Birdie trampled behind Daryl in the woods, her gaze set on the forest ground beneath her. Honestly, she didn't expect him to let her go with him, since he was so adamant on disliking her. Nonetheless, it seemed like it had been easy for Rick to agree, or else, Daryl wouldn't have even acknowledged her at all if Rick had said No.

Birdie didn't even know why Daryl listened to Rick. It wasn't like he was his dad or something. Birdie didn't like to listen to people unless they were her dad, because anyone else was dangerous and bad. At least, that was what he said. And she trusted him, obviously, he was her father.

All she was doing, though, was walking with Daryl so she could find their car and her knife, and then, she would run away—far, far away from Daryl and the Goon Squad.

Really, Birdie didn't want to be anywhere near them. All she wanted was her dad. She couldn't deny that there was a slight ache without him—a hollow feeling in her chest. Like it had been ripped open and the cold decided to set camp in there.

If Vincent was here, he would take all the blankets in the world and cover up that cold, shivering place, because he would do anything to keep her safe. Birdie could practically hear his voice in her head as she thought that, and it brought a feeling of comfort in her chest.

Daryl glanced at her for a moment, gaze searching her face. "So," he started, a slight curiosity to his gaze. "What's your name, kid?"

Birdie didn't answer and completely ignored him, looking down at her boots as the grass moved along with her own actions. She flicked her eyes up for a second, telling Daryl that she'd listened to him, but she didn't answer him then, either, just minded her own business.

Daryl stared down at her for a moment, obviously annoyed at her attitude. She was like a little fireball that he wanted to set on fire. He didn't know why, but she sort of unnerved him to some extent. He wasn't even keen on letting her go with him, but Rick said she needed to trust them, and he was too tired to argue with him, so Daryl had to just suck it up.

The thing was that he didn't even know her name. And she didn't seem to talk much, either. She knew sign language, at least, he thought so since she'd done something with her hands earlier. That could be the only answer.

Daryl wondered if she was mute.

"You mute?" He suddenly asked, the question slipping out of his mouth before he could even fully process the thought.

Finally, Birdie stared up at him with her big, brown eyes. Fierce, sharp, and calculating as always. However, this time, the soft shake of her head didn't go unnoticed, and Daryl felt a strange sense of pride at the fact that she had answered him.

It felt weird to feel accomplished, especially when a kid gave him that feeling, but he still hummed, nonetheless, and acted as if it didn't affect him at all.

After that, the silence between them became a much more comfortable one. Not so much tension, just two people who'd gotten a bit more understanding of each other as they walked in the forest.

The woods stretched on aimlessly, the only sound being the crickets, andBirdie and Daryl's footsteps.

Every few seconds, Birdie would catch Daryl turn his head to the side or sharpen his eyes, narrowing them, like he was trying to catch something that wasn't there. A sound or a glimpse of something. Vincent always used to do that, too, but he always told her what he was doing. Daryl didn't, he just did and she followed. She wasn't sure why that was, either, but probably because she was weaponless.

Eventually, they stumbled onto a clearing with a house that looked abandoned and almost rotting. Birdie unconsciously stepped closer to Daryl as they both approached it with cautious and quiet steps.

Birdie placed her foot on the porch steps, feeling the wood creak and shift beneath her. The house was worn, paint ripping off and, instead, was replaced by dirt and mold.

"Close," Daryl muttered, glancing back at Birdie before bringing his foot up and, with a force of his toes, the door banged open.

He held his crossbow up as he stepped into the house, wood creaking under his and Birdie's footsteps. She turned a corner to see a room—the curtain was ripped off the top of the window and the chair's fabric was ripped, collecting dust.

"Hey," the quiet voice of Daryl caused Birdie to turn around. He shook his head at her and raised his eyebrows. "What'd I say?"

She tilted her head and shrugged, even though, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Close," he repeated his earlier words, moving forward and across the hall once again, glancing back to check if Birdie was following him. A strange sense of relief filled him when he realised that she was.

As they checked out an empty room, the window was wide open, letting the cool breeze in, however, another sound took their attention. A knocking on the second-floor was heard, causing both Birdie and Daryl to momentarily stop, glancing up the stairs.

Birdie stepped forward, her curiosity blooming inside of her. She wanted to know what was up there—a walker or just a window. However, the moment her foot stepped on the worn wood, a hand latched onto her shoulder and pulled her back, causing her to almost stumble.

