people in hell want slurpees.

[worn_wings]

Comments

Teleios Flower Event-ish

[dum_spiro]

((From this starter and this event. Action! (heh).))

If they knew her recent experience with flowers, anyone would understand Carol hating them. Wanting to stomp them into the mud. Doing everything possible to avoid the reminder of yellow wildflowers spattered with the blood of a little girl whose only crime was growing up in their world, or bouquets atop twin gravesites. A Cherokee Rose in an empty bottle representing a hope that would soon be ground into dust. But she can't manage it.

Maybe it's the speck of color they bring to a world that always seems to be tinted a dirty red, or a reminder that not everything in the world brings pain. Who knows, it could even be memories of those few, early good times with Ed. Whatever the case, Carol doesn't hate them.

That's why, when she spots a simple but colorful batch of freshcut flowers being handed out on the street, she partakes with a wistful smile. She indulges in a quick sniff, twirling the stem between thumb and finger, before placing it behind her ear. It doesn't even feel morbid. A fleeting joy by definition, though what isn't in her life? Carol may be hardened of necessity and cold when events demand, but part of her is still able to enjoy the little things in life, when she can. And here, now, if she refused, she really would be what Rick thinks of her.

So she walks, and thinks, and even chances a smile. Things are bad -- were bad, but she can survive it. She will.

[worn_wings]

All things considered, this is probably harmless. It's ridiculous, but it's probably harmless. Since his first unfortunate, unexpected encounter with a flower-bedecked stranger out in the streets, he's found himself set upon at every goddamn turn, it seems. The strangers aren't even the worst of it; truth is he's already working very hard to forget about one encounter in particular. But all of it, even that, it's mortifying, but it ain't dangerous. He's still thankful enough for the relative safety of Teleios that he ought to be able to talk himself into not letting it get to him.

It kind of gets to him, though.

Enough that he's beating a retreat, heading home to hide himself away a little while and hope maybe some of this blows over. He feels like an idiot for having to do so, but it seems like the right day to cut his losses.

And as luck would have it, he comes up on the house just at the moment she does, from the other direction. He picks his head up to look at her, and it's too late already.

"Carol," he says quietly, almost a little whine. How can she have gotten so far with a flower in her hair like that, and not know any better by now what it means, what it's bound to do? Like things aren't complicated enough. He slows like he's going to stop in his tracks, but he doesn't. He can't, even if he should, and before he can offer any kind of explanation he's already reaching for her.

[dum_spiro]

How has she gotten so far? If she heard that thought, and knew the source of it, she might have teased him for what could be interpreted, in a playful moment, as jealousy. Fortunately or no, that is not where her mind goes; she is too far removed from comfort (literally and otherwise) for quips of familiarity.

Steeped in guilt, she takes his tone as an accusation and is caught between fear and indignation. So what, she thinks, if she wears a flower? She is bound to mourn in her own way, he of all people should understand...

The thought is only half formed when it gives way, something not exactly alarm rising when she sees how he's approaching her. Unknowing, she moves to grip his arms, not trying to halt him (she trusts him, no matter if he sees things differently) but to question, silently, what in the earthly hell could be going on to make him look at her that way.

~ July 15ish

[worn_wings]

If she's looking for him, she won't find him in his room; the door's hanging open but it's empty, the fresh, clean wall marred by a long crack. At its center is a blooming, fractured crater, just the right size for a fist. Not much mystery about what happened here.

And from down the hallway comes the second clue, water running in the bathroom for way too long to be normal. That's where he is, standing at the sink with it running over his knuckles. The worst of it's washed off already, but he hasn't moved yet, just staring at the water swirling down the drain. Or maybe past it, his mind miles away.

All the way back home.

No one had panicked at first, when morning came around and Rick was nowhere to be found, but as the denizens of Honolulu Heights came and went and realized no one had seen him, not even for a minute, it became more urgent to sort it out by the minute; and when it had been confirmed, finally, that Rick Grimes was no longer in the city of Teleios... well, they'd known. They'd known before word came down, but somehow the finality of it hit like a ton of bricks.

