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."
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.
Daryl makes her wait for an answer. He's just staring at her--not the way she expects, like he'd look through her like cellophane if he could, but really taking her in. The hat, she guesses, and the way her skin's no longer the colour of paper, no longer pulled taut over her bones the way it was when they hauled him away. Or maybe something simpler than that. Maybe he's just trying to be sure this isn't a trick.
He looks exhausted, even now. Not so filthy as the morning Jesus brought him home (long as they're all here, Hilltop's home), she thinks, though she wasn't looking closely, but it looks like a few days haven't been enough to return him to full health. Whatever Negan did to him, it's going to stick for a long, long time.
But eventually, he agrees. She has the mental image of a stray dog, so suddenly in her mind that she wants to laugh (but doesn't), as he comes a step closer. All she does is nod, curt, and turn.
They're clear on the other side of Hilltop from their destination. Maggie's not sure that it'll be new for him--it's an obvious place to go, at least for their people--but they haven't been there together. One way or another, it has to happen. But it's going to take a minute or two, and she might as well drop a hint toward what she's got in mind. Without turning her head toward him, she asks, "Anybody show you the graves yet?"
It's too good of a comparison. Funny; when they got to Alexandria he thought that's what he felt like. An outcast, a mongrel the people there couldn't quite trust, skulking around the edges of the town, growling any time anyone came by. Comfortable only when he broke his leash and ran free a bit.
It's different, now. It's not the first time he's been treated badly, not the first time he's been looked down on, even beaten. But it's the closest he's ever come to being broken. People come too close and his shoulders tighten, steeling himself for a confrontation. He watches his reactions like they're someone else's, and hates it. The way he can't relax. The way he has to work not to snatch food offered to him like it's gonna be taken away.
He almost doesn't hear the question. It'd be nice if he could trust himself to talk without second-guessing things, but this is what they've got to work at. He grunts a negative, then realizes he should amend that answer.
"I saw where they were."
He's been around the grounds long enough. It's hard to miss.
"Good." It's better this way. Maggie's not sure she can handle showing him the place for the very fist time. It's a lonely place, even as it's comforting to her, and she doesn't doubt Daryl's going to have his own mix of emotions to reckon with. She's hoping that the fact that he's at least seen it from afar will take some of that first, awful sting from standing there.
The rest of the walk, she's quiet. There's not much to say right now, especially not when she's got to figure out how to make her point to Daryl. She lets him trail along, trusting he'll follow whether he's at her side or behind, and spends her own time wondering what Glenn would say if their positions were reversed. How he'd manage his anger, whether he'd reach out now or later--or if he already would have.
She'd give anything to hear his answer rather than imagine it.
Eventually, they're there, standing at the foot of two still-fresh graves.
"That's Abraham," she tells Daryl, gesturing first to one mound of dirt and then the other, "and that's Glenn."
She's said this before, like she's pointing them out across the room at a party. It's become a little easier with each iteration, though she's not convinced it'll ever be easy.
More than once, Daryl's thought about what Glenn would say. Probably he'd have forgiven him already, the bastard. That's the kind of man Glenn was, and maybe that's the greatest part of this loss. He was, in so many ways, the best of them. Brave and selfless and full of hope, when it was hardest to find. He's pretty sure that Glenn wouldn't hate him. It's part of why he's done such a top-notch job of hating himself.
But he doesn't want to put all of that on her. That's the least he can do, now; she's got enough to carry. He takes a step closer and shoots a quick, half-desperate glance back at her like she's gonna tell him to keep away, but that's-- that's not them, that's not any of it.
Because after all, even if it's his fault (it's his fault, he knows it's his fault), Glenn has been his friend for a long goddamn time, he's got his right to grieve, too.
He can't find the right words. He's got an inkling of what they oughta be, maybe, but he can't speak just yet, standing there between the two of them, his hand flexing into a fist and stretching out again, slow and repetitive, as though he could just grasp something to fix this moment.
He looks over at her like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's not enough for them to be here; something else has to happen, and he looks like he knows it in his bones.
