If Daryl ever knew he was that easy of a read, he'd kick himself. As it is, he's poking his head out of the treeline, squinting through fog and shadow. He's clearly trying to make some kind of shiv out of a particularly large branch and the sharpened edge of a Rolex stolen from Haddonfield, and this action keeps his mind clean and sharp. It's slow going, but it lets his thoughts keep from falling into those same wheel ruts-- how dare you say that shit to a kid?
"Yeah?"
He's expecting more yelling. He's not gonna run from it, his head isn't cowed, but there's a straight-backed readiness in his posture. He'll hold his fucking tongue this time, so help him.
Jackpot. Quentin slows when he's within about twenty feet, taking the last couple yards to get his breath. He brandishes the notebook with an exhausted look. "The fuck is this?"
Daryl visibly deflates. That didn't work, which means he's completely out of ideas. At least he knows what to do next: explain the context of his embarrassing, mangled attempt at an olive branch.
"Tryin' to fix things," he says, "so you didn't have to deal with me if you didn't wanna."
Deflating is good, deflating looks less like he's gearing up for a fight. Never once can Quentin remember his dad giving an inch. That straight back, shoulders square, chin sternly tucked--those were nights that Quentin knew they'd be in for ten rounds. That Daryl loses the posture is good, probably the only thing that convinces Quentin he's allowed to pop back, "I do want to. Christ, Daryl--I dunno how I have to say it!
"I like you. I wanna deal with you. I don't wanna see you strung--I don't--" He can imagine screaming through this hiccup with his dad too, no fumbling or stumbling when you could just shout through it. But Quentin's throat clenches hard, and instead of push through it, he takes a second to turn away. Just till he can swallow. Then he's back, shaking the notebook between them. His voice shakes too, but it doesn't break. "How come I'm supposed to be able to live with leaving you behind, but it's not okay for you?"
Daryl waits, and he watches, and the fact that the kid can't keep it all in sets him strangely at ease. Everybody always seems so on their game, when they talk about how they feel, and Daryl always feels on the knife's edge between not saying enough and crying. He's always cried too easily. Merle made sure he knew that.
He wishes he was on good enough terms with Quentin to reach out, but he knows his limits. Instead, he tries to give the boy space, turning politely to the side, to set down the shiv and hang the watch on a tree branch. He picks up some grass, and begins looping it into a chain-- anything to do with his hands in nervous moments like these.
When Quentin finishes, only then does Daryl risk speaking. His words are careful, tentative. He sounds like a pussy, but Merle ain't fucking here to laugh. "Been thinking 'bout that," he says. "Ain't right. I had worse, but- don't mean you gotta see it, live with it."
He looks down at the looping chain of plant fiber between his fingers, growing longer by the second. He'll need more soon. He sits in the black-green grass, and pats the hillside for Quentin to settle down on, if he needs it. "What I meant. Compromise. Friend'a mine used to call it..." a frown, what's the word- "triage."
He doesn't want to sit. He doesn't want to sit, but the clear cut path that Daryl carves for him is still better than standing and pacing like an asshole. Quentin sinks ginger and silent next to him and follows suit with the grass--except that Quentin's fidget is more tearing up thin clumps and break them into inch-by-inch pieces. No one has to tell Quentin he cries easily, he damn well knows. Even now, the smell of exposed dirt pushes the anger and frustration and confusion (the images of people jerking, dying, of Daryl--) up to the surface of his eyes. It wells there, waiting.
"Triage." He grinds out. He's listening. Not looking, that's too much! But listening.
Quentin keeps his head down, so Daryl keeps his eyes on the grass. A little bracelet weaved, and he starts on the next. He's made a thousand of these things since coming here, imagines giving them all to Judith and RJ, and knows he never will. Still, the thought calms him.
"Yeah," he says, quiet. "Dunno what it's supposed to mean; I could never understood what all he said. But I took it as... trust. You help them that need it most, and if that means you're bein' helped, you gotta trust that person's you."
A sigh, his mouth a thin line of disappointment with himself. "I gotta trust you."
"Nah," he says with a tired sigh. "Just stupid. Think I know better. I dunno shit."
Another bracelet, thrown away, and he starts on the next. He's run out of words, after this point; what else is there to say? He fucked up, and punishing Quentin over it isn't going to help anybody.
"Daryl..." He's not even sure where to start. The stupid bit. The knowing shit. An admission that Quentin is half making this up as he goes along, which stings even to think about. It just trails off as he goes for the tossed bracelet. He snaps it up between his fingers. Delicate. Flips the thing over. Pretty.
