely or left out. So, before Daryl can get too far, you say something that you never imagined you’d be asking: “May I ride in your truck with you?”
He slows down for a moment. “Yeah sure, whatever. I got space.”
Cool, okay. "Thank you." It passes through your thoughts that you really hope there aren’t needles or little baggies of meth or bottles of oxycontin lying around in it.
You jog to Teddy’s van to grab your pillow and water bottle (bad idea to jog, the increase in blood pressure made your head pound), then walk back and hop into the truck.
Smells like cigarettes, but not too strongly, plus the windows are open. It’s a little messy and dirty, too, as you expected, with a few empty root beer cans and regular beer cans on the ground, and one little nipper of – peach schnapps? Cute. You love peach!
Then you put the can of soda he’d given you, still yet-to-be-opened, in the cup holder along with your water bottle, and buckle up. “Thank you again, Daryl.”
“Just try not to upchuck in here, alright?” Is he joking or serious? Maybe both. He can be so damned grating that it's hard to tell sometimes.
“Don’t worry,” you assure him, then wait two seconds for comedic effect. “If I have to, I wasn’t gonna get sick in here as much as on you.”
He does snort in amusement at that, and his voice sounds gentler when he repeats “Just lemme know if you need me to pull over, okay?”
“Will do.” Then you wedge your pillow under the chest strap of your seat belt and settle against the half-open window, mindful to not rest your head in a way that would press against that big bruise you have on your jaw. The last thing you recall is trying to massage your neck a little more so you can drift off again…
And suddenly, you’re sitting back up and the skies have clouded over significantly. “Whoa, how long’ve I been out?”
“Not too long. We just slowed down so some of them could switch cars again. Head’s good?”
“All better.” Thank God. Rubbing your eyes and stretching, you yawn. “Dude, was I snoring?”
“S’fine.” That means yes. And now that silly part of you is embarrassed at how snoring isn’t attractive; why should you care about looking attractive when you were asleep and not feeling well?
You open your water bottle to have a long gulp and look over to check the clock on the dash—until something else catches your eye. “Dude, your seat belt!”
“What?”
“You ain’t wearing it.” This whole drive? Of course he wouldn’t wear his seat belt, damned redneck tough guy who can’t be bothered. “Please don’t shrug it off, c’mon Daryl, your safety is still important even if the world’s ended. Heck, it’s especially important now.”
“Ain’t that big a deal…”
Well at least he has the decency to trail off. Ugh! “It is when you’re carefully pryin’ a dude out of his windshield and hoping he’ll live long enough to make it to the ER. When they don’t just get shot clean through it.”
“Did you…actually have to do that?” he asks. He didn’t ask it rudely, though, he seemed genuine.
But you don’t answer, because your answer shouldn’t matter. This is about his safety, bottom line. “C’mon, man, please put it on?”
He seems mildly annoyed but reaches over, yanks the seat belt, and clicks it. But then he shimmies out of the chest strap so he’s only in the lap belt. Of course.
“Daryl.” You breathe and try to calm yourself so you don’t sound too irritated. “A person can slide clean out of the lap belt if they don’t got on the chest strap, too.”
He curses under his breath a little as he loops his arm back under the chest strap. “Happy?”
“Very. I’m just glad you’re safer.”
“So were you gonna be a traffic cop or somethin’?”
“I look like a bootlicker to you?” You say this as a joke to ease the tension...
“Says the one who’s big brother and his best friend are cops, who pays a quarter per cuss, and who won’t litter even after the world’s gone to hell,” he tosses back.
“You’re still grumpy about that? Ditching trash anywhere is nasty, man.”
“We got damned zombies that smell like death and shit, who chow down on people. That’s nasty.”
“So why make the world even nastier?” you counter gently.
“It don’t fuckin’ matter, damn.” He sounds very annoyed at this point.
“It still matters, just like wearing a seat belt. We’re still alive, ain’t we?”
“Jesus,” he curses.
Oh no. Why did it have to be that one? That’s one of the top things that riles you up! “For the love of – please, don’t use that name that way, Daryl.”
“‘Jesus?’”
“It’s shitty to go around usin’ a deity as an expletive,” you explain through grit teeth. You’d tried to say it calmly, but like come on! It’s shitty to go around thoughtlessly (or purposefully!) using a deity as an expletive!
