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."
She's quiet a moment, too, gathering her thoughts. "We're all family, far as I'm concerned. If you want him to call you Mister Daryl instead, I'll tell him to."
If all he'd ever done was keep Beth safe, then hunt her down when she was taken, he'd be deserving of the title. But he's done more before and since, and there'll never be enough ways to actually thank him.
"Yeah, but-" And then he stops himself, because he doesn't really want to argue with this. There's a tentative flicker of warmth in his chest, beyond the sweat and the summer malaise; he doesn't want to blow it out.
But it is different. He watched Judith and RJ grow up, sometimes from a distance, sometimes not. He was there for the births of both, held them when they were small, squirming things that existed only for fighting potential. He was the first person to feed Judith, something he doesn't bring up often, but thinks on frequently. With Maggie at Hilltop, Daryl missed Hershel's birth by a week, something he never brings up, and frequently regrets.
But if that's how Maggie wants it-- "Yeah. Okay. Don't... know him as well, is all."
"You will." She can't imagine everything going on behind his eyes; there's a lot Daryl keeps under lock and key, more than ever when it's a matter of his opinions on anything that isn't strictly tactical.
If she had to take her best guess, though, she'd say it comes down to the fact that he's shy about the idea of claiming ties to anyone he can't prove he's done right by. He doesn't want to overstep, or be overstepped by. But all Maggie has to do is remember what he was like with Judith as a baby - not to mention the ease he clearly has with her now - to know he's got a way with kids.
"He'll tell you all about himself, like as not," she goes on, like the problem might be a standoffish little boy. "Hershel can talk your ear off if you let him."
And in that moment, almost relaxed under the beating sun, Daryl can think of only one thing he wants more than a cool bed and rest. "Tell me about him?"
"You'll get a funnier answer from him, you know." A new fondness enters into her voice, her smile easy and unavoidable. None of the effort of pushing three hundred-fifty pounds of man and beast along old blacktop comes through. "He's got so much of Glenn in him. All his kindness, his sense of humor - I don't know how, unless his daddy's been whispering in his ear from Heaven."
It's nice to think about, whether she really believes any such thing's possible or not. "He's not a bad shot for his age, and he's a menace when it comes to climbing trees. I had half a mind to plant an orchard and make him do the harvesting."
Daryl doesn't believe in God-- can't, even if he tried. Something about it always seemed like a sick joke. If God loves him, God loves him like his father loved him, something to implant pain into and watch it grow. He'd rather not believe in the bastard at all.
And yet, it is indescribably comforting, to see Maggie still holds to all that. Heaven and Hell and God, it seems like something nice to have in your back pocket, especially if you've got a kid. Especially if you've got a kid like Hershel, who smiles when he doesn't have to, who talks without fear. Someone could mistake that for naivete, but Daryl knows the shape of fear in children, the refusal to let it take hold. Smiling is bravery.
"Funniest from both of you," he murmurs, staring up at how the sunlight peeks through the curtain of Maggie's hair. He can't quite focus on her face; it's too bright, like the sun. "Compare answers. He got a gun?"
Daryl has half a mind to start training the kids with arrows, and this only strengthens the urge. Bullets are very close to going extinct. Then again, Kelly and Connie's slingshots are a nice piece.
The only way she can manage is if she assumes God's asleep at the wheel - which her own daddy might not have appreciated as a worldview, but it leaves open the possibility that he's still out there somewhere, along with Glenn and Beth and everyone else they've lost. If the idea gives Hershel some hope, too, some connection to his ancestors, then God's served His purpose.
"Not one of his own. Too loud." He's careful enough, more than aware of the need for discipline around firearms. But if he's in a place where he needs to defend himself, she wants to be the one who decides whether the sound of a gunshot is a worthwhile risk. "But he's borrowed mine, when I've needed him to be armed."
"Ought'a start him on a bow," Daryl says, not worrying if this is overstepping bounds. On matters of survival, especially for children, he has no compunctions. "Hard to learn. Easier if you're young."
Daryl stole his first crossbow at fifteen, and has never once regretted it.
