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.
"I ain't taking it back," Daryl says, though Maggie's hesitance is making him regret it. He can't imagine being annoyed with the sound of a child being a child, though. "Don't spend much time here anyway."
It's mostly just where he sleeps, where he keeps up appearances so Jude and RJ feel looked after. He'd rather be on the road, hunting or working.
If she notices his discomfort, she doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, with a little smile, she reaches over and sets her hand on his arm. "If you aren't taking it back, I'm accepting."
Worst comes to worst, they drive him crazy until she notices and find them alternate accommodations. At best, it's exactly the solution they need - and a hell of a lot better than trying to room with strangers.
"Hershel's gonna be knocking on your door morning, noon, and night," she adds, teasing. "He couldn't stop talking about you, entire way back from dinner."
Daryl smiles, a sheepish thing soon hidden by Dog's excitement, licking at Maggie's hand and whuffing quietly. Daryl tells it off again, and throws a bone across the room, before settling back down on the bed, his leg up. He takes a sip of his wine.
Maggie gives into temptation this time, scritching Dog's ears once before the poor critter's sent to the other side of the room. For all Daryl's grousing, she doubts he gets a night's sleep without Dog curled up with him - and it's hard to imagine he really minds.
"Kid stuff." Daryl's probably more familiar than he used to be, considering how much time he spends with Judith and RJ. Ticking off a few of Hershel's questions - "Did you meet him before we left, how long'd I know you before, where'd you get the dog. If we live here, maybe I'll get lucky, and he won't beg me for a puppy."
Daryl lets the question of the dog float over him like a summer breeze. His eyes wander, one of his obvious tells. "He'll like the company," Daryl says, and it becomes obvious who he's talking about when he has to throw the bone again. "Won't you, boy, yeah, you will."
To Maggie, he says, "all he's gotta know, sounds like he already does." That Daryl will take care of him however he can, whenever he can.
Out of his dresser drawer, Daryl procures a key, handing it to Maggie.
Maggie looks at it, and at him, and something in her chest feels like it's breaking. She doesn't know why.
Once she's tucked the key in her pocket, she hugs him close, her face tucking into the crook of his neck for a moment.
"If you regret it, you gotta tell me," she says, as she pulls away, but there's only a bright bit of teasing in her eyes. No doubt to speak of - not on her end.
He's not sure why his heart's in his throat all the sudden, and when she pulls away, it's still there. He's careful not to look her in the eye, terrified he'll give something away. He's sitting in his bed for chrissakes. But the smell of her-- sweat and tallow soap and wine-- lingers in his periphery.
If he regrets this, it's going to be for different reasons than she thinks. And yet, he still can't imagine it. He doesn't feel like he's lying when he says- "Won't regret it. Promise."
He holds out one hand, pinky extended. It's stupid, but he feels pretty damn dumb right then.
"Jude's rubbing off on you." Or maybe Beth did, sometime long ago. She hardly lets herself think it, let alone say it. But she links pinkies with him, giving them a single shake. It's a deal.
Maggie leaves soon after, most of her wine left undrunk in Daryl's cups, and they move in the next day. There's not much to bring over; they've spent so much time traveling light that it takes longer to scrub the place up than to bring their stuff over. Not that it was in need of much cleaning - but the upstairs has gone unused long enough that there's floors to sweep and furniture to dust.
By lunchtime, they live there, and by dinner - featuring the promised backstrap - Hershel's probably already made a nuisance of himself, but Daryl doesn't seem to mind. They fall into new routines, and as he'd warned, Daryl's only there part of the time anyhow. But he's there enough that his return's always something to look forward to. And sometimes, when he's around, they sit up after Hershel's been sent to bed and talk about whatever comes to mind.
It's comfortable. Domestic. A little dangerous. Maggie doesn't bring out the wine again.
After breakfast one morning, she catches Daryl before he can escape out the back door. "You doing anything today?"
It reminds him of the prison, which he still privately considers one of the best years of his life. In close quarters with people he trusts, but never too close, surrounded by allies-- this time, he thinks, he can truly appreciate it.
And Maggie and Hershel are so excited when he comes home. They notice, and smile, and he's never quite had that before. It makes his chest hurt; it makes him sleep easier.
But it doesn't stop Daryl from leaving, regularly going out to get whatever supplies he can. Alexandria's low on everything, after the Whisperers-- their crops are ruined, their stores are spoiled. Carol has them on a diet of amaranth weeds, and Daryl is sure he's going to sneeze magenta soon. Yesterday, he caught Lydia eating a worm.
