"I'm not gonna keep that from you." This, glancing up at him, the scruff at his jaw and the curtain of hair that hangs perpetually in his face. Her gaze is steady, penetrating; Daryl has to realize he's got a right to know what Hershel's aware of, and what he isn't, when it comes to him. And if he didn't before, at least he'll have an inkling now.
"He knows you're a hunter. A friend of mine, and of his daddy's. That -" There's a pause, and then she starts again. "That after the prison, you took care of Beth. And if he needs something and he can't find me, he can ask you. Just the things that matter."
Daryl thinks of who he was when they met, of the things he did on her farm, the things he said in the prison. He hasn't thought of that in years, until she came back, and now everything is new and fresh in a way he can't really prepare himself for. Her trust and honesty pierces his heart, and he studies the ground as though it will offer up his answers.
It doesn't, it never does, but it gives him time to regroup.
"Thanks," he says, voice barely audible over gravel and wheel. "Jude's been telling him stories. I dunno who's been teaching 'em poker."
The people they were on her father's farm might as well be strangers now. She can still see shadows of them in the faces of their people, but she's a long way from wasting chickens on dead family and friends; how much can any of them really still have in common with those men and women, with their fresh memories of the world that was?
And Daryl's changed more than most of them - or, if not changed, allowed himself to be someone Maggie doubts he'd revealed to the old world. He's gotten less angry, somehow, even as she's gotten more. They've each learned to pick their battles, mostly.
"Hell if I know. But if it'll help 'em with their arithmetic, I say let them play." Maggie snorts, looking ahead toward the treeline again. "What kind of stories does Judith ask for?"
"Her daddy," Daryl says, and his voice nearly fails to crack. Some things don't heal, they just grow cold, and whispering over them breaks the ice every time. "Carl. Things Michonne wouldn't tell her."
She is quintessentially a normal child, as far as Daryl can tell. It never ceases to amaze him.
"And Maggie stories," he murmurs, his voice turning from wounded to calm. This is safer, more comfortable. "Hershel's been fielding those. Think he likes the attention."
Everything any child would want to know, given the opportunity. She's fielded her share of questions about Glenn, remembers Beth asking endless questions when she'd gotten old enough to understand that she and Maggie only shared a father, not a mother. Curiosity is inevitable, particularly these days, when everyone's family tree features lopped-off branches and battered trunks.
Still, it's hard to think of Judith growing up without her brother, or her parents. There are questions she'll have that no one would've been able to answer but Rick, the same way Hershel's wanted to know things only Glenn could have explained to him. It's the way the world is, but that doesn't make it fair.
"Tell me if he tells any whoppers," she says, trying to put some humor into her voice. Judith'll tell Daryl, if anything that impressive catches her attention - Maggie'd put a bet on that. "I wanna hear what kind of tall tales he's coming up with."
Her laugh is rough and fond. "If I'm the best shot in Georgia, it's because you moved to Virginia."
It's hard to imagine Judith swallowing that one hook, line, and sinker. She's undoubtedly seen more of Daryl's ability than Hershel - though he's a partisan enough kid that watching Daryl shoot a squirrel from ten yards might not convince him his momma isn't the better shot.
"If I hear anything coming the other way, I'll tell you." It's a given that Judith's going to have her own larger than life impressions of all the adults in her life.
"Don't bother me none," Daryl says, and his voice finds that same groove, fond and nostalgic all at once. Were things simpler back then, or has time just moved on without them, with no regard for their memories?
"He's tryin' to impress his new friends. I used to do the same shit."
It's difficult to imagine Daryl as a kid, even knowing he had to have been one - and even having seen, to some extent, what he might've been like before walkers. That he hasn't always been the rope-muscled man pushing her and a buck along without so much as a stutter feels wrong. But that's likely by design.
"I don't want him talking shit to other kids to make himself feel important." But she doesn't sound particularly bothered by it, just a little less than impressed. Hershel's got to learn his own lessons, and if he figures this one out at six, that's better than waiting until he's a grown man. "What'd you used to tell the kids you knew?"
Daryl smiles, and if he turns his head to the side, it almost looks like he's just grimacing at the sun's glare. But he's thinking of little Hershel, talking faster than either of his parents, and wondering if that makes him take after Beth.
