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.
Aaron doesn't look up when he hears the sound of someone padding up. He does the same math as Daryl: they're too deep in Hilltop territory for it to be an intruder. Most likely it's Gregory, and of all the things Aaron's stopped caring about lately, Gregory isn't on that list. Aaron never cared about Gregory. It puts him in a special place of complete antipathy.
But it's not Gregory, because Gregory would have said something by now. Aaron stops fiddling with the wine bottle and finally looks up.
Oh, it's Daryl. Aaron's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I thought you'd be asleep by now." He's not sure why, though. He can't picture Daryl keeping regular hours.
It's rare for him to sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, but that's nothing new. Even when they don't need to trade watch shifts, that's the rhythm he got used to; besides that, any sound out of the ordinary will jar him awake.
Shaking his head, he steps a bit closer.
"Just walkin'."
Trying to tire himself back out, maybe, or convince himself it's safe to go back to sleep. Shit, maybe he should go see if someone on watch needs a rest, cause he's wide awake. He nods at the bottle.
"Any good?"
Daryl knows fuck-all about wine. It's a better question, though, than why are you drinking alone in the middle of the night, which has an easy, terrible answer.
Aaron shrugs, his expression more bitter than he likes it. Usually, he tries to keep a positive outlook. He doesn't like the idea that he could only do so because he'd never lost anything truly dear to him. He'd never wanted to be that kind of hypocrite.
"I haven't been able to get it open. But when I do, you'll be the first person I tell." He tries to summon up some humor, and it falls painfully flat, to his ear.
Everyone's got a right to feel like shit now and then. If there's a time for that, this is probably it, for Aaron. That doesn't mean it'll be forever, but it might well feel like it for him, in the moment.
Maybe the civilized thing to do now would be offer consolations? Daryl is shitty at being civilized. Besides that, it feels like it'd be a dick move. Make the perfunctory effort and back off. Well, fuck that.
Aaron hands the wine out to Daryl without hesitation. His smile still doesn't reach his eyes. "I'd appreciate it. I was never a wine person. That was-"
Eric. Ha. That was Eric, wasn't it? He'd forgotten, somehow. It'd been years. There wasn't much wine in Alexandria.
No point in apologizing for bringing that up. Can't be many things right now that don't bring it up, so he just crosses closer to take the bottle and the shitty little knife. The thing is it's not like he's got much better ideas-- there's gotta be a thing for it down here somewhere, right? But maybe rich fucks don't like making it easy, probably someone's meant to fetch it upstairs where there's some silver-plated knicknack that's probably been driven into a walker's skull by now.
Wine's too expensive and it doesn't get you drunk enough. And in a pinch, the shit in a box will do, anyway.
(He'll drink it, if it's there, but the smell always reminds him of his mother.)
Poking the tip of the blade into the cork, he frowns a bit-- dull, unsurprisingly-- but presses on, managing to get the knife wedged into it. Pulling it out doesn't do anything but pull the knife back out, though.
So they're in this together, now? Aaron has a half formed joke about that, something about invitations for his little pity party, but it doesn't quite form in his head. That, and, coward that he is, he can't quite make himself want to free Daryl from this endeavor.
Well, he thinks, you know what they say about misery and company.
Feeling selfish, Aaron stands, no longer leaning back on an embossed desk. This entire setup is wrong. He shouldn't be doing this. Drinking late at night isn't him.
"I heard Gregory likes to hide old bourbon in storage closets." He's suddenly lost his taste for wine.
It's hard to tell from Daryl's tone in general whether or not he's teasing, but yeah, that was an attempt at a joke. Even for him, it's flatter than usual, but he sets the bottle on the edge of the desk.
"Probably been picked clean."
But they can make a go of it. He tips his head to the side, just a little. Going on a wild goose chase is probably a smarter move than drinking alone; he just doesn't want Aaron doing something for his sake, or to keep up appearances. Sometimes drinking alone in a basement is the way to go. Whatever'll keep him together the next day.
