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.
They're ugly looking things, made to punch real holes into a creature. For a moment, she can't help wondering what kind of damage they'd do to a person - and then she puts the idea out of her mind, refusing to let herself dwell on it (or on why she wondered in the first place).
"Thanks." She can feel the difference in their weight, just holding them in a quiver. Under better circumstances, she'd rather take a few practice shots first, but there's no time to waste today. "We need anything else for these critters?"
As they walk through the gates, Daryl hands her a small glass vial of deer fat. "Gonna wanna oil the arrowheads. Makes 'em go in easier. Hogs got skin tough as shit."
In almost every hunting circle Daryl has ever been aware of, the term is lubing your arrows. Due to some particularly stark memories of Merle's sterling commentary, Daryl always says oil.
"Ain't like deer. This'll take all damn day. And we ain't got no feed..."
"Deer takes all damn day, too, sometimes." For now, she pockets the fat, mistrusting her ability to oil up anything sharp while walking. (It's only a little bit, not enough tallow to fry up anything in, and yet she can't help but think it could have better use than greasing an arrowhead. If they get this boar, then they'll be repaid several times over, of course - but until they get it, using up anything edible on anything besides eating is going to feel a little dangerous. A risk she might've discounted, before Hershel, and now finds herself weighing, even when it's unreasonable.) "You don't want to know how long I was out there before I killed the last one I got."
Not as long, though, as this boar of his, apparently. "Did Aaron go on ahead?"
"Hogs don't attack you," Daryl says, in an almost wearying tone of voice, before Maggie snaps him from further despair at a hunt not done perfectly. He snorts, almost a laugh, almost a smile. "Aaron can't hunt for shit."
"I know that." But he's the one who spotted the damned thing. Maggie squints at him, suddenly deeply unimpressed. "You were going to go out here for a boar alone?"
"You can hunt anything, I'm not doubting that." He's the best of all of them, when it comes to taking down game. "But I don't think I'm wrong when I say a boar could've gutted you out in the woods with none of us the wiser."
Don't do it again, is what she means. It's not something she's stupid enough to try and dictate, though - Alexandria isn't hers, and neither does she hold any sway over Daryl.
He should grouse. He can feel the place where he would. She's right, and some part of him finds that deeply annoying, the fact that he isn't given latitude to do whatever fool things he'd chastise others for.
The sunlight streams through her hair, picking out the golden strands among the brown; it reminds him of autumn, and her eyes, then? A pond, a stream of clear, cool water, not yet frozen over.
He shakes his head. "Went out alone and almost died on your daddy's farm," he says instead. "You remember that?"
"How could I forget?" It's a strangely fond memory at this point, nearly ten years gone. It's possible to forget the tensions and fears, her father's vet supplies disappearing into the bodies of near-strangers. (And, too, to set aside everything else going on. Passing notes back and forth with Glenn, Beth getting up to all kinds of trouble with Jimmy, that naive hope that they'd be find the right medicine to bring Shawn back, Mom, everyone. She doesn't want to think about those parts right now, and she doesn't.) "They thought you were a walker at first, you know."
Everything was different, and nothing was. They'll probably be filthy and exhausted by the time they get back, if they manage to net themselves a boar today. The boar'll be most of the reason no one tries to shoot them.
"You're hard to kill," she adds, smiling sidelong at him. "But I still like your chances better when you're not going one on one with a feral hog."
Daryl is almost surprised. It seems like the person he was back then would have been totally beneath her notice. The fact that she can recall the incident warms him, and the fact that she doesn't bring up the ear necklace leaves him with a cool relief.
"Have before," he says instead, "easier when you lure 'em, but we can't spare feed. Gonna have to find him and set a trap."
"Did he say where he saw it?" They're headed in that direction, she assumes, but hell if she knows what kind of space boars take up. What she's picked up of hunting, this kind of subsistence hunting, is purely what she's had to; domestic creatures are what she really knows.
All she can think at the moment is, if boars are the type to roam, they'll be lucky to get this over with in the span of a day.
"Near that strip mall with the nail salon," Daryl says. It had a sign with the name of it and everything, but a tree fell on it a few years back, and he can't remember. He always thinks of the nail salon, though, because it's still got a sign in the window eternally advertising a limited time offer. "Finding it won't be a problem. We get close enough, he'll chase us."
He looks her up and down, hating himself a little for the internal calculation. "How fast can you run?"
"I haven't been timing myself," she says, a little dryly, "but I'm not slow."