She turned her head around quickly, glaring up at Daryl. He sighed irritatedly and closed his eyes, before redirecting himself to what looked like a kitchen. He was starting to regret letting Birdie come along—she was proving to be quite the annoying company.

Birdie hated that every step she took caused the wood under to creak. She hated things that made sounds that they weren't supposed to make. That was why she hated babies—they cried too much and blabbered. She was once a baby, but that was different. Her momma said that she was a quiet baby, so Birdie was glad about that.

She looked out the window, staring at the trees that ruffled against the wind and the small, barely noticeable clouds that flew overhead. She looked back to see Daryl holding something that looked like a tuna-can. She cringed. Birdie hated tuna. She crunched her face up even more when Daryl sniffed it and turned it down, letting the leftover container water drip down and into the trash can.

Suddenly, he looked up, eyes wide and face stoic—much like that deer she saw, that had those big eyes and ears flat against its head. Birdie noticed how focused Daryl looked, just like how that deer did.

He looked back at her and put his hand up, signalling her to stay put. She didn't nod or say anything, just turned around fully to see what he was about to do, watching him intently as he took cautious steps toward the small, open wooden door, his crossbow at the ready.

Her anticipation roared in her ears with every step Daryl took closer to the closest. It was like watching The Shining again, but in a world that was dead.

When Daryl opened it fully, Birdie froze slightly, expecting a walker to come out and attack them. But there was no one there. Just a whole lotta space and cans of food; empty and not.

Though, she noticed something that was at the bottom of the pantry—there was a blanket and a pillow, as if someone had camped in there. Had been living there. Living in a pantry.

She also noticed how Daryl hesitated, how his whole demeanour seemed to shift, flickering between relief and something she couldn't quite place her finger on. He looked conflicted, a thousand emotions plastered on his face, eyes distant.

She wondered if this was about the girl. Sophia—the one he'd been trying to find. That was why he was here, after all, and Birdie was only along for the ride. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less, so she shouldn't care. She didn't.

She was right, of course, because as she followed Daryl's hurried steps outside, she flinched back when he yelled out loud.

"Sophia!"

It wasn't that loud noises annoyed her, but it was unexpected of Daryl to yell loudly in a field where any walker—or walkers—could stumble upon them unexpectedly.

Still, there was no response.

Birdie watched as Daryl made his way toward the grass, kneeling down to look at something that caught his utmost attention. It was a Cherokee Rose. She knew that because her grandma used to be obsessed with all kinds of flowers and had a farm of them.

She stood beside Daryl, leaning in closer to look at the Rose. Her fingers inched closer to it before her fingers attached with the stem of the flower, and she plucked it out, now holding it in her hand.

She smiled down at it, admiring how beautiful it was. Something so bright, so colourful, with such a great smell, was still alive in this so dead, so hopeless world. Even when the world was dead, some things managed to stay uproot, and that was what impressed Birdie the most.

"Come on," Daryl said, adjusting his crossbow that was across his shoulder, grunting as he stood up. "Let's go."

Without another word, Birdie followed right after him.

𓅃

They did not find her dad's car.

Even after multiple strides through the forest, and Birdie claiming that she knew the way, the car would just not show itself. Like it was hiding and didn't want to be found.

It angered Birdie. Everything was in that car. Family albums, jackets, clothes, her dad's watch, her sisters hairbrush and glasses. Her dad. Everything. And she couldn't even find it.

Now, she wished she'd learned hunting.

And, not to mention, she was even more weaponless now, and completely miserable. That knife was Sandy's knife, it had her initials on it, and Birdie wanted to have it really bad. It was the only thing she had left of her sister.

Now, though, she had nothing from her family at all. Only memories.

At some point, darkness seemed to sweep in and began to brush the sunlight away. Daryl had grumbled and told her that they needed ta go 'fore they get eaten, and all Birdie did was sign Fuck you before following after him.

She didn't want to, but she had to. She had no place else to stay, and if that meant staying with an annoying ass redneck who did nothing but scowl and be grumpy all the time, so be it. She'll live and search as long as she was alive, because she needed her dad. Her dad needed her.

They both stayed quiet for the remainder of the walk. Only their footsteps against the Earth the only sound evident.

Daryl glanced down at Birdie, watching her saddened gaze focus on the ground. Well, her eyes were narrowed, too, and her eyebrows were furrowed. She was angry and sad.

He felt kind of bad for her. She spent so much time trying to find her car, even though, someone might've up took it and drove away with it, probably thinking it was for free or something. In fact, Daryl was surprised she had even survived this long.