For Daryl, anyway. He'd come home calm as anything, and gone upstairs, and taken one deep breath and let himself have one moment of anger before he bottled it back up, before he had to start coming up with answers, thinking how they're gonna get by when Rick has been their single point of solidity for so long that it seems as normal as breathing.

So, here he is. Answers? Yeah, he's got nothing.

[dum_spiro]

If Carol were home when fist met wall she'd have done -- something. She can't quite say what, but when she finally peeks in Daryl's room and sees the result of his over-boiling, her first thought is that she should have been there, that she could have made a difference for him. Somehow.

For herself, what's left in the wake of Rick's absence is mixed feelings. Lost opportunities. Redemption he offered but she couldn't truly accept because he simply didn't know. Standing in the bathroom doorway and watching Daryl's reflection watch the water over his hand, Carol's turmoil gives way to grief, shared and otherwise.

Rick was -- is family, but more than that he was constant. A compass for the group in all ways. His absence weighs her down on the wrong side of the doorjamb for a long, quiet moment before she shrugs it off, as she must, and steps inside.

Against Daryl's back she rests, cheek on his shoulder, arms slipping around him, comfort both offered and requested.

[worn_wings]

Maybe he'd have managed not to be so destructive, if she'd been here. Honestly, it might be for the best that she wasn't; he's usually pretty good these days about keeping his calm, but this... This is big, this he needed to get out. There are things maybe Carol doesn't need to see, he thinks. He's always working to be a better man, but everyone stumbles.

Consumed in his thoughts he doesn't notice her coming down the hall or standing in the door; he doesn't look up until she moves again, stepping into the room. He catches her eye in the mirror as she wraps her arms around him. He looks like he's taking it well, more or less; at least, his expression is neutral, though something of the grief shows in his eyes, just for a moment.

But it helps, right away, at least a little. His shoulders slump slightly, the tension draining from his spine as she leans against him. A few weeks ago-- well, he wouldn't have counted on this, though it's not so unfamiliar, after all the time she's spent riding with him. It's still novel, though, how different this is, how easily she slips beneath his defenses and how little he minds. How much he appreciates it, really.

He doesn't turn the water off, though dimly he thinks that he should. Instead he settles his other hand over hers, tilting his head slightly, enough to break the gaze in the mirror but not quite enough to meet her eyes.

post truth so mid-june-ish

[worn_wings]

Whatever magic was in the air seems to have worn off, which is a relief. Daryl is, by and large, a pretty honest man, but some things don't need to be said. It's been a couple of days since anyone tried and failed to clamp their hands over their mouth to avoid spilling their deepest secrets, so as far as he can tell, it's safe to risk having conversations with people again.

He's an honest man, but he knows the life they leave, sometimes it means you do some ugly things, sometimes you'd rather not dredge those up. Part of what makes them who they are-- their extended family, their group-- is that they've got a moral code still, something they won't sacrifice for the sake of survival. What Carol did... Daryl's still not sure if it jives with that code. Being removed from the situation, not knowing firsthand what this sickness was or who these people were or whether they might've made it, that's rough.

But he knows Carol. He's known her long enough that he can't just give up on her like that, even after what she did. And the truth is he hates how it came to light, hates that they had to ambush each other on the street like that. Maybe it's for the best, clear the air with no sugar-coating, but it damn well hurt her, and he can't be all right with that. Stuck talking like that made her vulnerable, and Carol of all people-- well, he doesn't like her not getting a choice.

He can't make all this right, but he figures if he can level the field a little, he owes her that.

Which is why he's outside her door right now, knocking once, firmly, on the frame to see if she's up for a talk.

[dum_spiro]

Carol's been keeping to herself all the more since that day. If she wanted to tell people -- and that's still an if, part of her would have been quite content to keep it to herself -- that wasn't the choice she'd have made as to how. She's no stranger to secrets, she hid Ed's behavior for years before the apocalypse killed all measure of privacy. Karen and David though, it's as though even the act of speaking the truth changes her in ways she isn't sure she wants to be changed. There's no relief, no burden lifted now that it's out. Just fear, and shame, and doubt.

