[ 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 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.]