"Know some folks got slingshots. That's good too. Rocks're damn near everywhere."
"I've been meaning to. Mine's taller than he is -" this, with some amusement - "or I'd see if he could draw it."
Daryl's not wrong about the bow, though. Picking it up has been a necessity for Maggie, but not always a joy. The more Hershel can learn now, the better off he'll be as a man.
"We'll try him on both. See what he's better at, what he likes most." Worst comes to worst, he'll just have more options.
"We got kid-sized ones," Daryl murmurs. A gift from the Kingdom, years back. Most of the original recipients long since outgrew it. "How's he with knives? Jude'll teach him swords if you ain't careful."
"If she learned from Michonne, she's probably more qualified to teach him than I am." And if Hershel's interested in swinging a sword around, then he'd ought to learn. It's more likely to keep him alive at this age than trying to fight with fists.
They're not far off now, the walls visible from here. Maggie doesn't slow a bit, but she asks, "You wanna get out before we get up there? I don't want to wound your pride along with your ankle."
Daryl had been considering just that, and his hackles raise at the suggestion he has any pride at all. But now that she's mentioned it, he can't do it; it would be ridiculous, a sign of weakness, something to mock-
She won't mock him. His eye finally catches hers, and he knows. Even back at the farm, when he was wandering around with an ear necklace, she never said shit about him. She won't mock him.
He stands, favoring his good foot, and walks through the gates with a stilted ease. "Jude and RJ," he says, "having dinner at my place tonight. Bring the kid."
"See you then," she agrees, giving him a smile, and wheels the deer away to process.
It's a kill she's happy with, a day she can be proud of, despite their setbacks. Her arms feel like they're about to fall off, but they get a good amount of blood from the carcass along with the organs and meat, the bones, the hide. It'll keep everyone going, and she's grabbed her
Dinner's a nice thing, too. She'd had no idea Daryl could cook, let alone for a small crowd. The kids drive the conversation, and by the kids, she really means Hershel and Judith. Mostly Hershel. He explains the ocean to them, and asks about Alexandria, and prods Judith and RJ into telling stories about their momma.
Hours later, after Hershel's put to bed, Maggie's still restless. Bone tired, maybe, but unwilling to hit the hay just yet. It's not a common feeling for her - she's a farmer's daughter, would likely be a farmer in her own right if they could've ever kept a place long enough, and she knows better than to skimp on sleep when their days are so long - but when it comes up, she doesn't ignore it.
And that's how she ends up at Daryl's place again, rapping lightly at the door. She's holding a brown bottle by the neck, her hair falling out of its ponytail by now. "You still up?"
Daryl isn't much of a cook when a campfire isn't involved, as has been pointed out to him by many, mostly Carol. But living inside the walls now means people want to sup with him, and he's never quite sure what to do with that, except he can't refuse it. Four walls are too many for one person, for all he can't really stand living with someone permanently. Lydia visits him most days, and now Judith and RJ, now Maggie and Hershel. He's learned, in his time, how to have food prepared in small batches, mostly with Carol's help. He keeps it in the icebox and heats it up and pretends like most days he doesn't just eat whatever no one else wants, unseasoned and lukewarm.
Afterward, Daryl settles into his bed like a statue falling into silt. Yet his sleep is light and restless, focusing on firefly images that dance away the moment someone knocks at his door. He recognizes, vaguely, the sound of Maggie's voice, and hurriedly throws on a shirt before answering.
"Yeah," he says, leaning against the door-frame. Dog weaves between their legs, sniffing at Maggie's hands, trying to get at the bottle.
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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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If all he'd ever done was keep Beth safe, then hunt her down when she was taken, he'd be deserving of the title. But he's done more before and since, and there'll never be enough ways to actually thank him.
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But it is different. He watched Judith and RJ grow up, sometimes from a distance, sometimes not. He was there for the births of both, held them when they were small, squirming things that existed only for fighting potential. He was the first person to feed Judith, something he doesn't bring up often, but thinks on frequently. With Maggie at Hilltop, Daryl missed Hershel's birth by a week, something he never brings up, and frequently regrets.