“Bet you also got a problem if I called T-Dog or Jacqui a ni—”
“—Don’t even finish that sentence, you piece of shit!”
Wellll, there goes your cool. Was he actually gonna say that word, though? Screw him, the goddamned stereotype!
“Fuckin’ naggy bitch,” he hisses, unbuckling and flinging off his seat belt as he says it.
Really? “You serious right now, Daryl? Just pull the fuck over, asshole!”
And he sure does, barking “Good! And you can get the hell out of my damned truck!” before that dickhead veers sharply and jolts the car to a stop.
—But because he wasn’t in his seat belt…you watch in disbelief as he gets thrown forward and smacks his head on the steering wheel right as you’re giving him the finger.
Well, shit.
And you’re too surprised (and quite frankly, satisfied) at this turn of events to do anything but gape for a few seconds.
In his own embarrassed shock, he shouts “Son of a bitch, we serious?” to no one in particular. Then he shoots his stare over at you, who are still frozen in place with your middle finger up as you just dumbly stare back like a deer in headlights.
“C’mon, put that shit down,” he says regarding your *ahem* very friendly gesture. Aw, now he’s covering up his face.
You blink and of course stop flipping him the bird. Then a very awkward, tense silence fills up the truck. Rick and Shane and T-Dog and Dale seem to be competing over the radios to ask the fastest if everything was okay, and why we were stopping the caravan, and to make sure that the windows were rolled up, etc.
And since you’d given the yellow walkie-talkie to the kids to borrow for the car ride, Carl and Sophia’s voices also join the chorus through your little green walkie. The pink walkie that had been Amy’s was still in your bag, turned off. You need to clean it, her, um…her blood is on it.
Tentatively, you whisper to Daryl “You ain’t...bleedin’ or nothing, right?”
“No.”
“Is the truck stalled?”
“Nah, switched gears.”
“Any dizziness or nausea? Pain into your neck?”
“…No.” You almost don’t hear the next part: “Except the one ridin' shotgun…”
And dammit, you suddenly find yourself trying not to laugh.
“Don’t,” he rasps back, his tone of voice betraying that he's also trying not to.
Letting your laughter spill out, you giggle, “Want me to tell them we’re okay, or do you?”
With a groan, he uses the grown-up radio to say “We’re good, it’s nothin’,” while you reply on the children’s radio to explain “We swerved and stopped to avoid hittin’ something.” You hate lying, but it’s not so bad in this instance, right?
“What were you gonna hit?” the kids ask, voices high with curiosity. Carol and your brother are in the background with the same question. Poop, now you gotta lie more.
“Might could’ve been a stray dog or a fox? But it’s all good, we missed it,” you answer smoothly, holding back another laugh.
And so, Daryl presses the gas and the caravan continues.
“Ain’t much further, I think,” he says quietly. And with a side glance at you, he clicks his seat belt back on. “Happy?” he grumbles.
Still trying not to grin too big, you just exhale and reply instead with “Hey, you never said what you wanted to do once we got there.”
“Because there prolly ain’t no one there. Or they won’t let us in.”
You take another deep breath. He’s probably right. “You wanna play Wii with me and Glenn?”
“What is that, though?”
“A Wii?”
“It’s like a game thing, right?”
“Yeah, it’s this, um, Nintendo thing and you wave around the controllers. Like if you play tennis, you gotta swing it like a racket. It’s fun.”
“That why they call it that?”
“Huh?” Oh wait, now you get it. “You mean like ‘whee, so fun!’ You know, I dunno why they call it that. It’s spelled w-i-i. But it is really fun.”
The silence settles between you two again, but less tense and awkward than before. It's comfortable, actually.
After a minute or so, he shrugs. “Guess I wouldn’t mind gettin’ wasted.” A pause. “Or are we only allowed to pick kid stuff?” he adds, to your annoyance.
You have to crack up again, though. “You realize Glenn and I ain’t too much younger than you.”
“M’sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, good,” you reply, sticking your tongue out at him in a purposefully childish way. And victory, that made him snort.
“But really, I’d be fine just gettin’ shitfaced and crashing somewhere where we don’t gotta worry about no geeks,” he says.
“Fair enough. What would you drink?”
“Alcohol.”
“So funny,” you monotone.
“Beer?” he clarifies. Barely.
“Oh, that reminds me – the root beer you gave me! Do you…want it back cause we got all huffy?”
