And Aaron, well, he laughs. He's spent too many stakeouts with Daryl, woke up in too many tents, been saved by him too many times not to know what his humor sounds like. It's subtle and bitter and it's a lot like Daryl himself. That's the thing about humor, everyone has their own signature, their own independent mark.
And really, the fact that Daryl's in any kind of mood to tell his own bitter joke is great news, as far as Aaron's concerned.
"Thanks," he says, dry in his own way. "You're really putting me to shame." He's so pleased that Daryl's here, alive, with all his fingers and limbs intact. It's better than he was expecting, more than he was expecting.
He picks up the box of produce Daryl was carrying, eyes bright (or, as bright as they can be). "Where are we going?" Sorry, buddy, you're stuck with him now.
They haven't said anything of substance, but it says enough. Daryl can crack a shitty joke and Aaron can laugh it off, so the two of them, they're both okay. Okay enough, anyway. In his own screwed up way it's a compliment that he doesn't fuss over it. Aaron looks like someone kicked the shit out of him, but he's a guy who can take it, so no reason to worry.
Same reason he won't object about Aaron taking the crate, though he was doing fine with it. (Joke's on Negan, he's survived longer on less and worse than dog food.) He nods in the direction of the kitchens.
"How're things back there?"
Back home, he should say, but he can't. Why, who knows. The word won't fit anymore, not anywhere.
Aaron doesn't know his way around Hilltop, he's barely been here before. Grateful for a guide, especially one with an exceptional sense of direction, he follows Daryl without question.
He nods his head, trying to decide what to tell him; there might be news Rick would rather break to Daryl himself. "How much have you heard?" He looks around for other people he knows, finding none. "We're... hanging in there."
That lack of an answer, it's an answer itself, isn't it?
"Ain't asked after much," he admits. It's been enough to try to get his feet under him, get used to being here. He's heard a little of the trouble the Saviors have caused. Knows they've lost people, though he hasn't got the full list of who. It's not like him to not want to know.
He's busy trying not to worry about having been set loose. About what might be coming after him. About what might happen to whoever-- he has his suspicions-- slipped him the key.
The thought of going back there--
He can't think about it.
"Never mind." Soon enough he'll get the full story, no doubt. For a moment he thinks it through, changes the subject a little.
Aaron knows enough of Daryl's quiet, thoughtful silence to guess vaguely at his thoughts. He can by no means read his mind, but he senses worry, uncertainty in his features. Of course, after the state he was in when he visited Alexandria, that's an easy bet. He can only guess what Negan put him through.
He keeps walking. There's nowhere to go but forward. He hopes Daryl knows that too. "If you want to know," Aaron says, quiet, "I'll tell you." He should never have thought sparing Daryl the news would be a mercy.
But onto brighter subjects. "I haven't seen her since-" Well. "How's she doing?"
There's never been any comfort in ignorance for him; the idea that people are holding back to spare his feelings is not nearly as disturbing as the fact that he's kind of grateful for it. He's gotta get his shit together, he knows. It's just been easier to look ahead: to plan for how they're gonna keep Maggie safe, how he's gonna keep from getting snatched up by the Saviors again, how they're gonna wipe that smug fuck off the map til no one remembers his fucking name.
(He's fine, though. No lasting effects.)
"She's good," he says, even though it's not true. As well as anyone could be, after that, would be more accurate. I can barely bring myself to face her. Aaron will know what he means, at least most of it. "Baby's doin' all right, I heard."
"-Good, good." He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. That's a weight off his shoulders, and it reveals more weariness than he'd like. Aaron's always endeavored to remain personable, to make sure things don't get him down. It was a valuable skill in the Peace Core, it made people trust him and tell him what he needed to know. It kept him safe and valuable.
More and more, he feels like he's back there. Warlords and fire, murder and sacrifice, and no veneer of political status to keep him from the warzone. The whole planet is the warzone.
He turns to Daryl. "I'm glad you're alright." No more dancing around it. "I wasn't sure I'd see you again."
After everything, all the good people they've lost-- their whole damn lives, lost-- it'd be too much if anything happened. He'd been grateful enough after finding out Maggie was all right to forget everything else for a little while. Enough to greet her and grieve and rejoice without being overcome by the weight of guilt, and by the time it caught up with him they'd both been able to be too busy to talk about it.
"Me, neither." The admission comes out sounding less cavalier than he means, which leaves him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Not that he's not used to that, these days.
"Someone let me out." That's a little less fraught, if only because it carries a warning. Someone let him go, which means there's always the slim chance that he's not free after all.
Aaron remembers when he was younger, seeing a car overturned on the road. He saw the underbelly of the machine, all the moving subtleties working together to power a cohesive, shining whole. He's reminded of that moment now. Cars don't feel, though, and they aren't protective of their parts. After everything Daryl seems like he's been through (evident in how he prowls as he walks, the wary way he looks around them, his careful steps), Aaron won't take his secrecy from him.