Lizzy and Mika still remain private for now, at least there's that. It's not just that she's less able to explain in a way that anyone who didn't know Lizzy could understand, though there is that, but rather that the whole thing feels too personal to share. Karen and David were a deep malignancy, hard to excise but left enough normalcy to salvage. Lizzy and Mika are wrapped in and around Carol's heart, her mind, everything that makes her. The longer she keeps their secret, the more it grows and the heavier it becomes, the harder Carol has to strain to drag it along, the more certain she is that there's no way she'd know how to survive without it.

Here there's no hiding, so when she goes to answer the knock Carol makes no attempt to shy away. She opens the door with one smooth motion and stands in the doorway, ready for judgment. Only being pulled in fifteen emotional directions keeps her expression some semblance of neutral at first glance; look closely and Daryl will see she simply can't decide between them.

[dum_spiro]

If Carol had a choice, she'd have gone back to kitchen duty. The aspect of being around people is discomfiting at times but there's work enough to avoid much socializing without seeming conspicuous about avoiding it. There's a rhythm to the day, satisfaction of achievement at the end. Easy access to knives. Chances to bake in her off-time.

Fishing is useful, at times a grateful break from the bustle of the city which is new enough, still, to be jarring. Other than that, it's too easy to get lost in the quiet. Immerse herself in dark corners and have to fight her way back out. The occasional distraction of a tug on her line isn't nearly enough to keep her preoccupied and so she finds herself sinking into the dark again. Fortunate that there's enough reason to claw free and more or less shake it off.

Still, being alone is not the conducive to ridding herself of the lingering alienation she's feeling. She'll have to fight harder.

[worn_wings]

If Daryl had been given his choice of jobs... he'd have ended up right where he is. Hunting's something he's good at, something he's used to. Having that point of familiarity was endlessly helpful when he was trying to adjust to life in Teleios; and, honestly, though he doesn't think of it that way, having a task he was competent in helped keep him grounded with his group. The skills that make him useful to them back home, they don't all generalize so well; having a guaranteed way to stay useful, that was good.

Since Carol's been back, he's been making the effort to swing by the lake when he can. It's autumn, there's less game about; shifting more and more to setting traps means he's got more free time to spend while waiting. He's not gonna complain about it. He checks in at home, he swings by the Temple, he keeps an eye on things the way he always has, but checking in with Carol... is maybe for his sake as much as it is for hers.

And that's what he's doing right now, coming up after a few hours checking lines that are still empty. It's all right, there's no rush; people around here pull their weight and the Temple's got plenty of food. (He checks, frequently. He's too used to the alternative.)

He sets his bow down next to a tree before coming to sit beside her wordlessly, close enough to be comfortably companionable without getting in the way of what she's doing.

[ so, after that scene cut... ]

[purgata]

Fact is, I'm lost, so... if you could tell me where we are... ?

[ He hands the map over to Daryl at that point, the inquiry lingering in his eyes as the other man looks it over. Having no idea who he'd managed to run into, who it was he'd just helped out of that trap, he's not prepared for, nor does he fully comprehend, the look with which he's transfixed a moment later. ]

[worn_wings]

[Oh, that look. It's a hell of a look. It's bad form to look like that at someone who's just saved your life with a peaceful attitude and whatever Jedi shit that was, but come on, he can't not be suspicious. He takes a half-step forward, almost but not quite threatening.

You better have a good explanation, buddy.]

Where'd you get this?

text 1/3 ;; [ set in savrou ]

[rheecon]

hey

text 2/3 ;;

[rheecon]

daryl

text 3/3 ;;

[rheecon]

i'm pretty sure this place has a holodeck 😮

[photogaffe]

It's a while before Eric lets him make the trip. Aaron would have made it sooner, but things kept getting in the way. The roads are dangerous. They need supplies. He has a black eye and a busted lip. He knows all of it's true, but that doesn't keep him from wanting to make the journey.

He finally convinces Eric to let him go when the cut on his lip goes down. His eye is still blotchy, but it's more yellow than purple, and that's what matters.

