"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.
"Got some backstrap with your name on it, if you want it." Not with her, mind, but generally speaking. "As a thank you. You really helped me out today."
It's a simple thing, making sure people know when you're grateful for them, but she's noticed the difference it makes. With Daryl, there's no need to curry favor - but she is grateful, and she wants him to know as much.
"And I wanted to see how your ankle was." Something she could've done at dinner, but not without the kids wanting to hear about it. She might've been joking about his pride, but it's not something she's going to risk putting a dent in. "Brought something that might help, if it's still sore."
That'd be the alcohol. She holds it up a little, and Dog whines like it's for him.
Daryl can refuse neither backstrap nor beer, especially feeling like he is. Wordless, he waves Maggie in, though the dog gets a quiet whistle it reacts to instinctively, running to sit on Daryl's unmade bed. It's a mess of blankets and furs, all shoved to one side so Daryl could put his foot up. Alone with only Maggie, Daryl favors his good leg much more obviously.
Daryl's favor never needs to be curried; it's there or it's not. And he rarely needs to be thanked, knowing he'll do the job regardless. But it's a rare, special thing every time, to be remembered in such a fashion.
"Little sore," he admits. It hurts like a bitch, if he's honest-- he's not feeling that honest. "What you got?"
"Nothing fancy." It's an old wine bottle with a screw-cap top that's been used several times over now. "Fruit wine - a little of whatever they could find, I think."
She doubts it's all that strong, but that might be for the best, with the way Daryl's limping. He doesn't need to add drunk to the night's ailments.
Once she's come in, Maggie hesitates a moment. It's Daryl's place; he can decide where they sit, whether they bother with cups, all of it.
"Guess we'll find out." He doesn't remember what last harvest was, he wasn't here, but the bottle has a tiger on it, so it's probably fine.
Daryl has never been one to stand on ceremony; he collapses back into bed, though he's sitting up a bit more, this time. Dog happily runs up after him, and whatever bachelor's charm Daryl had in that moment (very little), it's ruined by a large dog landing on his gut. The cups on the nightstand, sitting with a small water pitcher, can only be pointed at while Daryl wrestles the dog off.
Maggie can't help laughing as Dog makes himself at home. Only the knowledge that it'll reward bad behavior keeps her from reaching over to scratch his ears. "We'd better thank our lucky stars you didn't crack a rib."
That dog clearly wouldn't give him a break if he did. She pulls a chair over beside him and pours them each a cupful of wine.
"Let's drink to..." This takes a moment's thought, her glass poised to clink against his, before she finishes the sentence. Maybe it's not necessary, but remembering they've got things worth celebrating always helps a little. "Good meals."
Once Dog is relegated to the foot of the bed, Daryl takes a minute to water his wine. He doesn't drink often, doesn't really like to, but this is a special occasion. It doesn't mean he's going to let it go to his head; he's sure whatever alcohol tolerance he used to have has evaporated in the last six years.
But he clinks the glass with her, and repeats his own toast. "Old friends. Who read my letters."
"Old friends who wrote to me," she counters, her smile light.
There'd been times she'd hated the idea of doing so much as thinking about the places she'd left behind - but other times, she'd have given anything to be back among the people she'd survived with. Being able to unfold those letters and reread them, to just about hear Daryl's voice in her ear, had been viral at times like those. It didn't matter if they were brief. They:d been a piece of family.
She doesn't thin out her wine at all, just pours herself the amount she can manage in a night. Alcohol isn't a regular indulgence, only an occasional social experience, but Maggie knows her limits if she decides to imbibe.
After she's taken a sip, she says, "You've got a nice place. It's comfortable."
He shrugs off the compliment. "S'all Carol. Kept my stuff when I was out."
The six years spent in the woods-- he wrote her about that as well, and was simultaneously grateful she wasn't there to tell him to go back home. It was easier to watch the drop box where the letters ended up, one of many advantages.
"Carol got you all this bedding, huh?" She raises a brow. The most notable touches to Daryl's place are pretty clearly all him, though she doesn't doubt the presence of actual furniture is Carol's doing.
At the question, she shakes her head. "Sounds like it's hard to justify a whole house for the two of us right now. We've got a room to ourselves, and that's plenty."
At some point, they'll need to expand, of course. Hershel needs his own space, and Maggie wants him to have it. But they've spent so much time out on the road that he doesn't really know he should miss having some privacy - so it'll be fine for a little longer.
Daryl looks at the blankets that aren't fur, and shoves one onto Dog. "Think she knitted 'em."
He'll never know, because he refuses to ask. And thinking on that distracts him from the next words to fall out of his mouth, like some dumbass. "This place's got a whole second floor I never use."
It's a townhouse, a little brownstone wedged between two other brick pieces of shit, and Daryl never bothers with the stairs. He just doesn't have that much shit. His bed is shoved up against the front door in case of intruders, his kitchen is spotless in its lack of use, and the living room is just two tables, one of which is mostly covered in hunting equipment.
"Front door leads straight to it."
He uses the back door of the house; it feels more secure.
The furs, she means, but it doesn't seem like there's much point to clarifying. They've moved on in an instant, and the idea of changing the subject back becomes impossible as soon as she takes in what Daryl's said.