It makes thinking of Daryl's own youth a little easier. He hesitates, but only slightly. "Y'know Merle was in the marines? That ain't a story." He doesn't bring up the dishonorable discharge. In this moment of fond remembrance, it feels like a betrayal. "But the way I told it, he was a damn GI Joe."
Maggie can guess about the dishonorable discharge. She doesn't ask about it, or about anything else that might touch this particular anecdote too closely. Those are his stories to tell, and they aren't in the rotation of Things Daryl Dixon Talks About, at least not normally. Until he brings them up, they're off-limits.
Instead, she just observes. "Sounds like you were proud of him."
He shouldn't have brought Merle up around Maggie. He remembers what Merle helped the Governor do, or not do. He's never been clear on what, exactly, went down in that little room, but he's always figured Glenn's feelings on the matter were justified.
And Maggie always treated her anger like a private promise, something that was true and clear and not to be brandished lightly.
Best change the subject.
"And your boy's proud of you. It's coming out his damn ears."
"It's hard-won," she admits, letting the subject of Merle go past. She's not sure she'll never forgive the man for the things he did, but she's also not sure it'll ever matter: he's dead. And whoever Merle was to his brother, however hard and however cruel, it's clear enough that everyone else around them was worse. Something had to make Daryl cling to him so long and so firmly. "We've been all right, but there've been some tough times. If he still thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread, that's as much him as me."
Hershel hasn't had the childhood she would've chosen for him - but despite everything, he's had a childhood. That's what matters most.
"He's sweet," Daryl says, and as he says it he realizes it's what he's trying to articulate all along. Conversations wind around him sometimes; he was never good with people. That was another skill of Merle's, one Daryl never tried to touch. He'll have something to say, but unless it's crystal clear in his mind, he doesn't know how to get it out.
He's got it now, though. Maggie has a strangely clarifying effect on him.
"I wasn't sweet, at his age, and I had it easier'n him."
"So did I," she says, dryly, "and I could be a real little asshole."
More when she was older, admittedly, when all the fury she'd felt as a little girl soured into something messy and mean. Her teenage rebellion probably had nothing on Daryl's, but it had happened, and she'd been lucky she hadn't ended up in a police station for some of the shit she'd pulled.
"Maybe the hardship's part of it. I don't try to hide the truth from him, but there's days when I wish I didn't have to tell him as much as I do. And he knows things aren't always easy, but that we do them because it's what keeps us going." Eating horse, eating spiders. He doesn't complain, because there's no alternative. She sighs. "But when he's a little older, who knows? I hope he's still sweet."
Daryl tilts his head to the side, trying to picture Maggie with Hershel's sweetness, or Hershel with Maggie's raw unfettered power. One is easier than the other.
"He will." Daryl's sure of it, though he doesn't say why. Glenn did, up until the very end. His last words still rattle around in Daryl's mind; he imagines they do for Maggie, too.
It's in this reverie that Daryl doesn't see a stone in the road. The wheelbarrow lurches to its side, and Daryl trips, landing badly on his ankle. He lets out a low hiss, the only sound he'll allow himself to express pain.
"Sorry," he manages for Maggie, spilled out on the road. He can't tell if the deer fell off on top of her. "Shit."
Maggie might have answered, but then she's drawing in a sharp gasp as she tumbles from the wheelbarrow. Her forearm scrapes pavement, but it's nothing compared to the fact that Daryl's fallen. The sound he makes is concerning, if only because she doubts he's in the habit of making noise unless he's really hurt himself.
"I knew I shouldn't've let you carry me." For the moment, she forgets the deer, coming over to where Daryl's sprawled. They'll get the carcass once she knows he's all right. "What hurts?"
There's no question of whether he'll tell her or not, only how stubborn he'll be while she waits for him to respond. This is Maggie as she's been for the last six years: leader, mother, asker of questions without a shade of doubt whether she'll receive the answers.
Daryl knows how to stand on a rolled ankle, knows how to hide the pain of it. His mouth is set in a thin line, but that's nothing new on his face. His back is straight. His steps are even, if carefully measured. "M'fine," he murmurs. "Got distracted."
He never gets distracted, being distracted is dying, in or outside walls. Why did he slip up? The dark bruise of his emotions hurts worse, for a moment, than his ankle, until he takes another step and remembers. His shoulders become tense, but Maggie isn't Carol. She can't read him that well, can she?