"...You're not stupid." A long, tight sigh. At long last, Quentin's eyes tick up to him, still glistening. "Not stupider than me, at least. It felt like--like you were trying to trick me. Make me say something that would make me look stupid, so you could..." His gaze drops to the braid, fingers running the loops like a rosary. "...I dunno. Put me in my place. That thing about Laurie sounded like a threat."
Those he's heard plenty here, from killers of all stripes. She's your friend, isn't she? What about all your little friends?
"At a certain point, everything looks like a knife." There's that glance back again. "I'm sorry."
Signs of discomfort in Daryl often look like retreat, or squaring up for a fight; his shoulders tense, back straightens, and he pulls away. A new kind of snarl forms on his mouth, one of utter bafflement. You're not stupid, this coming from the kid who probably finished high school.
"I ain't-" he huffs, lets it out, forces himself to deflate. This isn't a competition. Everything looks like a knife. This kid is so goddamn clever, and he don't even know it.
(And who the fuck made him think like that, like people were always trying to get one over on him? Whoever they are, they deserve a bloodied nose, if not worse.)
"No mind game shit," he says, "never from me. Can't keep up with myself, half the fuckin' time." He gestures to the two of them, sitting together like dogs outcast from the pack. In the distance, the campfire glitters. "This is all I was tryin'a do. Figure out how we could work together."
No mind games. Quentin nods along, working around and around the bracelet. "Fine. So...so we learn to triage." He chews at his lip, bounces his knee. "That's--it's a medical term, actually. I only ever heard it watching M*A*S*H* with my dad. The doctor or nurse running triage decides what gets priority treatment, what's--what's the most important thing to handle. You're not that far off."
Maybe, he considers even as he spells it out for Daryl, making a game out of surviving didn't help assess anyone's priorities. He has to wipe his eyes clean with his thumb. "I shouldn't've been calling those shots as a--carrot to get something I wanted. But you get like a fucking dog with a bone, man, I dunno how to get through to you when you're like that, I just--I thought I could get you out."
Despite himself, a smile curves up Daryl's cheek. It's a small thing, crooked and awkward, and he turns his face to the side to hide it. Still, it leaks into his voice-- kindness, amusement.
"Could say the same damn thing about you," he murmurs. "Reckon that's the problem. Both too stubborn for our own good."
"Uh-huh. The difference is, you--" Don't know what it's like to lose everyone. Think you can keep everything in your head. Do absolutely stupid shit when you could just cool it for five seconds. Quentin reels that back pretty quickly; there's nothing he can think of to sling at Daryl that doesn't fall apart in seconds. Too damn stubborn. He's not wrong about that, even right now.
"I forget. When everything's happening, I just--forget that it's not the end." His thumbnail snaps through a loop. "If it's me or someone else, I wanna get left." He needs a big sigh to look straight at Daryl again, determined. "If it's triage, and it's sacrifice me or someone else, leave me. If it's a sure thing."
So Daryl nods, and he points a finger right back at Quentin. "And if it's me or somebody else, pick them."
That's not hard. An agreement, and they're both trusting the other to follow through. But that's not the whole of it, and Daryl knows it. Quentin's opened up a little, explained his thought process, and Daryl ought to do the same. He's just... fucking bad at it. Talking's hard, so he's gotta snake a path through the words.
"This one time," he sits back a little, staring up at the dark treeline. "This one time, me'n my people, we ran into some... they was cannibals. Got the jump on us. Lined us all up in front of a pig trough, gagged and bound, slitting throats. Thought we was done for..."
His eyes have gone distant. This is a long time past, and the memory no longer shakes him. It just leaves him cold. "And then an explosion went off. Saved our people. Turned out one of us'd snuck away and shot up a gas tank."
He rubs at his face. "What I'm tryin'a say is, you can't make it alone. Ain't nobody can." A breath, and he catches Quentin's eye. "I can't."
It's easy enough for his mind to go there; his imagination is rich for atrocities these days. Daryl relays the story with such steadiness, though, it feels uncanny. For his part, Quentin can barely get through even the good stories from back home without choking up and tripping over himself.
He sets his jaw, holds Daryl's gaze and doesn't quite cry. But he's hoarse. "How do you get used to feeling that? Watching people. Being--useless. I can't--stand it, I can't fucking--"
Too hoarse. The back of his hand clasps to his mouth, broken braid still curled in his fingers.
Daryl's expression becomes strained, his mouth a thin line. "Plenty'a practice," he says, voice dull and raking like a bone beneath the saw.
But he recognizes that shame; now that he knows what it is, he can see it in himself. A past version of himself, perhaps, and that's another sort of blessing. He knows how he got over it.