Maggie takes a sip of her drink, leaving the conversation open for a moment or two. Room for him to clarify, or to walk things back. When he doesn't, she asks, "Are you asking us to move in?"
It's not accusatory, not hopeful. Just steady, waiting for the answer, so she can decide what she thinks of it.
He is, he realizes. Is he that lonely, that willing to cling to anything familiar? He wasn't even thinking, and it's too early to blame the wine. He takes the first sip now, stewing in his own embarrassment.
He comes out of it alright, it just takes a minute. "Like you said. One house's too big for one person."
"Yeah, but you're signing up for Hershel running around upstairs like his hair's on fire." The kid knows how to be quiet. He knows how to take soft footsteps. But he also knows when it's safe, and he'll take full advantage of a house he can stomp around in while shouting, if he feels like it. "I'm not opposed to the idea. I just want you to know what you're getting into it I agree."
It'd be a good solution, as far as she's concerned. Someplace where Hershel will have his own room, where she'll have her own room, living someplace close to someone they can trust. But her first instinct is that Daryl is liable to send up with the short end of the stick here.
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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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It's a simple thing, making sure people know when you're grateful for them, but she's noticed the difference it makes. With Daryl, there's no need to curry favor - but she is grateful, and she wants him to know as much.
"And I wanted to see how your ankle was." Something she could've done at dinner, but not without the kids wanting to hear about it. She might've been joking about his pride, but it's not something she's going to risk putting a dent in. "Brought something that might help, if it's still sore."
That'd be the alcohol. She holds it up a little, and Dog whines like it's for him.
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Daryl's favor never needs to be curried; it's there or it's not. And he rarely needs to be thanked, knowing he'll do the job regardless. But it's a rare, special thing every time, to be remembered in such a fashion.
"Little sore," he admits. It hurts like a bitch, if he's honest-- he's not feeling that honest. "What you got?"
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She doubts it's all that strong, but that might be for the best, with the way Daryl's limping. He doesn't need to add drunk to the night's ailments.
Once she's come in, Maggie hesitates a moment. It's Daryl's place; he can decide where they sit, whether they bother with cups, all of it.
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Daryl has never been one to stand on ceremony; he collapses back into bed, though he's sitting up a bit more, this time. Dog happily runs up after him, and whatever bachelor's charm Daryl had in that moment (very little), it's ruined by a large dog landing on his gut. The cups on the nightstand, sitting with a small water pitcher, can only be pointed at while Daryl wrestles the dog off.
"Trained for-" a grunt- "outdoors. Down."
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That dog clearly wouldn't give him a break if he did. She pulls a chair over beside him and pours them each a cupful of wine.
"Let's drink to..." This takes a moment's thought, her glass poised to clink against his, before she finishes the sentence. Maybe it's not necessary, but remembering they've got things worth celebrating always helps a little. "Good meals."
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But he clinks the glass with her, and repeats his own toast. "Old friends. Who read my letters."
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There'd been times she'd hated the idea of doing so much as thinking about the places she'd left behind - but other times, she'd have given anything to be back among the people she'd survived with. Being able to unfold those letters and reread them, to just about hear Daryl's voice in her ear, had been viral at times like those. It didn't matter if they were brief. They:d been a piece of family.
She doesn't thin out her wine at all, just pours herself the amount she can manage in a night. Alcohol isn't a regular indulgence, only an occasional social experience, but Maggie knows her limits if she decides to imbibe.
After she's taken a sip, she says, "You've got a nice place. It's comfortable."
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The six years spent in the woods-- he wrote her about that as well, and was simultaneously grateful she wasn't there to tell him to go back home. It was easier to watch the drop box where the letters ended up, one of many advantages.
"They got you a house yet?"
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At the question, she shakes her head. "Sounds like it's hard to justify a whole house for the two of us right now. We've got a room to ourselves, and that's plenty."
At some point, they'll need to expand, of course. Hershel needs his own space, and Maggie wants him to have it. But they've spent so much time out on the road that he doesn't really know he should miss having some privacy - so it'll be fine for a little longer.
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He'll never know, because he refuses to ask. And thinking on that distracts him from the next words to fall out of his mouth, like some dumbass. "This place's got a whole second floor I never use."
It's a townhouse, a little brownstone wedged between two other brick pieces of shit, and Daryl never bothers with the stairs. He just doesn't have that much shit. His bed is shoved up against the front door in case of intruders, his kitchen is spotless in its lack of use, and the living room is just two tables, one of which is mostly covered in hunting equipment.
"Front door leads straight to it."
He uses the back door of the house; it feels more secure.
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Maggie takes a sip of her drink, leaving the conversation open for a moment or two. Room for him to clarify, or to walk things back. When he doesn't, she asks, "Are you asking us to move in?"
It's not accusatory, not hopeful. Just steady, waiting for the answer, so she can decide what she thinks of it.
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He comes out of it alright, it just takes a minute. "Like you said. One house's too big for one person."
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It'd be a good solution, as far as she's concerned. Someplace where Hershel will have his own room, where she'll have her own room, living someplace close to someone they can trust. But her first instinct is that Daryl is liable to send up with the short end of the stick here.
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