He doesn't stop to wonder why he's hiding. It's all instinct.
"Come on, Daryl." Don't give me that shit, is what she means.
Since he's trying to play it cool, though, she turns her attention to the wheelbarrow. The buck's only half-out of it, and she can heave it the rest of the way back in.
"He needs a new traveling companion," she says, nodding at the deer. "Looks like it's your turn to keep him company."
"You ain't pushing me," he murmurs. It'd come out a lot less weak, a lot more angry, if he wasn't talking to Maggie. She is in a select group of people who have seen enough of his pointless, fledgling wrath. In Maggie's shadow, though, he ends up feeling defeated before the fight's even begun.
(He knows what Beth would say, can almost hear her-- stop being an asshole!)
But decades of instinct well up against his own common sense, gumming the works. He takes a few more steps, ignoring the pain, and checks over the deer. "Ain't slowing you down."
"No, you're not," she agrees, and though she doesn't smile, something in her gaze softens at the edges. Maybe it's a matter of pride, continuing on like this. She certainly couldn't blame him for it - no one wants to hear they're infirm these days, herself included. "But if you keep walking on that ankle, you might. C'mon, hop in."
Beth would yell. Carol would make demands. Rosita would call him a name in Spanish, and Tara would call him a name in English. All of them would get the cold shoulder as he stumbled his way back.
Maggie appeals to the cool logic of survival, and he doesn't have a chance but to respond to that. He heaves a sigh, and sits awkwardly on the deer in the wheelbarrow.
"Just rolled it." If he sounds miserable, don't worry, he hates it, too.
"Then you'll be back on your feet in no time." She pats his shoulder once he's in there, friendly but uncompromising, and grabs the wheelbarrow handles.
It's a hell of a weight, she won't deny that. With all his muscle, Daryl's probably closer to the weight of the deer as he is to her. But he looks bound and determined to turn a rolled ankle into something worse, and if she can stop him from it, it'll be worth the sweat. With a grunt, she gets it moving, and they go on.
He feels like a child, one far dumber and more feeble than he was ever allowed to be. He keeps expecting mockery, and none come. Squinting through the sun-- or just not wanting to let feeling reach his expression-- he looks up at her. "You can tell this story." Lower the kid's expectations a little.
Maggie smiles, shaking her head. She's not about to embarrass him in front of Hershel - not without a better reason, anyway. "We'll tell him his Uncle Daryl pushed me for a while, and then I returned the favour."
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"He knows you're a hunter. A friend of mine, and of his daddy's. That -" There's a pause, and then she starts again. "That after the prison, you took care of Beth. And if he needs something and he can't find me, he can ask you. Just the things that matter."
And none of the things that don't.
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It doesn't, it never does, but it gives him time to regroup.
"Thanks," he says, voice barely audible over gravel and wheel. "Jude's been telling him stories. I dunno who's been teaching 'em poker."
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And Daryl's changed more than most of them - or, if not changed, allowed himself to be someone Maggie doubts he'd revealed to the old world. He's gotten less angry, somehow, even as she's gotten more. They've each learned to pick their battles, mostly.
"Hell if I know. But if it'll help 'em with their arithmetic, I say let them play." Maggie snorts, looking ahead toward the treeline again. "What kind of stories does Judith ask for?"
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She is quintessentially a normal child, as far as Daryl can tell. It never ceases to amaze him.
"And Maggie stories," he murmurs, his voice turning from wounded to calm. This is safer, more comfortable. "Hershel's been fielding those. Think he likes the attention."
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Still, it's hard to think of Judith growing up without her brother, or her parents. There are questions she'll have that no one would've been able to answer but Rick, the same way Hershel's wanted to know things only Glenn could have explained to him. It's the way the world is, but that doesn't make it fair.
"Tell me if he tells any whoppers," she says, trying to put some humor into her voice. Judith'll tell Daryl, if anything that impressive catches her attention - Maggie'd put a bet on that. "I wanna hear what kind of tall tales he's coming up with."
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He'd found this one particularly funny.
"You and Rick made all the decisions in the prison. Thought you ought'a know."
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It's hard to imagine Judith swallowing that one hook, line, and sinker. She's undoubtedly seen more of Daryl's ability than Hershel - though he's a partisan enough kid that watching Daryl shoot a squirrel from ten yards might not convince him his momma isn't the better shot.