In truth, he's come to Hilltop to see Maggie. The need for supplies is less dire, and people are regularly making the journey between their communities. It's an easier trek to make than it was. He wasn't expecting to find Daryl. He was, in truth, never expecting to see Daryl again.

But there he is, carrying a crate of food from one place to another. Aaron runs up to him, would embrace him if he wasn't carrying something. He stops just short of that, a wide smile on his face, to clasp his hand over Daryl's shoulder. "You're here." He barely believes it.

[worn_wings]

He doesn't start, which has taken some practice. Daryl is fine. He's doing fine. It's not the familiar face, or the way Aaron reaches for him, that halfway makes him want to freeze in his tracks-- it's just the suddenness of the movement, and he's getting used to it. Hates that it's something he needs to get used to, but there's a part of him that's hyperaware in a way that makes his old baseline of vigilance look like nothing.

No wonder every person in that place is so fucking miserable.

"I'm here," he echoes, not managing to match the smile. He shifts away a bit, just enough to bend and put down his box, to look Aaron over appraisingly. Feels like a lifetime ago he saw the guy. Is it too soon to joke about that shiner? It's probably too soon to joke about that shiner.

"You look like shit."

Who cares, it feels more normal than anything else he could say.

[grheene]

The moment they're (nearly) all at Hilltop, something shifts. Rick looks more like himself than he has since before they thought they'd taken out Negan. The gaps in their number--Aaron back in Alexandria, Eugene taken away by the Saviors--aren't permanent this time. In all of this, there's potential. There's hope.

(Except for Carol and Morgan. Maggie wants to believe they're out there somewhere, each surviving in ways only they can manage, but it's a hard, jagged piece of a dream. They always all seem to find each other again, but there's never a guarantee it'll be the way they want it to be. She remembers Beth limp in Daryl's arms, found and lost in the same moment.)

Inside, they talk and eat and plan, and Maggie lets the eating be blamed on her own ravenous appetite. Anything to make sure everyone else gets something solid in them, after all they've traveled and knowing that Alexandria's always suffered for its meals. Daryl's quiet, and Maggie's fine with that. She can't bring herself to look him in the face right now anyway, and she doubts he's looking forward to doing the same.

A day goes by, though, and a few more, and she knows she can't just circle around the fact that he's here. For the sake of Glenn's memory, for the baby's future, for her own sanity--there are plenty of reasons to force herself to go looking for Daryl later that week. When she finds him, she waits for him to notice her.

"C'mon," she says, crossing her arms. "I wanna show you something."

[worn_wings]

Keeping out of her way has been easy enough. That first day when Jesus brought him back here, Daryl was too shellshocked and overwhelmed to remember he had any reason to avoid her. She'd been one of very few things he could classify as safe without second-guessing it, and since then, since he got a handle on himself, they've both been busy enough to quietly avoid ever being in the same place at the same time for too long.

Since the others got here it's been about the same. Having them show up has been-- hell, everything; it wasn't until Rick and the rest of them stepped through that gate that he began to feel like himself, like a goddamn human again, really-- but they've been busy, and he's thrown himself into the work that needs to be done because that's what he does, it's who he is, and it keeps him from having to wonder or having to talk about it.

He notices her right away. He's always been wary, alert, but these days he feels like everything's been worn away; life hits on raw nerves and he can't rest anymore. Noticing her, though, is just that; he doesn't react at first, calling on a life's habit of stoicism (ground now to a whisper-sharp edge by his time in captivity, when every damn thing was a trick to get a rise out of him) to leave her the opportunity to walk away unhindered if that's what she'd rather.

But it seems like she wouldn't rather, so after a minute he quits chopping wood and looks at her. Really looks, the way he hasn't let himself in case he sees something in her face he doesn't want to. Searching her expression... he can't make out much of anything. Maybe she doesn't know herself how she feels. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. Either way, he nods, takes a step nearer.

"All right."

hope u like sads.

[photogaffe]

So they go to war.