She was incredibly vicious and loud when he'd spotted her the first time, he'd heard her movements the moment she began walking towards them, way before the walker decided to feed on her. Or almost. Thanks to him.

He would pull out a smug remark right about now, since it always made her mad, but he couldn't help but stay quiet. She looked so conflicted, the hope in her face was slipping away, and that made him feel bad.

He thought about their similar situations. And Merle. He didn't think Merle was alive anymore, either. Hell, his hand had been cut off. Even if that slither of hope ran its way through his chest, the chant of Gone, gone, gone in his mind didn't wither away.

They both were losing hope.

The more they got closer to the farm, the more Daryl started to waver. He'd have to face Carol now, and tell her that he couldn't find Sophia—again.

He had no idea why, but he felt like a failure every time he said those words. He knew that kid owed him nothing, and that he had no real obligation to find her, but she was a kid, with a mother who'd just lost everything.

Again, he could relate.

The sun was close to setting by the time they made it, and Daryl nudged Birdie, "Hey. Go play in the grass or somethin'. Gotta go," he said, as if he needed to excuse himself away from her—he didn't—before he scurried away to the RV.

Birdie watched him go, looking down at the Cherokee Rose in her hand. Her momma's mother always used to show her collections of flowers and the dirt they best grew up in.

Cherokee Roses were actually named Rosa laevigata in Latin, and were quite rare. Flowers were quite rare in a world like this, after all. But things still seemed to bloom in the most unexpected places, sparking a slight silver of hope in people's hearts.

Even though, they couldn't find her dad's car, Birdie still had hope. She did at least try to. It was hard to have hope when you have strong expectations and they keep getting crushed over and over and over again.

Oddly, though, she was grateful that Daryl had tried, even if he looked irritated doing it. She did drag him to every turn, silently telling him that she knew the way. But every time she turned, she didn't recognize the place, so they just kept making circles.

They were both lucky that Daryl knew the way back to the farm.

She heard footsteps beside her and looked up to see Daryl settling into the ground beside her, elbows on his slightly outstretched knees. They didn't speak for a minute before he looked down at her, "Ya know the story behind that?" He asked, nodding down at the Cherokee Rose.

Birdie frowned, following his eyes, trying to think of any times that Grandma had told her about this specific Rose. When she couldn't think of any, she looked up at Daryl and shook her head.

With that, he adjusted himself. "Well, the story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way, from exposure and disease."

Birdie frowned, thinking about Carol. How, with a few—or a lot—of tweaks, her situation was relatable.

"A lot of 'em just disappeared. So, the elders, they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirts, give 'em strength. And hope."

With an idea, Birdie abruptly lifted off the ground, Cherokee Rose in hand, and clambered inside the RV, going further in until she saw Carol, who was sitting on the couch, knitting a sweater. Probably for Sophia.

"Kid," Daryl called after her, climbing into the RV after her, trying to figure out what she was so excited about.

He made eye contact with Carol as they both watched Birdie grab a water bottle and open it, placing the Cherokee Rose in, and then she grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling on it.

Carol leaned in forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what she was doing. But Birdie glanced at her and got in her way, which only made the woman smile slightly and sit back down.

Daryl was amused by this, though. He watched as Birdie scribbled on the paper, probably having difficulty writing. She was a kid, after all, maybe six or seven, in the first grade, and she probably didn't even know how to spell her own name.

Then, Birdie picked the water bottle with the Rose in it, and the piece of paper, and handed both to Carol.

CHEROKEE ROSS.
FOR HOPE.
BIRDIE.

Carol ignored the way Birdie had spelled Rose wrong, and instead, focused on the name below. She looked up at her with raised eyebrows. "Is that your name, sweetie?"

With a single nod, Birdie lifted her sleeve up to show them her messily-written name. Birdie.

"It's beautiful," Carol smiled, her eyes sparking with emotion, looking down at Birdie with so much sadness and longing.

Birdie looked down, not wanting to see those hurt eyes anymore, so she backed away, and turned to look at Daryl. Thank you, she signed, even though, she knew he didn't know sign language.

Before he could ask, she sidestepped him to head to the entrance of the RV. However, she didn't miss the small murmur of Carol saying, "She said thank you," as she hopped down the steps.

Oh, damn it.

•

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
very short chapter 'cause my motivation has been lacking real, real bad it is scary.

anyhowwww!! finally a birdie and daryl moment <3 i love these two with my whole SOUL even if they are complicated as ever, they always find their way back to each other and i love them 😭😭😭