He focuses on the second statement, possibly safer, definitely less personal. "'Someone'? You don't know who?"
It's an endless relief that he doesn't have to explain too much. Even if he was the kind of guy who wanted to talk about feelings (and he's not), even if he wanted to talk about this (and he doesn't), it's all still too raw and close. Aaron's sparing him the ordeal of having to fight it back down, all those interminable, uncountable days rising like bile in the back of his throat any time he lets himself slow down enough to think back on it.
Not everyone understands without words, not enough, and the fact that Aaron does-- it's maybe why he was the first of the Alexandrites who felt like one of their group.
"I got an idea. Just..." He gets uneasy again, not sure he's got a good way to explain what it's like, there. How everything's a game and the games are always rigged. How even the rewards are punishments. Maybe it was someone breaking through, defying the whole goddamn business; maybe she was meant to do it. Maybe they're all being tested. There's no way of telling. There's no certainty, because if anything could ever be certain there, then people wouldn't stand for Negan's bullshit.
Aaron thinks on that, turning his just a bit head to the side, turning the thought over in his mind. It's better news than he expected, even if Daryl doesn't seem to agree. Maybe he just hasn't realized it. However he escaped... maybe it wasn't the clean break Aaron had hoped for.
He studies Daryl again, and maybe it's just his imagination, but his steps seem more labored. His gaze seems more tired.
"Well," he says, hoping his positive spin won't seem like an imposition, "if whoever helped you is still over there... it means they might be able to help us again."
"Maybe," he grunts, but the tone says no. It's not like that. It's not having someone on the inside, not like this. Best case it's one turn deserving another.
But that's nothing new, knowing what they've got to do. It's not about them, not anymore, much as he wants to crawl back into the comfort of family. You can't do that. Can't just turn away, not anymore, cause that's buying into it.
(If he could know, if he could be sure he was out clean, maybe he wouldn't feel so goddamn haunted.)
He wants to scrub at his face with his hands, suppresses the urge. It's too telling.
This is clearly something Daryl has opinions on. When he'd first met Daryl, he'd found him difficult-- he was so quiet, so secretive, he felt like he was missing out on something. With time, he realized there was only one thing you could do in situations like that.
If he had an easy answer to that question, he'd give it. From moment to moment he finds himself unsure of what he wants; whether they ought to free all those people or wipe them off the goddamn planet. There's no just getting by. That's true; he believes that, enough to beat in the face of a man begging for his life.
But he knows, too, that some people can twist things around til you don't see a choice to make at all, much less the right one to make, the one that doesn't stomp someone else into the mud. There are times he looks back at the man he used to be, when all this started, and has to admit how easy it would have been to have ended up on the wrong side of things.
"I dunno," he says at length, not to be cagey but because it's the only true answer. "Just... Things can't stay like this."
Obvious. He shouldn't have said anything at all, maybe.
Aaron nods his head, slow and thoughtful. It reminds him of something, and damn, Daryl looks so lost. Maybe he better share.
"When we were back there," he says, "all lined up for Negan, I thought of this book I read in high school." In truth, he always thinks of it whenever he's stuck under the thumb of a dangerous and violent man. Negan was just the first time it happened on American soil, out of the Peace Core. "Eric hates it. It says, if you want to know the future of mankind, imagine a boot stomping on a face forever."
He's probably paraphrasing. It's been years since he read that awful thing. Decades.
"When I was out there, I thought, I found the boot."
He shakes his head. "I tried to go along with it. All of us did. But... you're right. We have to fix this. It's our responsibility." As people, as humans.
He's quiet for a while, mulling it over. Hasn't got a clue what book Aaron's talking about, but the sentiment's clear enough. It's an awful, resonant image; he can feel it again, the futility of the anger he'd clung to out there in the darkness, the terrible reality of their punishment.
It's the kind of thing he would have agreed with, once, without questioning it. Of course that's what the future would bring, that's what human nature is. The past few years he's tried so goddamn hard to believe things could be different. That they could make things different. Build a better future, because that's who they were.
Now he wonders if it's inevitable. Maybe you just find another boot.
"We're gonna," he says with a fierce certainty that takes him by surprise. No more mistakes. No more prices paid. The world Negan is building, it has to be torn down.
That's why he likes Daryl. For all his harsh exterior, his sullen silences, Daryl is inextricably a good, caring person. Whenever he does something, it's for the good of the many. He's more understanding than mot of the self-satisfied stuffed shirts he knew in Washington. Aaron's proud to know him.
"I'm glad you'll be here to help us do it," he says. "I can't think of many people I'd rather have backing me up."