"That's Glenn," she says again, looking at Daryl instead of the bare patch of ground before them. This is why they're out here together: so she can get this off her chest. It doesn't matter if they don't speak again for days (or weeks, or months), as long as he's heard the truth. Doesn't even matter if he listens--someday, she hopes, he'll understand. "And the reason he's in the ground there? That was Negan. He's the one who decided to swing that bat, and he's the one who swung it at Glenn."
Her throat closes up for a second, and she has to swallow before she can keep going. But when she does, her voice made low and tight by old tears she's not going to shed now, it's with a fire under every word. "Now, we both know you wouldn't have moved if you thought it'd hurt one of us. That's not who you are. I know that, everyone else here knows that, and if Glenn's out there--" She swallows again, harder this time. "Glenn wouldn't have any doubt. You need to know that, too. You didn't do this."
That's Glenn, she says, and just the sound of his name is enough to crack something in his chest. He's utterly silent but his shoulders shake just a little with the breath he draws, oddly unsteady. Daryl hasn't been gone long enough to show much sign of his captivity; he's not weakened, he's not much thinner, but he feels it. Stretched and old and weary. Right now more than ever.
It almost makes it harder that he doesn't have to explain himself. She knows; of course she knows. All of them, they talk without talking, they think alike even when they disagree. He shuts his eyes sometimes and he sees them, Rosita like a coiled snake, hears the banked fire in Rick's voice, and he knows every damn one of them knew what he was trying to do.
It should've been me, he doesn't say, because it's written across his face. That's not guilt talking. It should have been him, because that's what he wanted. Not because he's ever wanted to die, but because in that moment someone was going to. The terrible tension of it hung in the air, humid and smelling of iron, and he'd thought he could spare the rest of them, force Negan's hand. And he had.
(He wonders, sometimes, if he knew. How he knew. Of course he knew; Daryl has seen enough now to know that Negan's choices seem whimsical but they're never random. How he could tell where to strike, what would be worst, he's not sure. It's what makes that motherfucker dangerous. That, he understands, even if he can't articulate it. He's good at what he does and he's terrifyingly sane. Maybe brilliant. Unforgivable.)
He looks at her and determined as he is not to put it on her, all that grief, he can't keep his face from crumpling, though that's all he does. He can't cry over it; not like this, not here. That's not who he is and she doesn't need it, but it's far too close to the surface. For lack of a better response he steps back toward her, hoping she'll let him hang onto her for a minute.
(Or, ideally, stand guard over her and tear apart anyone who so much as looks at her wrong, but that's probably a less practical plan than giving her a tight hug and a shoulder to lean on if she'll take it.)
He doesn't have to ask her twice. Doesn't even have to ask her once, not with that look on his face. As soon as his face scrunches down like a balled-up piece of paper and he starts to move toward her, she's reaching out.
Maggie wraps him up in a hard enough hug that it doesn't feel entirely kind to her. Her hands ball up in the back of his shirt, her knuckles on his back and her chin on his shoulder both digging into him. He feels surprisingly solid under her grasp despite the way he's been skulking around Hilltop.
He's still human in there. But Negan's been torturing him--even now, outside that damn compound--and letting Daryl do all the work.
The way she clings to him is kinder than anything she might say. Human isn't how he's felt, these past days. He's hung around like a shadow, a ghost; it's reassuring, how sharp her knuckles are. If this was comfortable it wouldn't be right. They've got too goddamn much to mourn. It's gonna hurt.
They'll get through, they'll keep fighting, but the hurt's not gonna go away. They can't just pretend it's all right.
Though with any luck she won't mention the undignified sniffle as he gets himself back under control.
There's no reason to point out the obvious. They both know this isn't easy for him, all sniffles aside, and there's a glassy wetness to her eyes when she draws back. Nobody left that night unscathed, and if she wasn't exhausted of crying, she wouldn't bother holding the tears back.
She gives him a tired look--not unfriendly, but nowhere near a smile. This is the hardest part, harder than marching him over here to look at the graves. Standing here, looking at him and searching for something else to say, something besides what she's already said, that's what takes effort. It's the difference between staying mired in this pain and taking a step or two forward.
