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."
"Punchin' that asshole's probably good for you," he grunts. Gregory hasn't made any secret of the fact that he doesn't want any of their people here; he's barely tolerant of Maggie, and that alone would be enough to put him on Daryl's shit list. The fact that he's cowardly, barely competent, and way too in love with the idea of himself-- that's just crap icing on the garbage cake. He's not really worth hating, but it's impossible not to take some twisted comfort in the thought.
At least, he hopes it gave her a little stress relief. Baby steps, right?
Maggie laughs. It's a sound still choked by food and sadness, but it's there, something warmer than she might've expected, talking to Daryl. Crossing her dangling ankles, she gives him a nod. On the list of stupid decisions she's made in her life, punching Gregory is low on the list. It wasn't smart, but she doesn't regret it any more than she regrets stealing an apple out of his hands.
But getting into the details of the tractor is probably better than returning to her endless disagreements with Hilltop's leader, especially in public. "The Saviors sent us a present a while ago, bunch of bonfires and a car blasting music. I was supposed to stay off my feet, so..."
She gestures vaguely with the remains of her sandwich. "The thing about tractors--you back one over a car, the car doesn't usually win. And you can do the whole thing sitting down."
The way he sees it, she oughta get a pass on that. On most bad decisions, right now, as long as they don't put her in any danger. Gregory's a shit and even half the people here, he thinks, can tell.
He huffs, something like a laugh. Closer than he's come since-- shit, who even knows. It feels like forever.
"You do that a lot?"
Fuck, the idea of demolition-derby Maggie might be enough to make him smile.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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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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At least, he hopes it gave her a little stress relief. Baby steps, right?
"I wanna hear about the tractor."
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But getting into the details of the tractor is probably better than returning to her endless disagreements with Hilltop's leader, especially in public. "The Saviors sent us a present a while ago, bunch of bonfires and a car blasting music. I was supposed to stay off my feet, so..."
She gestures vaguely with the remains of her sandwich. "The thing about tractors--you back one over a car, the car doesn't usually win. And you can do the whole thing sitting down."
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He huffs, something like a laugh. Closer than he's come since-- shit, who even knows. It feels like forever.
"You do that a lot?"
Fuck, the idea of demolition-derby Maggie might be enough to make him smile.