When it comes down to it, he's doing the only thing he can do. Either you roll over or you fight back. He's done with turning his back, pretending he doesn't know better. They've all been complicit too many times, in too many terrible things. This is one too many. Or maybe it's just that this is worse than anything else.
You don't just get by.
"Don't get sappy on me," he growls, and it might sound serious to anyone who didn't know him, but all he means by it is thanks.
Aaron laughs-- a little snort in the back of his throat, but it's a laugh, because he knows well enough what a joke sounds like. The subtle humor is a good sign, he thinks. A tiny, quiet victory. Something Negan couldn't take from Daryl, however much he might have tried.
"I'll try," he says. "Where are we lugging this?" He gestures to his carton of vegetables.
He keeps walking, a slow pace, slightly less tense. The familiarity of joking around, at least, makes him feel more like himself.
"Bet someone in there can find her for you." For the moment-- well, he's not sure she's ready to see him more than she has been, he's not gonna push it.
Aaron keeps walking, keeps carrying that box. "Maggie?" He asks gently, as gently as he can. "How's she doing?"
He's not sure it's a subject Daryl wants broached, but if he doesn't, he'll make it known. Daryl's someone who lets his will be known; he doesn't fuss around with whispers and implications. It's another count in his favor, as far as Aaron's concerned.
It's an uneasy admission, but probably not that surprising. Daryl got her husband killed; he figures she can't be eager to talk about that. He can't look at her without seeing it all again; her fevered eyes set in a bloodless face, the sound of the bat. Maybe someday he'll man up and apologize proper, but he's not there yet. Neither of them are, probably.
"Looks... healthy." That's the best he can say. Important, too, when it was such a close call.
Aaron nods. He hadn't expected Daryl to say much else. Honestly, this may have been an indirect way of asking about Daryl. Doing so directly is something he knows better than to try.
"I'm glad to hear it," he says. "I'm glad to hear both of you are doing better."
It feels like he ought to say something to that, but somehow he can't come up with anything to say. Is he doing better? Better than what?
Somewhere, deep down, there's an old impulse to lash out with something cruel, the way he always used to. He can't decide whether he's resisting it because he's become a better man, or if it's the lingering effects of captivity-- the desire to stay out of sight, keep out of trouble.
Sometimes Daryl needs his silence. Aaron can live without constant conversation. They make it to the kitchen and unload the box of produce without much difficulty. There are plenty of people running back and forth, lots to do. It's easy to get lost in the shuffle.
Walking back, he turns to Daryl and asks a question that's been sitting at the back of his mind a while. "I guess you'll be staying here? It's safest." Still, he can't hide the genuine feeling of regret that gets tangled in his voice.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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And really, the fact that Daryl's in any kind of mood to tell his own bitter joke is great news, as far as Aaron's concerned.
"Thanks," he says, dry in his own way. "You're really putting me to shame." He's so pleased that Daryl's here, alive, with all his fingers and limbs intact. It's better than he was expecting, more than he was expecting.
He picks up the box of produce Daryl was carrying, eyes bright (or, as bright as they can be). "Where are we going?" Sorry, buddy, you're stuck with him now.
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Same reason he won't object about Aaron taking the crate, though he was doing fine with it. (Joke's on Negan, he's survived longer on less and worse than dog food.) He nods in the direction of the kitchens.
"How're things back there?"
Back home, he should say, but he can't. Why, who knows. The word won't fit anymore, not anywhere.
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He nods his head, trying to decide what to tell him; there might be news Rick would rather break to Daryl himself. "How much have you heard?" He looks around for other people he knows, finding none. "We're... hanging in there."
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"Ain't asked after much," he admits. It's been enough to try to get his feet under him, get used to being here. He's heard a little of the trouble the Saviors have caused. Knows they've lost people, though he hasn't got the full list of who. It's not like him to not want to know.
He's busy trying not to worry about having been set loose. About what might be coming after him. About what might happen to whoever-- he has his suspicions-- slipped him the key.
The thought of going back there--
He can't think about it.
"Never mind." Soon enough he'll get the full story, no doubt. For a moment he thinks it through, changes the subject a little.
"You here for Maggie?"
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He keeps walking. There's nowhere to go but forward. He hopes Daryl knows that too. "If you want to know," Aaron says, quiet, "I'll tell you." He should never have thought sparing Daryl the news would be a mercy.
But onto brighter subjects. "I haven't seen her since-" Well. "How's she doing?"
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(He's fine, though. No lasting effects.)
"She's good," he says, even though it's not true. As well as anyone could be, after that, would be more accurate. I can barely bring myself to face her. Aaron will know what he means, at least most of it. "Baby's doin' all right, I heard."
And that's the only consolation they get.
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More and more, he feels like he's back there. Warlords and fire, murder and sacrifice, and no veneer of political status to keep him from the warzone. The whole planet is the warzone.