And it's nothing she's leaving to him. He's looked a little like a kicked dog ever since he and Jesus came down the green to meet the rest of them. She can handle the conversation.
In the end, everything meaningful she can think of would keep them right here in this moment. Maybe the only right thing to say is something so casual that they can't help but move on from it. "You eaten yet?"
The last thing he wants to do is set her off crying. Not because he hates seeing people cry (though he does), but because she must have had enough, by now; she's gotten herself steady, if maybe shaky, and he doesn't want to throw her off balance. Things are okay between them-- thank God, she's shown him that-- but it won't stop him from working to make it up anyway.
From another point of view, all that matters is-- they're family. Looking out for one another is how this works. If Glenn were still alive, Daryl would still be ready to defend Maggie and the baby to the death. So everything's changed and nothing's changed.
It feels like something fitting back into place, like nudging a puzzle piece that sat askew into alignment. Not a lessening of the weight hanging over them, but a reinforcement, the strength to bear it. He draws a breath, less shaky this time, and for the first time since he got here-- he's not looking over his shoulder, for just a moment.
"Yeah." Pausing, just a beat, he admits: "I could again."
He's been eating sparingly at meals, for once not because he's worried about whether there's enough-- Hilltop seems pretty well supplied, and Gregory is a shitty asshole who doesn't deserve the courtesy-- but because he's pretty sure he'll eat himself sick if he's not careful.
"Me, too." That first rush of hunger after coming here, once she had it in her to eat out of more than duty, hasn't ebbed much. Apples, pies, eggs, leftover bits of past meals--whatever she can find, she's happy with. Food has never tasted so good to her as it has in the last few days.
Daryl, meanwhile, could probably clear out the storehouse on his own after his ordeal. Maggie doesn't know what Negan did to him, and she doesn't plan on asking any time soon, but she doubts square meals were involved. Even if that wasn't the case, she'd be thinking about shouldering him back to the house and its pantry; there's something about breaking bread with another person to smooth over the damage between them.
"C'mon," she says, touching his arm for a moment before turning back the way they came. "Let's get a sandwich."
The less he has to talk about it, the better he's gonna be. Daryl knows that much already. He'll deal the way he always does: stomp it down, bottle it up, forget about it and find some better thing to focus on. Lord knows they got enough to do. People to protect.
Speaking of-- he doesn't doubt she's got everyone hovering over her, and even if she didn't Maggie's not the kind to let things slide, but he's gonna ask anyway.
"You been gettin' enough?"
Because if the answer is anything close to no, he's gonna march out and bag a twelve-point buck by sheer force of will to feed her, Savior search parties be damned.
Maggie laughs. Hovering is one thing--Daryl's particular approach to making sure people are okay is something else. It's different coming from someone she's known for years.
"Ate most of a pie the other day," she tells him. New memories are perfect for this kind of talk--the kind that's busy nailing floorboards over the places that've rotted out. One conversation at a time, this is what'll make things right again. And even leaving that aside, she has the feeling Daryl's going to like this story. "I talked Sasha and Enid into having slices, too, but the rest of it..."
She shrugs, giving him a sidelong, mock-innocent look.
It oughta feel strange, he thinks, laughing at anything. But they're all used to grief, now. They function in spite of it. Live through it. Doesn't make it any less real, just in the moment less overwhelming. That's how you keep going.
And he does laugh, as much as he ever does, just a short breathy puff.
"Ugh," she says, but in a good way. Remembering it is making her hungry all over again--damn, that was a good pie. "It was apple. Pretty much perfect."
Next one somebody bakes them, she's making sure Daryl eats a piece--provided Gregory hasn't run them all out of here by then, of course. If anyone deserves something good in their life, it's the man who escaped Negan's compound. In the meantime, Maggie leads him around to a side door, one that leads straight to the kitchen.
If she wants to eat, they're gonna eat. Daryl hasn't been here that long but it's clear even from this that no one's standing in her way. It's more, he thinks, than just the fact that she's pregnant-- though frankly anyone refusing a pregnant woman these days is kind of a shit to begin with. Folks here respect her, and they ought to.
It's good to see, enough to rally his spirits a little, even if it doesn't cover up the empty space left by the man who should be beside her, fussing more than anyone else is.