But if that's how Maggie wants it-- "Yeah. Okay. Don't... know him as well, is all."
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If she had to take her best guess, though, she'd say it comes down to the fact that he's shy about the idea of claiming ties to anyone he can't prove he's done right by. He doesn't want to overstep, or be overstepped by. But all Maggie has to do is remember what he was like with Judith as a baby - not to mention the ease he clearly has with her now - to know he's got a way with kids.
"He'll tell you all about himself, like as not," she goes on, like the problem might be a standoffish little boy. "Hershel can talk your ear off if you let him."
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It's nice to think about, whether she really believes any such thing's possible or not. "He's not a bad shot for his age, and he's a menace when it comes to climbing trees. I had half a mind to plant an orchard and make him do the harvesting."
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And yet, it is indescribably comforting, to see Maggie still holds to all that. Heaven and Hell and God, it seems like something nice to have in your back pocket, especially if you've got a kid. Especially if you've got a kid like Hershel, who smiles when he doesn't have to, who talks without fear. Someone could mistake that for naivete, but Daryl knows the shape of fear in children, the refusal to let it take hold. Smiling is bravery.
"Funniest from both of you," he murmurs, staring up at how the sunlight peeks through the curtain of Maggie's hair. He can't quite focus on her face; it's too bright, like the sun. "Compare answers. He got a gun?"
Daryl has half a mind to start training the kids with arrows, and this only strengthens the urge. Bullets are very close to going extinct. Then again, Kelly and Connie's slingshots are a nice piece.
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"Not one of his own. Too loud." He's careful enough, more than aware of the need for discipline around firearms. But if he's in a place where he needs to defend himself, she wants to be the one who decides whether the sound of a gunshot is a worthwhile risk. "But he's borrowed mine, when I've needed him to be armed."
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Daryl stole his first crossbow at fifteen, and has never once regretted it.
"Know some folks got slingshots. That's good too. Rocks're damn near everywhere."
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Daryl's not wrong about the bow, though. Picking it up has been a necessity for Maggie, but not always a joy. The more Hershel can learn now, the better off he'll be as a man.
"We'll try him on both. See what he's better at, what he likes most." Worst comes to worst, he'll just have more options.
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They're not far off now, the walls visible from here. Maggie doesn't slow a bit, but she asks, "You wanna get out before we get up there? I don't want to wound your pride along with your ankle."
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She won't mock him. His eye finally catches hers, and he knows. Even back at the farm, when he was wandering around with an ear necklace, she never said shit about him. She won't mock him.
He stands, favoring his good foot, and walks through the gates with a stilted ease. "Jude and RJ," he says, "having dinner at my place tonight. Bring the kid."
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It's a kill she's happy with, a day she can be proud of, despite their setbacks. Her arms feel like they're about to fall off, but they get a good amount of blood from the carcass along with the organs and meat, the bones, the hide. It'll keep everyone going, and she's grabbed her
Dinner's a nice thing, too. She'd had no idea Daryl could cook, let alone for a small crowd. The kids drive the conversation, and by the kids, she really means Hershel and Judith. Mostly Hershel. He explains the ocean to them, and asks about Alexandria, and prods Judith and RJ into telling stories about their momma.
Hours later, after Hershel's put to bed, Maggie's still restless. Bone tired, maybe, but unwilling to hit the hay just yet. It's not a common feeling for her - she's a farmer's daughter, would likely be a farmer in her own right if they could've ever kept a place long enough, and she knows better than to skimp on sleep when their days are so long - but when it comes up, she doesn't ignore it.
And that's how she ends up at Daryl's place again, rapping lightly at the door. She's holding a brown bottle by the neck, her hair falling out of its ponytail by now. "You still up?"
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Afterward, Daryl settles into his bed like a statue falling into silt. Yet his sleep is light and restless, focusing on firefly images that dance away the moment someone knocks at his door. He recognizes, vaguely, the sound of Maggie's voice, and hurriedly throws on a shirt before answering.
"Yeah," he says, leaning against the door-frame. Dog weaves between their legs, sniffing at Maggie's hands, trying to get at the bottle.
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