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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[ 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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[He lets Quentin go. He'll lie down in the forest, wicked trees curling around him, and stare into the sunless sky.]