"Shit," he murmurs, amused and more than a little jealous, crazy as that feels. He's been eating real food meant for people, he can't be picky about sweets. Full stomachs are what matters.
"Next one," Maggie promises, glancing back over her shoulder as she rummages through a cupboard. "Next one's got your name on it."
She can hear something in his voice, unless she's imagining it, that makes her think he'd inhale a pie nearly as fast as she did. After what he went through, she's not sure an entire Thanksgiving dinner would be enough reward. One little apple pie, she'll gladly pass his way.
As she pulls out a plate for each of them, she warns, "Better make your own sandwich. According to Enid, mine are turning into pregnant lady meals."
You eat dill pickles and peanut butter on wheat toast once...
He's not getting between a pregnant lady and a pie, only halfway out of self-preservation. And hell, he won't let himself feel guilty about wanting the luxury. She doesn't want him beating himself up, so he won't.
(Or at least he'll hold off, save it for his own time.)
"And less," she agrees, sawing off thick slices of brown bread for each of them. Daryl's going to need more than one good meal to make up for Negan, but a good meal is somewhere to start. She sets two slices of bread on each plate and pushes one toward him on the counter. He can take what he wants; she'll talk to anyone who gives him dirty looks over it.
In the meanwhile, she heads toward the pantry, taking a look at what's already been opened and thus in need of using up. It's how she ends up spreading pureed pumpkin on one of her slices of bread, then paring out thin slices of apple on top of it. Topped with some American cheese, she thinks it kind of begs to be grilled, but that's more effort than she's planning on putting into lunch today.
Maybe they ought to trade-- Daryl's palate is questionable enough to make a pregnant lady meal. This is the closest he's ever been to picky, which is to say he's going to avoid peanut butter a while, and anything that remotely reminds him of dog food.
This all feels so normal as to be totally surreal. Which isn't bad, exactly, it just means he's still on edge, but there's probably nothing at all to be done about that. They get more reasons every day to worry.
And that means there aren't many safe topics. Everything's a damn minefield, you just have to pick what's important enough to risk. Which is why after a moment of trying to decide if pickled beets could conceivably go with apricot jam, he dives back into awkward territory.
"What'd they say about..." he trails off, letting his eyes dip significantly to her middle, not able to finish asking. He's gathered enough not to be in a panic about it-- she's okay, obviously, the baby's okay-- but there's bound to be more to it. How it's going, what happened.
Probably a good idea, keeping away from the mushier, nuttier foods. Maggie watches idly from where she's hoisted herself up on a counter top, taking the occasional thoughtful bite of sandwich. Most of what's available in the kitchen is pre-packaged--the usual kind of survival food--but some of it's fresh. The tomatoes are damned good after a few years eating them out of jars and cans.
"It's called abruptio placentae," she says around a mouthful of sandwich. "Means everything keeping the baby in place got separated from me."
It's nothing she'd heard of before this. Her experiences with human pregnancy mostly culminated in avoiding it or watching other people go through it, and aside from Lori, they were pretty problem-free. With farm animals, it was plenty of the same. Daryl, though, she has the feeling he's going to have even less experience with the technical details, for all he has experience with animals as well. "Wasn't as bad as it could've been, though. As long as I don't go looking for a fight, the baby's going to be okay."
It was the Saviors' outpost that did it, as far as any of them can tell--Michelle's knife, any of those blows, there were plenty of options--and that means, as antsy as she might get back here, she's staying up here in Hilltop.
He ends up with mostly vegetables-- keeps the beets, passes on the marmalade-- cheese, tomatoes. It doesn't matter much what it tastes like, anyway. It crunches, and that's plenty for him right now. It's decent and he didn't have to sell his soul for it, he's all right.
The condition doesn't mean much but he gets the idea-- the important part is the baby's going to be okay. Of course. She should've been taking it easy already, but that's not the life they get to lead. They've gotta take what little victories they can get.
"That's good," he murmurs after a moment. His usual talent for understatement, because it's everything.