The wheels are turning in his head, Maggie can see that much. Deciding whether she'll be a hazard or not, is her guess. Whether she can outrun a boar, if push comes to shove, and frankly, she has no idea. At this point, she's built for endurance; they all are, she suspects. "How about you?"
She believes him, on both counts. Daryl's solidly built, enough muscle on his frame to slow him down. Maggie's fleet-footed, at least in theory. With a wild hog on her tail, she'll have to be.
It'll be over quick, more likely than not. But there's a decent chance it'll end with her run through.
"You're asking me to let it chase me 'til you can take it down." She's looking straight ahead, out into the trees. "You trust your aim that far?"
"Ain't like that." He won't leave her hanging too long. But explaining his plans, his thoughts, is always a bit difficult. Rick and him got to speaking the same language by the end of things, and Michonne, almost, and now they're gone, and-
And he's got to try.
"Way you're supposed to hunt hog," he says, staring at his hands. They hang out in front of him, as though holding the corn he's about to vividly describe to a beautiful woman. "You get soured corn, pile it up, build a blind, and wait. Then you track 'em- never can take 'em down in one. But we ain't got corn."
And even if they did, they wouldn't waste it, letting it ferment. Carol would lose her damn mind-- and she'd be right, too.
"Gonna build a blind. Gonna build a place you can climb up onto." Bring the pig to him, and keep her safe. Well. Safer.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"Folks're busy," he murmurs instead. "Getting the walls back up."
no subject
no subject
Some stupid urging, some echo in the back of his mind, reminds him of a pertinent fact-- Maggie can hunt.
"You offerin'?"
no subject
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
"Thanks." She can feel the difference in their weight, just holding them in a quiver. Under better circumstances, she'd rather take a few practice shots first, but there's no time to waste today. "We need anything else for these critters?"
no subject
In almost every hunting circle Daryl has ever been aware of, the term is lubing your arrows. Due to some particularly stark memories of Merle's sterling commentary, Daryl always says oil.
"Ain't like deer. This'll take all damn day. And we ain't got no feed..."
Now he's just complaining.
no subject
Not as long, though, as this boar of his, apparently. "Did Aaron go on ahead?"
no subject
no subject
Jesus Christ, Daryl.
no subject
no subject
Don't do it again, is what she means. It's not something she's stupid enough to try and dictate, though - Alexandria isn't hers, and neither does she hold any sway over Daryl.
no subject
The sunlight streams through her hair, picking out the golden strands among the brown; it reminds him of autumn, and her eyes, then? A pond, a stream of clear, cool water, not yet frozen over.
He shakes his head. "Went out alone and almost died on your daddy's farm," he says instead. "You remember that?"
no subject
Everything was different, and nothing was. They'll probably be filthy and exhausted by the time they get back, if they manage to net themselves a boar today. The boar'll be most of the reason no one tries to shoot them.
"You're hard to kill," she adds, smiling sidelong at him. "But I still like your chances better when you're not going one on one with a feral hog."
no subject
"Have before," he says instead, "easier when you lure 'em, but we can't spare feed. Gonna have to find him and set a trap."
He lets out a long sigh.
"And hope it ain't a him."
no subject
All she can think at the moment is, if boars are the type to roam, they'll be lucky to get this over with in the span of a day.
no subject
He looks her up and down, hating himself a little for the internal calculation. "How fast can you run?"
no subject
The wheels are turning in his head, Maggie can see that much. Deciding whether she'll be a hazard or not, is her guess. Whether she can outrun a boar, if push comes to shove, and frankly, she has no idea. At this point, she's built for endurance; they all are, she suspects. "How about you?"
no subject
Wheels turn in his head. He had one plan, and expanding it to fit two people has been the work of most of his day, between getting broadheads and oil.
"Quickest way to do this... you're the bait."
no subject
It'll be over quick, more likely than not. But there's a decent chance it'll end with her run through.
"You're asking me to let it chase me 'til you can take it down." She's looking straight ahead, out into the trees. "You trust your aim that far?"
no subject
And he's got to try.
"Way you're supposed to hunt hog," he says, staring at his hands. They hang out in front of him, as though holding the corn he's about to vividly describe to a beautiful woman. "You get soured corn, pile it up, build a blind, and wait. Then you track 'em- never can take 'em down in one. But we ain't got corn."
And even if they did, they wouldn't waste it, letting it ferment. Carol would lose her damn mind-- and she'd be right, too.
"Gonna build a blind. Gonna build a place you can climb up onto." Bring the pig to him, and keep her safe. Well. Safer.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)