"I can... teach you what I did, to get over it. Tracking, trapping." There's no hunting, here. "How to live so you don't need nobody."
He hisses sharply, covers his face with both hands and pushes them through his hair. "I don't want to not need anybody! I just don't want to lose--!"
Maybe a little time in the woods would help. Sure. Why not. That doesn't soothe the yawning (roaring) feeling between his ribs. Quentin doubles over with a curse, head between his knees and nails scraping up either side of his neck and spine. He means to come back up, refreshed from expressing something, energized by anger instead of despair.
He doesn't come up. Just--cracks in the throat. Sobs.
He's not like you, Daryl. A stark fucking reminder. And a strange relief-- he's come to the point where he knows how to deal with crying people. Even a year ago, he'd have been at a loss, but he's lived with Lydia, now. He can make a guess. Nothing too familiar, he doesn't pull the poor kid into a hug. Just a hand on his shoulder, lighter than it should be. Daryl's always been a soft touch, in every sense.
He makes a hushing noise he hopes is soothing, and says, "just 'cause you lose, don't mean nothing good's ever gonna happen again."
His ankles and wrists cross, elbows and knees fit together. He's tightwired enough that even the delicate touch (maybe especially the delicate touch) makes him flinch like a mouse trap. His fingers knot together, catching the ends of his hair. He shakes. "When is--when anything good supposed to h--hoo--happen? When the fuck are we supposed to see anything good, Daryl, I just--"
For the sake of breathing deep enough to get a grip, he jerks his head up, fits his chin hard against his wired knuckles. He can breathe and talk as long as he keeps his eyes open, that's good. Just keep them wide open. "I'm so fucking sick of losing people. I'm so fucking tired of it, I'm not like you. I need people. I need people, I can't keep losing them or I'm gonna fucking lose my mind, Daryl."
I'm not like you, I need people. Daryl stares into the sunless sky, and lets his eyes catch the uncaring stars. They're probably fake. He tried navigating by them once, and he ended up spinning in circles. Nothing makes sense, here. None of the old rules, from when the old world functioned, apply, and half the rules from the world of the dead are pretty near useless.
"How long you been here?" And then Daryl remembers how little patience Quentin has for leading questions. "World ended-- where I'm from-- near on ten years back."
He remembers Sophia, the farm, hiding on the edge of their group, worrying and feeling dejected.
"What you're feeling-- everybody's feeling it. Just-... I felt it ten years back."
As for good things, well. He knows better than to try and convince someone as young and angry and desperate as Quentin that good things are happening, will continue to do so. That's something the kid's get for his own self.
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"Yeah?"
He's expecting more yelling. He's not gonna run from it, his head isn't cowed, but there's a straight-backed readiness in his posture. He'll hold his fucking tongue this time, so help him.
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"Tryin' to fix things," he says, "so you didn't have to deal with me if you didn't wanna."
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"I like you. I wanna deal with you. I don't wanna see you strung--I don't--" He can imagine screaming through this hiccup with his dad too, no fumbling or stumbling when you could just shout through it. But Quentin's throat clenches hard, and instead of push through it, he takes a second to turn away. Just till he can swallow. Then he's back, shaking the notebook between them. His voice shakes too, but it doesn't break. "How come I'm supposed to be able to live with leaving you behind, but it's not okay for you?"
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He wishes he was on good enough terms with Quentin to reach out, but he knows his limits. Instead, he tries to give the boy space, turning politely to the side, to set down the shiv and hang the watch on a tree branch. He picks up some grass, and begins looping it into a chain-- anything to do with his hands in nervous moments like these.
When Quentin finishes, only then does Daryl risk speaking. His words are careful, tentative. He sounds like a pussy, but Merle ain't fucking here to laugh. "Been thinking 'bout that," he says. "Ain't right. I had worse, but- don't mean you gotta see it, live with it."
He looks down at the looping chain of plant fiber between his fingers, growing longer by the second. He'll need more soon. He sits in the black-green grass, and pats the hillside for Quentin to settle down on, if he needs it. "What I meant. Compromise. Friend'a mine used to call it..." a frown, what's the word- "triage."
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"Triage." He grinds out. He's listening. Not looking, that's too much! But listening.
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"Yeah," he says, quiet. "Dunno what it's supposed to mean; I could never understood what all he said. But I took it as... trust. You help them that need it most, and if that means you're bein' helped, you gotta trust that person's you."
A sigh, his mouth a thin line of disappointment with himself. "I gotta trust you."
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Another bracelet, thrown away, and he starts on the next. He's run out of words, after this point; what else is there to say? He fucked up, and punishing Quentin over it isn't going to help anybody.
