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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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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.