It's hard to really figure out when it started. Days pass and roll into weeks, and those weeks get more and more contentious. People start dying in silly, stupid skirmishes. It gets even less safe to go outside your walls, and then it's barely safe to go outside. With what he's seen before any of this even started, Aaron should really have known better. Things get dicey when you're not just fighting to survive, but fighting for your right to. Things get rough. The world hardens, gets bleaker, and then deflates.

It goes completely grey when Eric dies in a stupid accident. Everything is the same smudged color, sounds loose pitch. Aaron sleepwalks through the ensuing fight, and the funeral is a rushed mess at the overflowing cemetery at Alexandria.

Aaron doesn't go back to their house. His house. He takes the next supply caravan to Hilltop.

Maggie is busy with the world spinning around her shoulders. Aaron won't bother her. He tries to help out, keeps his head down, but word gets out. People start looking at Aaron differently. He notices, and doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything. There's nothing to do.

There's a wine cellar at the bottom of the big house at Hilltop's center. Aaron went on a tour there once, and he remembers it. There's still wine down there, once guarded fiercely by Gregory's goons. Now, nobody has the time to care about stupid status goods like that. Aaron steals a bottle and finds a room to drink it in. He's never drank alone. Never wanted to.

It occurs to him that he's never opened a wine bottle without an opener before, either. There is, of course, a penknife in Gregory's old desk. Well, no time like the present.

delicious sads, yes

[worn_wings]

It's the sound that catches his attention, that's all. Daryl isn't like he was right after they brought him back-- all raw nerves and held breath, the only reason he didn't jump at shadows is he'd freeze stock still-- but alert, well, he's always been that way, probably will be til he slips up and something takes him out. Hilltop is as safe as any place can be, now, and the big house is deep within the walls, behind all their defenses; it's not where you'd think to find an intruder.

But an out-of-place noise is an out-of-place noise, and it has him stalking slowly down the stairs with a knife in his hand. You don't ignore things like that.

He's expecting maybe some kids playing hide-and-seek, or maybe a possum got in or something, but what he finds is Aaron, with a shitty little knife in his hand and that haunted look in his eyes.

With a low grunt, he sheathes his knife, though he doesn't back off.

i warned u

[rheecon]

How he came to be here-- how he's anywhere at the moment-- is anyone's guess. Despite his newfound situation, he hasn't garnered any greater insight into the workings of the universe, the mechanics of human mortality, or any of the timeless, impossibly expansive questions surrounding the meaning, purpose, or definition of life.

But here he is, in some form that's not quite in sync with existence anymore, some manifestation of consciousness without corporeality, an essence in the shadows that, when the scarce light touches it, might be a vague approximation of the physical being that was Glenn Rhee.

And though he seems to be looking with his eyes, all of that essence is seeing the crumpled form of his friend.

"Daryl."

His voice hasn't changed; it isn't an unearthly howl or a groaning from the depths. Whether that makes it better or worse really depends on who's listening.

how dare

[worn_wings]

It is, really, not all that unusual. Daryl is no stranger to ghosts; real ghosts, well, maybe, but they live surrounded by the dead in more than one way. Now and then the rotted features resolve themselves into a face, and you wonder. Every goddamn day the people they've lost walk with them; a weight, an ache, a reminder to do better; the strength to keep fighting or the familiar dulled sting of loss. It's worse here, because he's alone, because they don't let him sleep, because he's going out of his fucking mind. Because he got one of his best friends killed.

When he shuts his eyes he can't help seeing it, the stuttering horror of that night on an endless loop. Abraham's defiance, the sick sound of Glenn hitting the ground. People don't leave, once they're gone.

It doesn't even really surprise him. He's been listening to Merle sneer at him on and off, distant sobs that make him think of Beth, of Carol's girls; he can't tell what's real and what isn't. Glenn being here to judge him a while-- why not?

He deserves it.

All he can do for the moment is stare, halfway waiting for everything to change-- for the shape to solidify and then melt into a gruesome parody of a face, all blood and bone and dangling eye. No use talking. He's got nothing to say in his own defense.

[littlemissfutility]

so what do you want for christmas??????

[worn_wings]

are you kidding