Crunch makes a serious difference--Maggie can respect that as she bites into crisp slices of apples. And for a few moments, it's quiet, just chewing and sandwich-making. It shouldn't be so satisfying to see someone eat, but it is.
"Yeah," she agrees. After everything, this one thing...it doesn't balance the score in the slightest, but at least Abraham and Glenn's deaths weren't entirely in vain. None of this would be worth it if they'd lost the baby, too. At least they didn't end up--she didn't put them--in that clearing for nothing.
She raises her eyebrows at him, not quite smiling but nowhere near a frown. "Aside from the tractor--eh, and punching Gregory--I've been taking it easy."
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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(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."
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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."
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He looks exhausted, even now. Not so filthy as the morning Jesus brought him home (long as they're all here, Hilltop's home), she thinks, though she wasn't looking closely, but it looks like a few days haven't been enough to return him to full health. Whatever Negan did to him, it's going to stick for a long, long time.
But eventually, he agrees. She has the mental image of a stray dog, so suddenly in her mind that she wants to laugh (but doesn't), as he comes a step closer. All she does is nod, curt, and turn.
They're clear on the other side of Hilltop from their destination. Maggie's not sure that it'll be new for him--it's an obvious place to go, at least for their people--but they haven't been there together. One way or another, it has to happen. But it's going to take a minute or two, and she might as well drop a hint toward what she's got in mind. Without turning her head toward him, she asks, "Anybody show you the graves yet?"
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It's different, now. It's not the first time he's been treated badly, not the first time he's been looked down on, even beaten. But it's the closest he's ever come to being broken. People come too close and his shoulders tighten, steeling himself for a confrontation. He watches his reactions like they're someone else's, and hates it. The way he can't relax. The way he has to work not to snatch food offered to him like it's gonna be taken away.
He almost doesn't hear the question. It'd be nice if he could trust himself to talk without second-guessing things, but this is what they've got to work at. He grunts a negative, then realizes he should amend that answer.
"I saw where they were."
He's been around the grounds long enough. It's hard to miss.
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The rest of the walk, she's quiet. There's not much to say right now, especially not when she's got to figure out how to make her point to Daryl. She lets him trail along, trusting he'll follow whether he's at her side or behind, and spends her own time wondering what Glenn would say if their positions were reversed. How he'd manage his anger, whether he'd reach out now or later--or if he already would have.
She'd give anything to hear his answer rather than imagine it.
Eventually, they're there, standing at the foot of two still-fresh graves.
"That's Abraham," she tells Daryl, gesturing first to one mound of dirt and then the other, "and that's Glenn."
She's said this before, like she's pointing them out across the room at a party. It's become a little easier with each iteration, though she's not convinced it'll ever be easy.
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But he doesn't want to put all of that on her. That's the least he can do, now; she's got enough to carry. He takes a step closer and shoots a quick, half-desperate glance back at her like she's gonna tell him to keep away, but that's-- that's not them, that's not any of it.
Because after all, even if it's his fault (it's his fault, he knows it's his fault), Glenn has been his friend for a long goddamn time, he's got his right to grieve, too.
He can't find the right words. He's got an inkling of what they oughta be, maybe, but he can't speak just yet, standing there between the two of them, his hand flexing into a fist and stretching out again, slow and repetitive, as though he could just grasp something to fix this moment.
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"That's Glenn," she says again, looking at Daryl instead of the bare patch of ground before them. This is why they're out here together: so she can get this off her chest. It doesn't matter if they don't speak again for days (or weeks, or months), as long as he's heard the truth. Doesn't even matter if he listens--someday, she hopes, he'll understand. "And the reason he's in the ground there? That was Negan. He's the one who decided to swing that bat, and he's the one who swung it at Glenn."
Her throat closes up for a second, and she has to swallow before she can keep going. But when she does, her voice made low and tight by old tears she's not going to shed now, it's with a fire under every word. "Now, we both know you wouldn't have moved if you thought it'd hurt one of us. That's not who you are. I know that, everyone else here knows that, and if Glenn's out there--" She swallows again, harder this time. "Glenn wouldn't have any doubt. You need to know that, too. You didn't do this."