Generally, from what hardships he experienced both before and after the world's end, Aaron has learned to treat everything as a joke. Maybe that's why he was one of the first Alexandrians to pick up on Daryl's sense of humor. If you don't take most of what people say with the grim seriousness they intend it, eventually, you'll hit upon something that is, in fact, a joke. He doesn't remember the first time he laughed at one of Daryl's verbal salvos. He just knows it happened, and he appreciated the unexpected levity.
Now is no different, but he still can't bring himself to laugh. His grin is tight and rueful, more sardonic than he meant it. Don't let this world make you bitter, his mother had once told him. Let it make you strong. More often, lately, he feels as though he's succeeded at neither task.
He stands, ready to follow Daryl down the halls of Hilltop's biggest property like a little lost animal.
"I always liked lite beer," he mutters. "Another strike against my taste." He clears his throat. "Lead the way. You're the tracker, right?"
Anything, anything, to keep from saying what's on his mind. When did he become one of those people?
It's incomprehensible how anyone could've lasted so long in such good spirits, really. Annoying as it could be at times, it's impressive... and in the absence of his cheer, really fucking distressing. Understandable, but distressing.
He doesn't take the cue. Instead he stands there, stock-still and staring for a long moment. They could do this. Might even find something. He thinks, fleetingly, of long journeys and drinking games and just shakes his head, weary.
"What do you want?"
Not beer or bourbon or whatever might be tucked away in some corner. A drink's a drink; the question is whether Aaron wants a distraction or to drown it out a while. Dancing around one in search of the other's just a waste.
Aaron is not, it turns out, sure what to do in the face of the unflinching honesty he seems to deserve, either as a reward or a punishment. He'd been avoiding things, sliding around it, and Daryl is too good a friend to let him. It's an incredibly kind gesture, even in the particularly blunt way Daryl does everything. Aaron hasn't a clue what to do with it.
He looks up at Daryl with more watery vulnerability than he'd like, and really, how dare he be so... whatever this is, in the face of whatever Daryl's been through. He knows one hurt doesn't blot out another, but he hasn't a clue how to handle anything on this scale except to measure it.
He deflates a little. "I- I don't know. I'm sorry, I should... I shouldn't bother you with it." His smile is apologetic and hollow.
Whether it's kind or not remains to be seen. It's all Daryl has to offer, though. If nothing else, he tries to be an honest man. Used to be Merle talked enough shit for the both of them, and well-- it never mattered. People assumed whatever they wanted to, but at least if he told the truth Daryl had the right to feel indignant about it.
"Shut up," he rumbles, holding back a sigh. He means it as gently as you can mean that.
Chewing at his lip a second, he looks back at the bottle. Fuck it; ain't like he ever had manners, he figures, and flips the flimsy little knife around, snapping it shut and using it to press the cork down instead, aiming just to knock it into the bottle. Bit of dust won't hurt it. Problem solved, he thrusts the bottle back at Aaron, the cork floating harmlessly. They'll do this by process of elimination.
This is, Aaron is distantly aware, the problem of being an only child. He holds the bottle, cork floating in wine that's probably worth more than the last two paychecks he ever received, and he hasn't a clue how to proceed. He sort of wants to leave, but Daryl doesn't deserve the implicit rejection of that gesture. If it only saves one face, it isn't really worth it.
"Really," he says, "I'm just... feeling sorry for myself." His voice wavers just slightly. "It's fine."
There are probably, still, somewhere, people who could help a friend through a difficult time like this with patience and support and gentle understanding. Needless to say, Daryl is not one of those people. Shaking his head a little, he leans back against the edge of the desk.
"So what?"
It's fine is one of those things that's almost never true.
"So?" So what? Aaron likes to think he understands Daryl, and then this enigma rears its head. It's like the point of some outre poem he read in college. How much can you ever really know another person? Apparently not enough.
But the mystery is a pleasant distraction from his own self-important sorrow. He sighs, and it becomes something like a laugh, a little wet peal at the back of his throat. "I guess you're right," he mutters, "the world doesn't stop for me."
He'd really prefer it if it never stopped for anyone.
Aaron looks back down at his stolen wine. "When my father left," he says, "my mother threw out all the alcohol. She didn't drink for years."