"If I hear anything coming the other way, I'll tell you." It's a given that Judith's going to have her own larger than life impressions of all the adults in her life.
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"He's tryin' to impress his new friends. I used to do the same shit."
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"I don't want him talking shit to other kids to make himself feel important." But she doesn't sound particularly bothered by it, just a little less than impressed. Hershel's got to learn his own lessons, and if he figures this one out at six, that's better than waiting until he's a grown man. "What'd you used to tell the kids you knew?"
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It makes thinking of Daryl's own youth a little easier. He hesitates, but only slightly. "Y'know Merle was in the marines? That ain't a story." He doesn't bring up the dishonorable discharge. In this moment of fond remembrance, it feels like a betrayal. "But the way I told it, he was a damn GI Joe."
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Instead, she just observes. "Sounds like you were proud of him."
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He shouldn't have brought Merle up around Maggie. He remembers what Merle helped the Governor do, or not do. He's never been clear on what, exactly, went down in that little room, but he's always figured Glenn's feelings on the matter were justified.
And Maggie always treated her anger like a private promise, something that was true and clear and not to be brandished lightly.
Best change the subject.
"And your boy's proud of you. It's coming out his damn ears."
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Hershel hasn't had the childhood she would've chosen for him - but despite everything, he's had a childhood. That's what matters most.
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He's got it now, though. Maggie has a strangely clarifying effect on him.
"I wasn't sweet, at his age, and I had it easier'n him."
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More when she was older, admittedly, when all the fury she'd felt as a little girl soured into something messy and mean. Her teenage rebellion probably had nothing on Daryl's, but it had happened, and she'd been lucky she hadn't ended up in a police station for some of the shit she'd pulled.
"Maybe the hardship's part of it. I don't try to hide the truth from him, but there's days when I wish I didn't have to tell him as much as I do. And he knows things aren't always easy, but that we do them because it's what keeps us going." Eating horse, eating spiders. He doesn't complain, because there's no alternative. She sighs. "But when he's a little older, who knows? I hope he's still sweet."
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"He will." Daryl's sure of it, though he doesn't say why. Glenn did, up until the very end. His last words still rattle around in Daryl's mind; he imagines they do for Maggie, too.
It's in this reverie that Daryl doesn't see a stone in the road. The wheelbarrow lurches to its side, and Daryl trips, landing badly on his ankle. He lets out a low hiss, the only sound he'll allow himself to express pain.
"Sorry," he manages for Maggie, spilled out on the road. He can't tell if the deer fell off on top of her. "Shit."
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"I knew I shouldn't've let you carry me." For the moment, she forgets the deer, coming over to where Daryl's sprawled. They'll get the carcass once she knows he's all right. "What hurts?"
There's no question of whether he'll tell her or not, only how stubborn he'll be while she waits for him to respond. This is Maggie as she's been for the last six years: leader, mother, asker of questions without a shade of doubt whether she'll receive the answers.
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He never gets distracted, being distracted is dying, in or outside walls. Why did he slip up? The dark bruise of his emotions hurts worse, for a moment, than his ankle, until he takes another step and remembers. His shoulders become tense, but Maggie isn't Carol. She can't read him that well, can she?
He doesn't stop to wonder why he's hiding. It's all instinct.
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Since he's trying to play it cool, though, she turns her attention to the wheelbarrow. The buck's only half-out of it, and she can heave it the rest of the way back in.
"He needs a new traveling companion," she says, nodding at the deer. "Looks like it's your turn to keep him company."
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(He knows what Beth would say, can almost hear her-- stop being an asshole!)
But decades of instinct well up against his own common sense, gumming the works. He takes a few more steps, ignoring the pain, and checks over the deer. "Ain't slowing you down."
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Maggie appeals to the cool logic of survival, and he doesn't have a chance but to respond to that. He heaves a sigh, and sits awkwardly on the deer in the wheelbarrow.
"Just rolled it." If he sounds miserable, don't worry, he hates it, too.
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It's a hell of a weight, she won't deny that. With all his muscle, Daryl's probably closer to the weight of the deer as he is to her. But he looks bound and determined to turn a rolled ankle into something worse, and if she can stop him from it, it'll be worth the sweat. With a grunt, she gets it moving, and they go on.
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