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It almost makes it harder that he doesn't have to explain himself. She knows; of course she knows. All of them, they talk without talking, they think alike even when they disagree. He shuts his eyes sometimes and he sees them, Rosita like a coiled snake, hears the banked fire in Rick's voice, and he knows every damn one of them knew what he was trying to do.
It should've been me, he doesn't say, because it's written across his face. That's not guilt talking. It should have been him, because that's what he wanted. Not because he's ever wanted to die, but because in that moment someone was going to. The terrible tension of it hung in the air, humid and smelling of iron, and he'd thought he could spare the rest of them, force Negan's hand. And he had.
(He wonders, sometimes, if he knew. How he knew. Of course he knew; Daryl has seen enough now to know that Negan's choices seem whimsical but they're never random. How he could tell where to strike, what would be worst, he's not sure. It's what makes that motherfucker dangerous. That, he understands, even if he can't articulate it. He's good at what he does and he's terrifyingly sane. Maybe brilliant. Unforgivable.)
He looks at her and determined as he is not to put it on her, all that grief, he can't keep his face from crumpling, though that's all he does. He can't cry over it; not like this, not here. That's not who he is and she doesn't need it, but it's far too close to the surface. For lack of a better response he steps back toward her, hoping she'll let him hang onto her for a minute.
(Or, ideally, stand guard over her and tear apart anyone who so much as looks at her wrong, but that's probably a less practical plan than giving her a tight hug and a shoulder to lean on if she'll take it.)
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Maggie wraps him up in a hard enough hug that it doesn't feel entirely kind to her. Her hands ball up in the back of his shirt, her knuckles on his back and her chin on his shoulder both digging into him. He feels surprisingly solid under her grasp despite the way he's been skulking around Hilltop.
He's still human in there. But Negan's been torturing him--even now, outside that damn compound--and letting Daryl do all the work.
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They'll get through, they'll keep fighting, but the hurt's not gonna go away. They can't just pretend it's all right.
Though with any luck she won't mention the undignified sniffle as he gets himself back under control.
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She gives him a tired look--not unfriendly, but nowhere near a smile. This is the hardest part, harder than marching him over here to look at the graves. Standing here, looking at him and searching for something else to say, something besides what she's already said, that's what takes effort. It's the difference between staying mired in this pain and taking a step or two forward.
And it's nothing she's leaving to him. He's looked a little like a kicked dog ever since he and Jesus came down the green to meet the rest of them. She can handle the conversation.
In the end, everything meaningful she can think of would keep them right here in this moment. Maybe the only right thing to say is something so casual that they can't help but move on from it. "You eaten yet?"
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From another point of view, all that matters is-- they're family. Looking out for one another is how this works. If Glenn were still alive, Daryl would still be ready to defend Maggie and the baby to the death. So everything's changed and nothing's changed.
It feels like something fitting back into place, like nudging a puzzle piece that sat askew into alignment. Not a lessening of the weight hanging over them, but a reinforcement, the strength to bear it. He draws a breath, less shaky this time, and for the first time since he got here-- he's not looking over his shoulder, for just a moment.
"Yeah." Pausing, just a beat, he admits: "I could again."
He's been eating sparingly at meals, for once not because he's worried about whether there's enough-- Hilltop seems pretty well supplied, and Gregory is a shitty asshole who doesn't deserve the courtesy-- but because he's pretty sure he'll eat himself sick if he's not careful.
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Daryl, meanwhile, could probably clear out the storehouse on his own after his ordeal. Maggie doesn't know what Negan did to him, and she doesn't plan on asking any time soon, but she doubts square meals were involved. Even if that wasn't the case, she'd be thinking about shouldering him back to the house and its pantry; there's something about breaking bread with another person to smooth over the damage between them.
"C'mon," she says, touching his arm for a moment before turning back the way they came. "Let's get a sandwich."
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Speaking of-- he doesn't doubt she's got everyone hovering over her, and even if she didn't Maggie's not the kind to let things slide, but he's gonna ask anyway.
"You been gettin' enough?"
Because if the answer is anything close to no, he's gonna march out and bag a twelve-point buck by sheer force of will to feed her, Savior search parties be damned.