Grief is a goddamn stupid thing, a thing they've had too much of. All of them. Mostly they don't talk about it, don't dwell on it. Doesn't mean they don't suffer through it. Daryl, of all people, he knows. Aaron ought to know. This is as good a moment as any to do whatever he's got to do and push through it.
He's not sure, though, how to answer that.
"His booze?" he guesses, not sure if it matters. Some folks are like that-- they swear off 'cause of what they've seen, not what it does to them. He can't exactly relate. (He's sure as shit not eager to share stories about his parents. It's one thing to listen. That much he can do.)
It's a better question than Aaron was expecting. As always, Daryl is full of small, quiet, unassuming surprises. He's never flashy or showy, but he makes his presence known.
No, no, scratch that, he was definitely flashy when he got his hands on that rocket launcher.
"I don't know," Aaron says, "maybe she just wanted something to throw out. It just meant it took about a teaspoon of alcohol to make me a giggly mess." He rolls his eyes at himself, less fondly than usual. He's in a mood to be dour, it seems.
How often does a rocket launcher fall into your hands? If you don't make the most of it then why bother.
He lifts a shoulder, glances at the racks. Presumably this is good wine, right? As wine goes. Wouldn't matter how much they needed, this is more than anyone needs, now.
"That'll get you more'n giggly." In the long run that won't help. He hasn't been drunk since that night with Beth-- since the still they burned down. Didn't help, then; but maybe it was a piece of making sense of things, a needful step. Maybe it was just getting shitfaced.
Since then there's never been the safety, the time, the need. If Aaron needs, they'll make up the rest, he's too tired of loss-- because every loss is everyone's loss-- to give a shit about sense. Won't help, but maybe the headache tomorrow'll give him something practical to be miserable about.
Aaron huffs a little sigh. No, his mother wouldn't want him to, and neither would more recent, pressing claimants to his actions. He passes the bottle back to Daryl.
"Then I probably shouldn't," he says. "Eric would say it'd just be wasted on me anyway. But- thank you. I mean it." He knows Daryl isn't the type to talk about... whatever he's doing, just now. Aaron's not sure he knows the word for it. But he's sure it's worth mentioning, if only to thank the poor man.
If he had a goddamn clue what he's doing, maybe he'd be doing a better job of it. With a grunt he waves the bottle away. For all he cares they can pour it out on the floor down here, or toss it over the wall, or whatever.
"You gotta cut that shit out," he murmurs. This time he's not sure if it's for Aaron's sake or his own that he means it.
Less than a handful of minutes ago, Aaron would have thought Daryl meant his moping. Now, standing between shelves of ancient wine, Aaron doesn't immediately envelop the criticism into himself out of grief. That's the general power of Daryl's gentle presence; it's why he deserves some acknowledgement, from time to time.
But Aaron is still tired with mourning, and doesn't have the energy within him to ignore the things he'd usually ignore for Daryl's sake. "What," he says, "thanking you?"
That gets an affirmative grunt. Exactly that. More than that, but he needs a moment to grope for a better way to put it. That polite, positive exterior-- okay, even if it's annoying as fuck sometimes, it comes from a good place. Right now, though, it feels hollow. Reflexive, which is somehow more troubling than if it just fell away.
"Bein' polite. Laughing it off." Maybe he should go? He probably should, but he's not gonna, not until he's satisfied Aaron won't just pick up and paste a fake smile on his face and get back to work. He deserves the time. Eric deserves the mourning.
Of all the things Daryl could have said, Aaron was expecting that the least. He takes a confused half-step backward, staring blankly at the space just to the left of Daryl's head. He doesn't know how to respond to that. No one's ever said... or even implied...
Aaron swallows. His mouth, he distantly realizes, feels a little dry.
"What- what am I supposed to do?" It's said with more bitterness than he'd like. He grunts, and brings his hand to his temple, attempting to ward off that sudden up-swell of acrid annoyance. Daryl doesn't deserve his misplaced anger.