So when Aaron says he saw a boar in the woods, Daryl is more than ready to go. Maggie catches him off guard, pulling him back to the world of houses and walls, when he was all ready to disappear into copse and glade.
"Boar," he says dumbly. Dog barks at his heels, excited to recognize a command, but unsure what to do with it indoors. "Aaron saw a boar. Bacon for dinner."
Maybe, he should say, but it's hard not to feel confident with Maggie around.
Maggie's a little more intent about being cheerful, these days. This isn't the worst off she and Hershel have been - they aren't picking spiders out of their webs yet - but it's bad enough that she'll take any good news she can get. And Daryl coming home is always good news, whether it's with a little more food in hand or not.
Hershel's good about it, but she can see perfectly well he's tired of eating amaranth fried up like it's collard greens, or torn up in a salad with dandelion leaves. She's been sending him out to look for chickweed with Judith, but by this point, nearly everything near town has already ended up in someone's belly.
"Think the two of you can manage it?" Boars are dangerous, and she doubts she has to remind Daryl of that fact. It's written on her face, that thing's as likely to gore you as run off if you don't get it the first time.
Her concern doesn't make him feel weak. He's not sure what it makes him feel, some new, warm, ichorous thing in his heart, but it isn't weakness. Even as he squares his shoulders to boast of strength, he can tell she'd see right through it, and for that, he's unexpectedly grateful.
"Folks're busy," he murmurs instead. "Getting the walls back up."
"Half of them'd lay down whatever they're holding onto if it meant they got meat for dinner," she points out. For all he might bring up the thought of bacon, stewing it would probably make everything go further; there are a lot of mouths they need to feed here. "Doesn't have to be just two of you going after it, you know."
The thing is, he doesn't want to go out with Aaron or Alden or half the people who think they can hunt. Most can't, not really, and boars are delicate work. He'd rather not risk the fucker getting away.
Some stupid urging, some echo in the back of his mind, reminds him of a pertinent fact-- Maggie can hunt.
"If it means you don't come back with a tusk through your belly." The alternative is foraging, more likely than not. She doesn't know the plants around here quite as well as she'd known the ones in Georgia, but there's a lot of crossover. "Let me tell Hershel - I'll meet you at the gate."
How typical of Maggie-- she probably had her mind made up before the conversation got started. It would have annoyed him once, even back at the prison; he's spent too much time in his life scrabbling for any bit of solitude he can get. Yet, here he is. Six years seems to have been his fill of it.
He still feels like he should be out there, and sometimes he wishes he were. Maybe when Alexandria and Hilltop are back on their feet, he'll go. But for now, it just feels wrong.
And, he thinks, he likes it, just a little, knowing there's a family growing above his head. He can't touch it, can't harm it, but he can preserve it.
Maggie will find Daryl at the gates, fiddling with his bolts. The heads are larger than usual, sharp and ugly things. A quiver of arrows to his right have the same cruel heads, and he hands them off when Maggie arrives. "Ever gone after hogs before?"
Maggie arrives with her longbow slung over her shoulder along with a pack. It contains a few more medical supplies than usual, just in case. She sidles up next to him, taking a good look at the arrows he's brought.
"No." She might be a pesky tagalong on this particular adventure, but she's not about to lie about her skills here. "We didn't have an issue with them on the farm. Have you?"
Daryl lets out a croaking sort of hum, an almost entirely unvoiced affirmative. "They're a pain in the ass."
He hands her the quiver filled with broadhead arrows. To Daryl, they always looked like the kind of things you were supposed to shoot into whales a hundred years ago, except, you know, smaller. He hasn't shared this opinion since he was six and roundly mocked for the comparison-- he'd laughed along with them, unsure why it was funny. In truth, he still is.
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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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It's mostly just where he sleeps, where he keeps up appearances so Jude and RJ feel looked after. He'd rather be on the road, hunting or working.
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Worst comes to worst, they drive him crazy until she notices and find them alternate accommodations. At best, it's exactly the solution they need - and a hell of a lot better than trying to room with strangers.
"Hershel's gonna be knocking on your door morning, noon, and night," she adds, teasing. "He couldn't stop talking about you, entire way back from dinner."
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"Won't mind," he promises. "What'd he ask?"