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"...You're not stupid." A long, tight sigh. At long last, Quentin's eyes tick up to him, still glistening. "Not stupider than me, at least. It felt like--like you were trying to trick me. Make me say something that would make me look stupid, so you could..." His gaze drops to the braid, fingers running the loops like a rosary. "...I dunno. Put me in my place. That thing about Laurie sounded like a threat."
Those he's heard plenty here, from killers of all stripes. She's your friend, isn't she? What about all your little friends?
"At a certain point, everything looks like a knife." There's that glance back again. "I'm sorry."
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"I ain't-" he huffs, lets it out, forces himself to deflate. This isn't a competition. Everything looks like a knife. This kid is so goddamn clever, and he don't even know it.
(And who the fuck made him think like that, like people were always trying to get one over on him? Whoever they are, they deserve a bloodied nose, if not worse.)
"No mind game shit," he says, "never from me. Can't keep up with myself, half the fuckin' time." He gestures to the two of them, sitting together like dogs outcast from the pack. In the distance, the campfire glitters. "This is all I was tryin'a do. Figure out how we could work together."
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Maybe, he considers even as he spells it out for Daryl, making a game out of surviving didn't help assess anyone's priorities. He has to wipe his eyes clean with his thumb. "I shouldn't've been calling those shots as a--carrot to get something I wanted. But you get like a fucking dog with a bone, man, I dunno how to get through to you when you're like that, I just--I thought I could get you out."
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"Could say the same damn thing about you," he murmurs. "Reckon that's the problem. Both too stubborn for our own good."
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"I forget. When everything's happening, I just--forget that it's not the end." His thumbnail snaps through a loop. "If it's me or someone else, I wanna get left." He needs a big sigh to look straight at Daryl again, determined. "If it's triage, and it's sacrifice me or someone else, leave me. If it's a sure thing."
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That's not hard. An agreement, and they're both trusting the other to follow through. But that's not the whole of it, and Daryl knows it. Quentin's opened up a little, explained his thought process, and Daryl ought to do the same. He's just... fucking bad at it. Talking's hard, so he's gotta snake a path through the words.
"This one time," he sits back a little, staring up at the dark treeline. "This one time, me'n my people, we ran into some... they was cannibals. Got the jump on us. Lined us all up in front of a pig trough, gagged and bound, slitting throats. Thought we was done for..."
His eyes have gone distant. This is a long time past, and the memory no longer shakes him. It just leaves him cold. "And then an explosion went off. Saved our people. Turned out one of us'd snuck away and shot up a gas tank."
He rubs at his face. "What I'm tryin'a say is, you can't make it alone. Ain't nobody can." A breath, and he catches Quentin's eye. "I can't."
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He sets his jaw, holds Daryl's gaze and doesn't quite cry. But he's hoarse. "How do you get used to feeling that? Watching people. Being--useless. I can't--stand it, I can't fucking--"
Too hoarse. The back of his hand clasps to his mouth, broken braid still curled in his fingers.
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But he recognizes that shame; now that he knows what it is, he can see it in himself. A past version of himself, perhaps, and that's another sort of blessing. He knows how he got over it.
"I can... teach you what I did, to get over it. Tracking, trapping." There's no hunting, here. "How to live so you don't need nobody."
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Maybe a little time in the woods would help. Sure. Why not. That doesn't soothe the yawning (roaring) feeling between his ribs. Quentin doubles over with a curse, head between his knees and nails scraping up either side of his neck and spine. He means to come back up, refreshed from expressing something, energized by anger instead of despair.
He doesn't come up. Just--cracks in the throat. Sobs.
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He makes a hushing noise he hopes is soothing, and says, "just 'cause you lose, don't mean nothing good's ever gonna happen again."
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For the sake of breathing deep enough to get a grip, he jerks his head up, fits his chin hard against his wired knuckles. He can breathe and talk as long as he keeps his eyes open, that's good. Just keep them wide open. "I'm so fucking sick of losing people. I'm so fucking tired of it, I'm not like you. I need people. I need people, I can't keep losing them or I'm gonna fucking lose my mind, Daryl."
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"How long you been here?" And then Daryl remembers how little patience Quentin has for leading questions. "World ended-- where I'm from-- near on ten years back."
He remembers Sophia, the farm, hiding on the edge of their group, worrying and feeling dejected.
"What you're feeling-- everybody's feeling it. Just-... I felt it ten years back."
As for good things, well. He knows better than to try and convince someone as young and angry and desperate as Quentin that good things are happening, will continue to do so. That's something the kid's get for his own self.