Bitterness doesn't faze him. It's honest, which is all he can ask for-- more than he's got a right to demand, maybe, but here they are. What he knows is-- that kind of thing will fester, will sour you if you let it. Anger, he can handle; raw grief would be harder, but he can take that, too.
"Dunno," he answers, gruffly, shaking his head a little. There's no easy answers. This is one of those things, he thinks, where there never was. Death has always been like that. Loss-- impossible, inevitable.
"Whatever you need." And if he doesn't know he'll have to muddle through til he hits on it.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
delicious sads, yes
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.
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But it's not Gregory, because Gregory would have said something by now. Aaron stops fiddling with the wine bottle and finally looks up.
Oh, it's Daryl. Aaron's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I thought you'd be asleep by now." He's not sure why, though. He can't picture Daryl keeping regular hours.
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Shaking his head, he steps a bit closer.
"Just walkin'."
Trying to tire himself back out, maybe, or convince himself it's safe to go back to sleep. Shit, maybe he should go see if someone on watch needs a rest, cause he's wide awake. He nods at the bottle.
"Any good?"
Daryl knows fuck-all about wine. It's a better question, though, than why are you drinking alone in the middle of the night, which has an easy, terrible answer.
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"I haven't been able to get it open. But when I do, you'll be the first person I tell." He tries to summon up some humor, and it falls painfully flat, to his ear.
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Maybe the civilized thing to do now would be offer consolations? Daryl is shitty at being civilized. Besides that, it feels like it'd be a dick move. Make the perfunctory effort and back off. Well, fuck that.
"You want a hand with it?"
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Eric. Ha. That was Eric, wasn't it? He'd forgotten, somehow. It'd been years. There wasn't much wine in Alexandria.
He looks down at his feet.
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No point in apologizing for bringing that up. Can't be many things right now that don't bring it up, so he just crosses closer to take the bottle and the shitty little knife. The thing is it's not like he's got much better ideas-- there's gotta be a thing for it down here somewhere, right? But maybe rich fucks don't like making it easy, probably someone's meant to fetch it upstairs where there's some silver-plated knicknack that's probably been driven into a walker's skull by now.
Wine's too expensive and it doesn't get you drunk enough. And in a pinch, the shit in a box will do, anyway.
(He'll drink it, if it's there, but the smell always reminds him of his mother.)
Poking the tip of the blade into the cork, he frowns a bit-- dull, unsurprisingly-- but presses on, managing to get the knife wedged into it. Pulling it out doesn't do anything but pull the knife back out, though.
"What else we got?"
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Well, he thinks, you know what they say about misery and company.
Feeling selfish, Aaron stands, no longer leaning back on an embossed desk. This entire setup is wrong. He shouldn't be doing this. Drinking late at night isn't him.
"I heard Gregory likes to hide old bourbon in storage closets." He's suddenly lost his taste for wine.
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It's hard to tell from Daryl's tone in general whether or not he's teasing, but yeah, that was an attempt at a joke. Even for him, it's flatter than usual, but he sets the bottle on the edge of the desk.
"Probably been picked clean."
But they can make a go of it. He tips his head to the side, just a little. Going on a wild goose chase is probably a smarter move than drinking alone; he just doesn't want Aaron doing something for his sake, or to keep up appearances. Sometimes drinking alone in a basement is the way to go. Whatever'll keep him together the next day.
i liiiiive
Now is no different, but he still can't bring himself to laugh. His grin is tight and rueful, more sardonic than he meant it. Don't let this world make you bitter, his mother had once told him. Let it make you strong. More often, lately, he feels as though he's succeeded at neither task.
He stands, ready to follow Daryl down the halls of Hilltop's biggest property like a little lost animal.
"I always liked lite beer," he mutters. "Another strike against my taste." He clears his throat. "Lead the way. You're the tracker, right?"
Anything, anything, to keep from saying what's on his mind. When did he become one of those people?
hooray!!
He doesn't take the cue. Instead he stands there, stock-still and staring for a long moment. They could do this. Might even find something. He thinks, fleetingly, of long journeys and drinking games and just shakes his head, weary.
"What do you want?"
