Title: his brains, her steel, their strength

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Rating: T

Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

Summary: Daryl hadn't been very impressed with her, at first: a tiny little blonde who maybe came up to his chin. Had to be pure luck she'd even survived long enough to be found. 2100 words.

Spoilers: Post-Chosen; set between seasons 3/4 of Walking Dead.

Notes: Originally posted elsewhere Dec 9, 2013. For avamclean, for Day 4 in Wishlist 2013, for the prompt: "Buffy Summers + Daryl Dixon; neither is particularly impressed with the other until their first run together." Title, and certain internal quotes, from The Princess Bride.

Daryl hadn't been very impressed with her, at first. A tiny little blonde who maybe came up to his chin, Buffy Summers couldn't have weighed more'n a hundred pounds even before the end of the world. Had to be pure luck she'd even survived long enough to be found; hadn't even had a gun when they'd found her, just a shiny axe-thing slung on her back, looked too heavy for her to actually use.

It wasn't like before, when they were so few that every last one of 'em was important to the group's survival. They had enough warm bodies after swallowing what was left of Woodbury that another straggler more or less didn't have much impact on Daryl's daily routine. Unless they volunteered to join one of his runs- and with a build like hers, Daryl didn't figure she'd be one of 'em- the only time he ever saw most of the new folk was at meals. No use letting himself get attached, 'specially when she didn't seem very impressed by him, neither.

It wasn't that she was rude to him, exactly; she just watched him suspiciously whenever he was around. And not like Carol had, back in the beginning, shy of every man younger than Dale and older than Carl. Buffy watched him like she was waiting for him in particular to let her down- like he reminded her of someone, maybe, but came up short of bein' a comfort.

But what should he care that one stuck-up woman wouldn't give him the time of day? He got more'n enough admiration as it was: kids calling him 'sir', women blushing when he spoke to 'em, men asking him to teach them his skills. He'd never been praised so much in his life.

So he was mighty surprised when she showed up by the gates five days after the scout patrol brought her in, standing next to the green Tucson as if her presence was part of the plan all along.

"What the hell you doin' here?" Daryl scowled at her, taking in the borrowed elbow pads strapped on over her long-sleeved, floral print tee and the rolled-up hems of the cargo pants she sure hadn't owned when she'd arrived. Someone had known she was going to volunteer for this. So why had they left it to him to talk her out of it?

"You ain't hardly been here a week. Has Doc S even cleared you for fence duty yet?"

Buffy tilted her chin, staring him down with cool green eyes. Least that was one thing she didn't lack: courage. "He says I'm too underweight. But that's not going to change if I sit around on my ass all day. To gain weight, I'd have to eat at least as much as you do- maybe you and Grimes put together- and I wouldn't feel right taking that much if I don't earn it."

He frowned at her, wondering if that was true; wondering, too, if she'd been part of some larger group before and been kicked loose for that very reason.

"That some kind of medical condition?" he asked. "Don't that make you more of a risk out there? Thought Carol had some other job in mind for you, anyway."

Her scowl deepened, and she crossed her arms over her chest. Not that there was much to cross over: she was built light and slim, maybe a hand taller than the older Samuels girl and not much bigger in the bust. For all that, though, she was definitely all woman; made him feel as awkward as the rare occasions he quarreled with Carol. He'd done a lot of fighting and fleeing since the geeks took over, but not near enough feeding and even less fucking; times like this, he was uncomfortably aware of that fact.

"It's not a condition, it's... call it a metabolism thing," she replied, shifting her stance. "Look- just wait to judge me 'til after you see me fight, OK? I'm a lot better at that than I am at cooking, or gardening, or patching people up, or babysitting the littles. Trust me. I can do those things, I'm not asking for special treatment, it's just... I'm really not the homemaker-y type. This is a much better use of my time. One hundred percent fewer crying kids."

He scowled as he eyed her up and down. She did have a fighter's posture, balanced and ready, and that was more spirit than he'd seen from her since her arrival. If only she weren't so damned tiny.

"So you say," he replied gruffly.

"Look, you want me to arm wrestle you, or something?" she asked. "Because I will, but it's only going to embarrass one of us, and it won't be me."

Daryl supposed she could know some kind of kung fu shit. Whatever; she had that Cali accent, and who knew what trendy so-called sports she'd begged her parents to enroll her in. "All right," he said, grudgingly. "Take a seat in the back. But if you get yourself bit out there..."

"Do you let people tell you how to use that bow?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Do you always try and piss people off before you prove yourself to 'em?" He raised an eyebrow back, waiting until she finally looked away, then turned to greet Glenn and Maggie as they arrived. "Looks like Buffy's joinin' us today. Sasha still comin'?"

"Right behind us," Maggie nodded, waving the shopping list she'd collected from her dad. "She's on her way back from the fence; she went to take some water to Tyrese and Karen."

"Then let's finish loading up. Soon as she gets here, we're gone."

Their target that day was a run-down knot of stores in a nearby smallish town. Place had boasted maybe ten or fifteen thousand folks before the end; more than one stop light, but only one Kroger's, one Wal-Mart, a handful of fast food joints and gas stations. Those had all been picked clean or swarmed, but down at the other end of town the old main street strip was almost intact, glass still unbroke in most of the storefronts and not much debris in the streets.