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"Ate most of a pie the other day," she tells him. New memories are perfect for this kind of talk--the kind that's busy nailing floorboards over the places that've rotted out. One conversation at a time, this is what'll make things right again. And even leaving that aside, she has the feeling Daryl's going to like this story. "I talked Sasha and Enid into having slices, too, but the rest of it..."
She shrugs, giving him a sidelong, mock-innocent look.
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And he does laugh, as much as he ever does, just a short breathy puff.
"Good pie at least?"
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Next one somebody bakes them, she's making sure Daryl eats a piece--provided Gregory hasn't run them all out of here by then, of course. If anyone deserves something good in their life, it's the man who escaped Negan's compound. In the meantime, Maggie leads him around to a side door, one that leads straight to the kitchen.
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It's good to see, enough to rally his spirits a little, even if it doesn't cover up the empty space left by the man who should be beside her, fussing more than anyone else is.
"Shit," he murmurs, amused and more than a little jealous, crazy as that feels. He's been eating real food meant for people, he can't be picky about sweets. Full stomachs are what matters.
Still, there's living and there's living.
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She can hear something in his voice, unless she's imagining it, that makes her think he'd inhale a pie nearly as fast as she did. After what he went through, she's not sure an entire Thanksgiving dinner would be enough reward. One little apple pie, she'll gladly pass his way.
As she pulls out a plate for each of them, she warns, "Better make your own sandwich. According to Enid, mine are turning into pregnant lady meals."
You eat dill pickles and peanut butter on wheat toast once...
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He's not getting between a pregnant lady and a pie, only halfway out of self-preservation. And hell, he won't let himself feel guilty about wanting the luxury. She doesn't want him beating himself up, so he won't.
(Or at least he'll hold off, save it for his own time.)
"We've had weirder."
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In the meanwhile, she heads toward the pantry, taking a look at what's already been opened and thus in need of using up. It's how she ends up spreading pureed pumpkin on one of her slices of bread, then paring out thin slices of apple on top of it. Topped with some American cheese, she thinks it kind of begs to be grilled, but that's more effort than she's planning on putting into lunch today.
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This all feels so normal as to be totally surreal. Which isn't bad, exactly, it just means he's still on edge, but there's probably nothing at all to be done about that. They get more reasons every day to worry.
And that means there aren't many safe topics. Everything's a damn minefield, you just have to pick what's important enough to risk. Which is why after a moment of trying to decide if pickled beets could conceivably go with apricot jam, he dives back into awkward territory.
"What'd they say about..." he trails off, letting his eyes dip significantly to her middle, not able to finish asking. He's gathered enough not to be in a panic about it-- she's okay, obviously, the baby's okay-- but there's bound to be more to it. How it's going, what happened.
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"It's called abruptio placentae," she says around a mouthful of sandwich. "Means everything keeping the baby in place got separated from me."
It's nothing she'd heard of before this. Her experiences with human pregnancy mostly culminated in avoiding it or watching other people go through it, and aside from Lori, they were pretty problem-free. With farm animals, it was plenty of the same. Daryl, though, she has the feeling he's going to have even less experience with the technical details, for all he has experience with animals as well. "Wasn't as bad as it could've been, though. As long as I don't go looking for a fight, the baby's going to be okay."
It was the Saviors' outpost that did it, as far as any of them can tell--Michelle's knife, any of those blows, there were plenty of options--and that means, as antsy as she might get back here, she's staying up here in Hilltop.
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The condition doesn't mean much but he gets the idea-- the important part is the baby's going to be okay. Of course. She should've been taking it easy already, but that's not the life they get to lead. They've gotta take what little victories they can get.
"That's good," he murmurs after a moment. His usual talent for understatement, because it's everything.
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"Yeah," she agrees. After everything, this one thing...it doesn't balance the score in the slightest, but at least Abraham and Glenn's deaths weren't entirely in vain. None of this would be worth it if they'd lost the baby, too. At least they didn't end up--she didn't put them--in that clearing for nothing.
She raises her eyebrows at him, not quite smiling but nowhere near a frown. "Aside from the tractor--eh, and punching Gregory--I've been taking it easy."
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