He turns to Daryl. "I'm glad you're alright." No more dancing around it. "I wasn't sure I'd see you again."
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"Me, neither." The admission comes out sounding less cavalier than he means, which leaves him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Not that he's not used to that, these days.
"Someone let me out." That's a little less fraught, if only because it carries a warning. Someone let him go, which means there's always the slim chance that he's not free after all.
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He focuses on the second statement, possibly safer, definitely less personal. "'Someone'? You don't know who?"
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Not everyone understands without words, not enough, and the fact that Aaron does-- it's maybe why he was the first of the Alexandrites who felt like one of their group.
"I got an idea. Just..." He gets uneasy again, not sure he's got a good way to explain what it's like, there. How everything's a game and the games are always rigged. How even the rewards are punishments. Maybe it was someone breaking through, defying the whole goddamn business; maybe she was meant to do it. Maybe they're all being tested. There's no way of telling. There's no certainty, because if anything could ever be certain there, then people wouldn't stand for Negan's bullshit.
"Hard to be sure."
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He studies Daryl again, and maybe it's just his imagination, but his steps seem more labored. His gaze seems more tired.
"Well," he says, hoping his positive spin won't seem like an imposition, "if whoever helped you is still over there... it means they might be able to help us again."
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But that's nothing new, knowing what they've got to do. It's not about them, not anymore, much as he wants to crawl back into the comfort of family. You can't do that. Can't just turn away, not anymore, cause that's buying into it.
(If he could know, if he could be sure he was out clean, maybe he wouldn't feel so goddamn haunted.)
He wants to scrub at his face with his hands, suppresses the urge. It's too telling.
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You ask.
"Well, what do you think?"
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But he knows, too, that some people can twist things around til you don't see a choice to make at all, much less the right one to make, the one that doesn't stomp someone else into the mud. There are times he looks back at the man he used to be, when all this started, and has to admit how easy it would have been to have ended up on the wrong side of things.
"I dunno," he says at length, not to be cagey but because it's the only true answer. "Just... Things can't stay like this."
Obvious. He shouldn't have said anything at all, maybe.
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"When we were back there," he says, "all lined up for Negan, I thought of this book I read in high school." In truth, he always thinks of it whenever he's stuck under the thumb of a dangerous and violent man. Negan was just the first time it happened on American soil, out of the Peace Core. "Eric hates it. It says, if you want to know the future of mankind, imagine a boot stomping on a face forever."
He's probably paraphrasing. It's been years since he read that awful thing. Decades.
"When I was out there, I thought, I found the boot."
He shakes his head. "I tried to go along with it. All of us did. But... you're right. We have to fix this. It's our responsibility." As people, as humans.
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It's the kind of thing he would have agreed with, once, without questioning it. Of course that's what the future would bring, that's what human nature is. The past few years he's tried so goddamn hard to believe things could be different. That they could make things different. Build a better future, because that's who they were.
Now he wonders if it's inevitable. Maybe you just find another boot.
"We're gonna," he says with a fierce certainty that takes him by surprise. No more mistakes. No more prices paid. The world Negan is building, it has to be torn down.
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"I'm glad you'll be here to help us do it," he says. "I can't think of many people I'd rather have backing me up."
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You don't just get by.
"Don't get sappy on me," he growls, and it might sound serious to anyone who didn't know him, but all he means by it is thanks.
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"I'll try," he says. "Where are we lugging this?" He gestures to his carton of vegetables.
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He keeps walking, a slow pace, slightly less tense. The familiarity of joking around, at least, makes him feel more like himself.
"Bet someone in there can find her for you." For the moment-- well, he's not sure she's ready to see him more than she has been, he's not gonna push it.
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He's not sure it's a subject Daryl wants broached, but if he doesn't, he'll make it known. Daryl's someone who lets his will be known; he doesn't fuss around with whispers and implications. It's another count in his favor, as far as Aaron's concerned.
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It's an uneasy admission, but probably not that surprising. Daryl got her husband killed; he figures she can't be eager to talk about that. He can't look at her without seeing it all again; her fevered eyes set in a bloodless face, the sound of the bat. Maybe someday he'll man up and apologize proper, but he's not there yet. Neither of them are, probably.
"Looks... healthy." That's the best he can say. Important, too, when it was such a close call.
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"I'm glad to hear it," he says. "I'm glad to hear both of you are doing better."
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Somewhere, deep down, there's an old impulse to lash out with something cruel, the way he always used to. He can't decide whether he's resisting it because he's become a better man, or if it's the lingering effects of captivity-- the desire to stay out of sight, keep out of trouble.
"Yeah," is all he can manage.
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Walking back, he turns to Daryl and asks a question that's been sitting at the back of his mind a while. "I guess you'll be staying here? It's safest." Still, he can't hide the genuine feeling of regret that gets tangled in his voice.
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