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"Kid stuff." Daryl's probably more familiar than he used to be, considering how much time he spends with Judith and RJ. Ticking off a few of Hershel's questions - "Did you meet him before we left, how long'd I know you before, where'd you get the dog. If we live here, maybe I'll get lucky, and he won't beg me for a puppy."
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To Maggie, he says, "all he's gotta know, sounds like he already does." That Daryl will take care of him however he can, whenever he can.
Out of his dresser drawer, Daryl procures a key, handing it to Maggie.
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Once she's tucked the key in her pocket, she hugs him close, her face tucking into the crook of his neck for a moment.
"If you regret it, you gotta tell me," she says, as she pulls away, but there's only a bright bit of teasing in her eyes. No doubt to speak of - not on her end.
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If he regrets this, it's going to be for different reasons than she thinks. And yet, he still can't imagine it. He doesn't feel like he's lying when he says- "Won't regret it. Promise."
He holds out one hand, pinky extended. It's stupid, but he feels pretty damn dumb right then.
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Maggie leaves soon after, most of her wine left undrunk in Daryl's cups, and they move in the next day. There's not much to bring over; they've spent so much time traveling light that it takes longer to scrub the place up than to bring their stuff over. Not that it was in need of much cleaning - but the upstairs has gone unused long enough that there's floors to sweep and furniture to dust.
By lunchtime, they live there, and by dinner - featuring the promised backstrap - Hershel's probably already made a nuisance of himself, but Daryl doesn't seem to mind. They fall into new routines, and as he'd warned, Daryl's only there part of the time anyhow. But he's there enough that his return's always something to look forward to. And sometimes, when he's around, they sit up after Hershel's been sent to bed and talk about whatever comes to mind.
It's comfortable. Domestic. A little dangerous. Maggie doesn't bring out the wine again.
After breakfast one morning, she catches Daryl before he can escape out the back door. "You doing anything today?"
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And Maggie and Hershel are so excited when he comes home. They notice, and smile, and he's never quite had that before. It makes his chest hurt; it makes him sleep easier.
But it doesn't stop Daryl from leaving, regularly going out to get whatever supplies he can. Alexandria's low on everything, after the Whisperers-- their crops are ruined, their stores are spoiled. Carol has them on a diet of amaranth weeds, and Daryl is sure he's going to sneeze magenta soon. Yesterday, he caught Lydia eating a worm.
So when Aaron says he saw a boar in the woods, Daryl is more than ready to go. Maggie catches him off guard, pulling him back to the world of houses and walls, when he was all ready to disappear into copse and glade.
"Boar," he says dumbly. Dog barks at his heels, excited to recognize a command, but unsure what to do with it indoors. "Aaron saw a boar. Bacon for dinner."
Maybe, he should say, but it's hard not to feel confident with Maggie around.
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Hershel's good about it, but she can see perfectly well he's tired of eating amaranth fried up like it's collard greens, or torn up in a salad with dandelion leaves. She's been sending him out to look for chickweed with Judith, but by this point, nearly everything near town has already ended up in someone's belly.
"Think the two of you can manage it?" Boars are dangerous, and she doubts she has to remind Daryl of that fact. It's written on her face, that thing's as likely to gore you as run off if you don't get it the first time.
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"Folks're busy," he murmurs instead. "Getting the walls back up."
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Some stupid urging, some echo in the back of his mind, reminds him of a pertinent fact-- Maggie can hunt.
"You offerin'?"
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He still feels like he should be out there, and sometimes he wishes he were. Maybe when Alexandria and Hilltop are back on their feet, he'll go. But for now, it just feels wrong.
And, he thinks, he likes it, just a little, knowing there's a family growing above his head. He can't touch it, can't harm it, but he can preserve it.
Maggie will find Daryl at the gates, fiddling with his bolts. The heads are larger than usual, sharp and ugly things. A quiver of arrows to his right have the same cruel heads, and he hands them off when Maggie arrives. "Ever gone after hogs before?"
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"No." She might be a pesky tagalong on this particular adventure, but she's not about to lie about her skills here. "We didn't have an issue with them on the farm. Have you?"
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He hands her the quiver filled with broadhead arrows. To Daryl, they always looked like the kind of things you were supposed to shoot into whales a hundred years ago, except, you know, smaller. He hasn't shared this opinion since he was six and roundly mocked for the comparison-- he'd laughed along with them, unsure why it was funny. In truth, he still is.
"Heavier-- you're gonna wanna aim higher."
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