Could've been overlooked; was at least a place to start. They parked the car and bike a short distance away, far enough that any geeks drawn to the engine sounds wouldn't swarm the group when they came back out of the stores, then moved in on foot.

The stores were small enough, and there were enough of them, that he reluctantly decided to split them into two teams. Daryl trusted Sasha with Glenn and Maggie- the Korean and the farm girl had got real paranoid about watching each other's backs since the mess with the Governor- so that meant keeping Buffy with him. She didn't seem happy about the division- she tightened her jaw as he gestured her to follow his lead- but she did do as he asked, trailing behind without a word.

Better yet, she automatically turned to face the street as he stepped up to the first door and knocked on the glass; and her footsteps were pretty damn quiet. At least she had good instincts.

"Done much of this, then?" he drawled.

"Enough," she replied with a shrug.

"Fond of that word, ain't you." He'd heard about the answers she gave to the Three Questions.

"It was enough for your Council," she shrugged, then grimaced as a rattling moan came from inside.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't there." Daryl frowned, reaching out to test the doorknob. Still locked; which probably meant the thing inside used to be the proprietor. He looked up at the sign painted on the big plate glass front window- "Hardware & Gifts"- and wondered whether the place had had a hunting section. That would be a real treasure trove.

"Grill me later," she said, then reached out to brush his hand aside and set her own hand on the knob.

She twisted hard- and the lock broke free with a snap that had Daryl eyeing her again with a little more appreciation.

"Kung fu, huh."

"Something like that." Buffy grinned tightly, then glanced back to cover the street as he kicked the door open, knocking the geek behind it flat on its back.

It was one of the original infected, sure enough; pretty rotted after a year, flesh fallin' off and movin' like it was walking through molasses. One stomp took care of its head, and he waved her in after him, shutting the door to prevent any surprises while they scoped out the merchandise. It didn't look like anyone had been in there since the evacuations; there were a lot of gaps on the shelves where things like flashlights and water jugs sold out when the news started getting crazy, but the looters must've stayed down the other end of town. Place was damn near pristine.

"Does this count as later?" he asked, inching forward to sweep his crossbow into the space behind the register, then stalking over to peer down the first few half-height aisles for crawlers.

She huffed a breath, shiny axe unsheathed in her hands, borrowed six-shooter holstered at her hip. "It's not like I kept count, you know."

"Ballpark, then," he drawled, inching further back in the store. If there was another walker in there, it would probably be in the office area, or the storeroom. "C'mon. Humor me."

Only two reasons people wouldn't know how many walkers they'd killed: if they thought the number was too low to respect or too high to believe. Like askin' someone how many people they'd slept with; people were always afraid of bein' judged for their answer. He had no mud to sling on that score. But walkers: that was a life and death matter, unlike the other.

She hesitated, pausing between aisles to glance back at him with narrowed eyes. "And if you don't like what I say? You going to leave me here? Or blackmail me- hold it over my head with the others?"

"Woman, do I look like I give a damn how high your number is?" He rolled his eyes. "I just don't like bein' lied to. I want to know I can count on you to watch our backs when the chips are down, is all."

"Oh, is that all?" he thought he heard her mutter, but she'd turned away, pulling a flashlight off her belt to shine into one of the shadowed back corners.

"You say somethin'?" He cleared his throat pointedly.

"Nothing, it's just- I really don't know, okay?" Her voice rose in frustration. "One, a dozen, a herd? Does it really matter? I killed every one I could, and I told your friends it was 'enough', but it really, really wasn't. They ate my best friend. They turned my mentor. And I haven't seen my little sister since..." She shuddered.

Daryl stared at her, distracted by her explanation- a herd?- then staggered backward, caught off guard as something knocked over a stack of cans right in front of him. He barely avoided the snapping jaws of a half-decayed stocker that had crawled through the half-open door to the storeroom, crossbow clattering out of his hands to skitter across the floor.

"Shit," he gasped, scrabbling backwards after it. "Summers..."

For half a second, his life flashed in front of his eyes- and then the axe he'd been so sure was too much for her little hands swept in a high, fast arc, and half the geek's head spun across the floor in front of him, trailing gore.

How the hell had she moved that fast? Daryl upped his assessment another notch as Buffy gave him a quick onceover, then kicked the corpse away from him.

"Plus one?" she shrugged, holding out a hand.

"Right," he said thoughtfully, staring up the length of her body.

Then he swept his knife off his belt and threw, catching the second stocker through the eye just before it could fasten its teeth in her shoulder. "Don't let it go to your head, though; you're not alone anymore. Don't get too distracted."

Buffy flinched, then rolled her eyes. "Take your own advice. You're a better guy than I thought; I'd hate to have to kill you."

"You're tougher'n I thought; I'd hate to have to die." Daryl finished the mangled quote, smirking back as she pulled him to his feet. "Let's just finish sweepin' the store, all right?"

This time, she settled in at his side as though that was exactly where she belonged.

-x-