Not beer or bourbon or whatever might be tucked away in some corner. A drink's a drink; the question is whether Aaron wants a distraction or to drown it out a while. Dancing around one in search of the other's just a waste.
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He looks up at Daryl with more watery vulnerability than he'd like, and really, how dare he be so... whatever this is, in the face of whatever Daryl's been through. He knows one hurt doesn't blot out another, but he hasn't a clue how to handle anything on this scale except to measure it.
He deflates a little. "I- I don't know. I'm sorry, I should... I shouldn't bother you with it." His smile is apologetic and hollow.
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"Shut up," he rumbles, holding back a sigh. He means it as gently as you can mean that.
Chewing at his lip a second, he looks back at the bottle. Fuck it; ain't like he ever had manners, he figures, and flips the flimsy little knife around, snapping it shut and using it to press the cork down instead, aiming just to knock it into the bottle. Bit of dust won't hurt it. Problem solved, he thrusts the bottle back at Aaron, the cork floating harmlessly. They'll do this by process of elimination.
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"Really," he says, "I'm just... feeling sorry for myself." His voice wavers just slightly. "It's fine."
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"So what?"
It's fine is one of those things that's almost never true.
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But the mystery is a pleasant distraction from his own self-important sorrow. He sighs, and it becomes something like a laugh, a little wet peal at the back of his throat. "I guess you're right," he mutters, "the world doesn't stop for me."
He'd really prefer it if it never stopped for anyone.
Aaron looks back down at his stolen wine. "When my father left," he says, "my mother threw out all the alcohol. She didn't drink for years."
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He's not sure, though, how to answer that.
"His booze?" he guesses, not sure if it matters. Some folks are like that-- they swear off 'cause of what they've seen, not what it does to them. He can't exactly relate. (He's sure as shit not eager to share stories about his parents. It's one thing to listen. That much he can do.)
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No, no, scratch that, he was definitely flashy when he got his hands on that rocket launcher.
"I don't know," Aaron says, "maybe she just wanted something to throw out. It just meant it took about a teaspoon of alcohol to make me a giggly mess." He rolls his eyes at himself, less fondly than usual. He's in a mood to be dour, it seems.
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He lifts a shoulder, glances at the racks. Presumably this is good wine, right? As wine goes. Wouldn't matter how much they needed, this is more than anyone needs, now.
"That'll get you more'n giggly." In the long run that won't help. He hasn't been drunk since that night with Beth-- since the still they burned down. Didn't help, then; but maybe it was a piece of making sense of things, a needful step. Maybe it was just getting shitfaced.
Since then there's never been the safety, the time, the need. If Aaron needs, they'll make up the rest, he's too tired of loss-- because every loss is everyone's loss-- to give a shit about sense. Won't help, but maybe the headache tomorrow'll give him something practical to be miserable about.
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"Then I probably shouldn't," he says. "Eric would say it'd just be wasted on me anyway. But- thank you. I mean it." He knows Daryl isn't the type to talk about... whatever he's doing, just now. Aaron's not sure he knows the word for it. But he's sure it's worth mentioning, if only to thank the poor man.
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"You gotta cut that shit out," he murmurs. This time he's not sure if it's for Aaron's sake or his own that he means it.
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But Aaron is still tired with mourning, and doesn't have the energy within him to ignore the things he'd usually ignore for Daryl's sake. "What," he says, "thanking you?"
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"Bein' polite. Laughing it off." Maybe he should go? He probably should, but he's not gonna, not until he's satisfied Aaron won't just pick up and paste a fake smile on his face and get back to work. He deserves the time. Eric deserves the mourning.
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Aaron swallows. His mouth, he distantly realizes, feels a little dry.
"What- what am I supposed to do?" It's said with more bitterness than he'd like. He grunts, and brings his hand to his temple, attempting to ward off that sudden up-swell of acrid annoyance. Daryl doesn't deserve his misplaced anger.
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"Dunno," he answers, gruffly, shaking his head a little. There's no easy answers. This is one of those things, he thinks, where there never was. Death has always been like that. Loss-- impossible, inevitable.
"Whatever you need." And if he doesn't know he'll have to muddle through til he hits on it.
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