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.
It still sounds risky. She can think of half a dozen different ways his plan still ends with her recovering for weeks after - or worse, with Hershel an orphan. But hell, they're close to starving at this point. Landing a boar means enough for everyone to eat long enough to put Alexandria back together.
"All right." It comes out in a hard little breath, and she glances over at him again. "You were gonna do the whole thing yourself, weren't you?"
And, after three increasingly feeble protests, she lets him off the hook. He really doesn't know what he's done to deserve her mercy. Nothing, probably, and by the way his attention is reshaping itself-- the curve of her jaw leaks a beautiful shadow over her shoulder-- he's about to deserve it even less.
That's just how Maggie is, though. Grace where you never expect it.
He looks up, caught in a moment of distraction. He wonders if he'll catch shit for it. He wonders if she'll notice.
"Hmm," he murmurs. "Get you a ladder, or-..."
He looks around. A rusted old pickup is abandoned in the parking lot; Maggie could jump in that. He gestures to it.
Grace might be overly generous. There comes a point when she has to weigh the odds of failing against the status quo - and right now, that means she's looking at deciding between the possibility of her death or the possibility of Hershel's. She'd rather eat glass than see those round cheeks of his go hollow, and it's clear enough that their supplies are running short.
And hell, Daryl's managed it before. She's not about to challenge him to a footrace, but she'd be surprised as hell if it turned out she was slower than someone who took up smoking in his teens and didn't manage to break the habit.
She glances at the pickup truck and back at Daryl, giving a nod. Seems like a decent possibility, if she can get on top of the cab in time - depending on how big the boar is, she's not convinced it won't be able to catch her in the truck bed. And if it doesn't work, she'd better hope he shoots quick and hard. "All right. You're gonna have to take my bow with you - it's gonna slow me down."
He wants to explain still-hunting and ambush-hunting, how to play them both off each other, how to use an animal's instincts against itself. Very suddenly and very keenly, he wants her to understand the way the world works in woodland, the way a hunter moves, the way the world moves around them. He tells himself it's for Hershel's sake, and it is, but not entirely.
Daryl takes a few steps into the denser woodland off to the side of the crumbling strip mall parking lot. Drying mud from last night's rain reveals a lucky pattern. He isn't talking, now, just pointing, and he figures Maggie is clever enough to pick up on that, pick up on the new, quiet way he walks. A tuft of hair caught in some bark, and he points to that, too, waiting for her to see it. The base of a tree has been worn down, its bark sloughed off from a hog rooting against it. Yes, they're in the right place.
Under other circumstances, she'd be likely to ask. They've got to draw the creature out, and she wants to know the details of how, what the worst chances are and the best, how they're going to manage this and both come home safe. Someday, if it's just Hershel and her again, she'd rather know what's possible than wonder at tracks.
But the opportunity to say anything evaporates when he finds tracks here. Her entire body shifts, no longer casual about movement. They've got boar bristles and fresh hoof prints here, and her weight's shifted to the balls of her feet, ready to run or shoot as needed.
Pulling the deer fat from her pocket, she nods in response to his pointing. Seems like they're about ready to grease up some arrows.
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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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"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?"
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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.
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Not as long, though, as this boar of his, apparently. "Did Aaron go on ahead?"
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Jesus Christ, Daryl.
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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.
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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?"
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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He looks her up and down, hating himself a little for the internal calculation. "How fast can you run?"
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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?"
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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"All right." It comes out in a hard little breath, and she glances over at him again. "You were gonna do the whole thing yourself, weren't you?"
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At the strip mall, she glances around. "We wanna be up near the wall? It's one less place the hog can run."
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That's just how Maggie is, though. Grace where you never expect it.
He looks up, caught in a moment of distraction. He wonders if he'll catch shit for it. He wonders if she'll notice.
"Hmm," he murmurs. "Get you a ladder, or-..."
He looks around. A rusted old pickup is abandoned in the parking lot; Maggie could jump in that. He gestures to it.
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And hell, Daryl's managed it before. She's not about to challenge him to a footrace, but she'd be surprised as hell if it turned out she was slower than someone who took up smoking in his teens and didn't manage to break the habit.
She glances at the pickup truck and back at Daryl, giving a nod. Seems like a decent possibility, if she can get on top of the cab in time - depending on how big the boar is, she's not convinced it won't be able to catch her in the truck bed. And if it doesn't work, she'd better hope he shoots quick and hard. "All right. You're gonna have to take my bow with you - it's gonna slow me down."
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He wants to explain still-hunting and ambush-hunting, how to play them both off each other, how to use an animal's instincts against itself. Very suddenly and very keenly, he wants her to understand the way the world works in woodland, the way a hunter moves, the way the world moves around them. He tells himself it's for Hershel's sake, and it is, but not entirely.
Daryl takes a few steps into the denser woodland off to the side of the crumbling strip mall parking lot. Drying mud from last night's rain reveals a lucky pattern. He isn't talking, now, just pointing, and he figures Maggie is clever enough to pick up on that, pick up on the new, quiet way he walks. A tuft of hair caught in some bark, and he points to that, too, waiting for her to see it. The base of a tree has been worn down, its bark sloughed off from a hog rooting against it. Yes, they're in the right place.
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But the opportunity to say anything evaporates when he finds tracks here. Her entire body shifts, no longer casual about movement. They've got boar bristles and fresh hoof prints here, and her weight's shifted to the balls of her feet, ready to run or shoot as needed.
Pulling the deer fat from her pocket, she nods in response to his pointing. Seems like they're about ready to grease up some arrows.
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