Yeah, well you did. [ Probably. He's not a hundred percent on what harrying is, but he's got a pretty good guess. He's not a hundred percent on what that means either--how they talk--but luckily Quentin has enough frustration to fill in the blanks. His fingers don't loosen until his foot catches a divot in the long grass, and Quentin throws a hand out to steady himself, spitting: ] What the hell was I supposed to say to that? No? Of course I don't wanna get left, no one wants to get left, that's not the point!
That shit about Laurie? You two are friends? The fuck was that?
I meant- [He stops himself. No anger, especially not at young people. He won't let his pride get wounded over being misunderstood; it's his own damn fault. A deep breath, and he reigns it in.]
Said it wrong. I ain't... good at talking. 'Specially not on goddamn phones. My own damn fault. Should've known when the shut my trap.
[He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back, staring at nothing. A curtain of dirty hair falls over his face. He's thinking, trying to sort through it how Quentin would see it, though the life of an even nominally well-adjusted teenager is a mystery to him.]
If you think I was baiting you, I wasn't. I was... I wanted to know how you thought. If I could see it how you did. Maybe I could help more.
What, because if you know how I was thinking, you could solve me? You'd have some kind of--flowchart to decide whether or not I want you to live?
[ The admission should soften him; Quentin has a pretty good idea of how hard it is for Daryl to do talkin and of how hard he works to be up front. But adrenaline is still buzzing in his veins, and sometimes--sometimes the two of them think so differently that it sets Quentin's teeth on edge. His head buzzes, hands jerk and jump in the air as he claws out words. ]
If you wanna help more, stop acting like there's some kind of formula! Wins and losses--this isn't a fucking computer, Daryl, you can't just put in facts and get out conclusions! I'm not a computer! You're not!
[He looks up, then, and for a moment, anger flashes in his eyes. But he's spent too goddamn long holding back his temper to lose it now. What Quentin says is just fucking baffling, and that confusion sparks him to anger, sure. It's not worthy anger, though; it won't solve anything. He grits his teeth and breathes through his nose until the urge to lash out is gone.]
Dunno who put them ideas in your head, but it wasn't me. Ain't trying to fix nobody. Trying to figure out what your fucking game plan is, how I can help, but you're real big on- [A snarl cuts up the side of his face, and he pulls it back down-] It's all my way or the goddamn highway with you.
I told you the game plan. The game plan was get out the gate. It wasn't that complicated--do you want visual aids next time? I'll try to get pics of us going out the door!
[ The mist has dissipated as they tromp along, leaving Daryl and Quentin in a brushy patch of woods, trees starting to crowd around them. Now, as the field of vision clears, Quentin takes the opportunity to double back. When his finger jabs out this time, it jabs a blood-slick spot on Daryl's shirt. ]
I know you're frothing to be the guy getting people out. You're so good at it, wow, Daryl, what a fucking hero. You know all the rest of us do it too, right? Imagine that--we even manage with without you sometimes! Why can you not, for once, just fucking trust me!
[He used to be a talker, is the thing. He wasn't good at it. He never actually communicated. Nothing he said was of any value. But he knew how to lay down a good insult, to make someone squirm, to rile them up to punching.]
[That knowledge hasn't gone away, either.]
[He could explain himself, point out all the ways Quentin is wrong, is chasing at ghosts, clearly has a chip on his shoulder the size of a fucking mountain. He doesn't. He just says the thing he thinks will hurt Quentin the worst, because it would pain Daryl like an infected wound.]
[ Daryl might as well have hit him for how hard his heart skips. His lips sew tight together, the upper twisting hard, same as his nose, eyes wide and watering--boiling, probably, if his flush is anything to judge by. He bares his teeth in what is surely a poisonous fuck you, but his throat wavers at the very last second. The sound crashes gracelessly against his soft palette and dies there.
[ The finger at Daryl's chest turns into an open palm and a petulant shove. Hard enough to give Quentin an inch or two head start when he turns on his heel to march the other way. ]
[Yeah. That's the reaction he used to dig out of people. He didn't feel anything then, because it that wasn't what men were supposed to do. Out of Merle's shadow with a decade of self-reflection under his belt, though? Daryl only feels disgust. He's trying to make kids cry, now? Really? What the fuck is wrong with him?]
[He lets Quentin go. He'll lie down in the forest, wicked trees curling around him, and stare into the sunless sky.]
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That shit about Laurie? You two are friends? The fuck was that?
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Said it wrong. I ain't... good at talking. 'Specially not on goddamn phones. My own damn fault. Should've known when the shut my trap.
[He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back, staring at nothing. A curtain of dirty hair falls over his face. He's thinking, trying to sort through it how Quentin would see it, though the life of an even nominally well-adjusted teenager is a mystery to him.]
If you think I was baiting you, I wasn't. I was... I wanted to know how you thought. If I could see it how you did. Maybe I could help more.
no subject
[ The admission should soften him; Quentin has a pretty good idea of how hard it is for Daryl to do talkin and of how hard he works to be up front. But adrenaline is still buzzing in his veins, and sometimes--sometimes the two of them think so differently that it sets Quentin's teeth on edge. His head buzzes, hands jerk and jump in the air as he claws out words. ]
If you wanna help more, stop acting like there's some kind of formula! Wins and losses--this isn't a fucking computer, Daryl, you can't just put in facts and get out conclusions! I'm not a computer! You're not!
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Dunno who put them ideas in your head, but it wasn't me. Ain't trying to fix nobody. Trying to figure out what your fucking game plan is, how I can help, but you're real big on- [A snarl cuts up the side of his face, and he pulls it back down-] It's all my way or the goddamn highway with you.
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[ The mist has dissipated as they tromp along, leaving Daryl and Quentin in a brushy patch of woods, trees starting to crowd around them. Now, as the field of vision clears, Quentin takes the opportunity to double back. When his finger jabs out this time, it jabs a blood-slick spot on Daryl's shirt. ]
I know you're frothing to be the guy getting people out. You're so good at it, wow, Daryl, what a fucking hero. You know all the rest of us do it too, right? Imagine that--we even manage with without you sometimes! Why can you not, for once, just fucking trust me!
no subject
[That knowledge hasn't gone away, either.]
[He could explain himself, point out all the ways Quentin is wrong, is chasing at ghosts, clearly has a chip on his shoulder the size of a fucking mountain. He doesn't. He just says the thing he thinks will hurt Quentin the worst, because it would pain Daryl like an infected wound.]
You ain't earned it.
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[ The finger at Daryl's chest turns into an open palm and a petulant shove. Hard enough to give Quentin an inch or two head start when he turns on his heel to march the other way. ]
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[He lets Quentin go. He'll lie down in the forest, wicked trees curling around him, and stare into the sunless sky.]