“What? No.” He takes his eyes off the road to look at it back in his cup holder. “Did you…not want it?”
“I ain’t said that.”
“You also ain’t drank it.”
“Hey! We’ll use it as a mixer and share it once we get to the CDC. That sounds good, right?”
He shrugs again. Definitely reluctant to play along. “…What are we mixin’ the root beer with?”
You peer at him and try to figure out what he would mix in. And you draw a blank. “L-liquor…?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t drink, neither?”
“I just don’t like that spinny feelin’ you get if you have too much too fast, it feels too out of control,” you admit. “But I've had tequila a few times, it's delicious.”
“Tequila? Damn, Y/N.”
“Yes, I’m very cool, you should be impressed.”
He snorts lightly again, then continues to chat. “Root beer would go pretty good with SoCo, I guess.”
With what? “So-co?” Isn’t that slang for Southern California?
Daryl actually laughs out loud when you next say that, which makes you remember what it actually stands for, but dang it, he beats you to it. “Southern Comfort, it’s this spiced, sorta fruity tastin’ liquor. Southern California is So-Cal.”
“I know, I know!” you sputter, giggling despite yourself.
“Yeah, sure seems like it.”
Oh my gosh, this is fun! You're having fun! With Daryl Dixon, of all people! “You’re the one bein’ all fancy calling it SoCo like we're in a Starbucks.”
“Shut up,” he says, elbowing you. Yes, Daryl Dixon just elbowed you.
So, naturally you have to joke and elbow him back that “Oh my gosh, Daryl, are we becomin’ best friends?”
“Shut up.” It's cool, though, he's got a smile on.
“I’ll braid us some of them cute little bracelets—ooh, or anklets!”
“Stop.”
“Oh, please, I am delightful.” Ow, all this laughing is making your jaw hurt. You lightly press your fingertips to the bruise and pull down the sun visor so you can use the mirror on it to look at—oh, never mind, his doesn’t have a mirror on the passenger sun visor. New tactic, you use the side view mirror out the window even though it’s fairly overcast.
You still can’t believe you’d tried to beat up Ed Peletier. You still can’t believe that he’s dead now, either.
Him. Amy. Merle (most likely). All the others…and now Jim. Was it awful that you and Daryl were laughing just now? After everything that happened?
“It hurt?” Daryl cuts in.
“Nah, ain’t no big thing. Least it makes me look very cool and tough, right?” you brush it off, trying to sound as upbeat as you were a moment ago.
After an extra moment of silence, he grunts “He deserved it.”
Daryl might been trying to be kind, but you aren’t sure. “…I ain’t so keen on that word these days, to be honest,” you mumble quietly.
“What word?”
“‘Deserved…’”
“Why?”
“It don’t matter.” Best change the subject. “Man, are you as hungry as I am right now?”
“Damned starvin’,” he agrees. “Could eat a whole—oh shit, look.”
“What is it?”
“Sign for Emory University.” He adjusts himself and sits more upright. “Rick and your brother said once we saw them signs, we’d be close.”
“Shoot, really?”
“You nervous?” Daryl checks.
“You ain’t?” Even the skies looked ominous. There's a storm coming in, no doubts about it. Gray skies, wind picking up, and the sun was almost set…
“We’ll be fine,” he decides, and a quiet settles again.
Road Closed Ahead signs were showing up. Detour signs. You almost don’t hear it when Daryl says “So long as they got SoCo and that thing, right?”
That thing? What thing? Oh, did he mean: “A Wii?”
“Yeah, that thing. So long as they got SoCo and a Wii.”
“And maybe some sketti, like a whole batch of it. Hopefully with meatballs and lots of cheese.”
“Sketti?”
“Psht, as if you don’t call spaghetti ‘sketti,’ you’re from even deeper into the mountains than I am, mangy hick.”
“Dunno,” he grunts, “I say ‘spaghetti.’”
You have to shake your head. And your smile is bigger than you thought you’d be able to make after the past couple of days and with the looming dread pooling in your stomach. “Southern Comfort, a Wii, and a big bowl of spaghetti,” you echo.
“Hell yeah. Southern Comfort, a Wii, and a big bowl of spaghetti.”
And there it was up ahead. The CDC.
The caravan pulls over and the vehicles are shut off one by one. Everyone leaves their things in the car, minus their weapons. Those you all keep with you and have primed and ready.
Because why the fuck are there so many dead bodies in front of it?