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.
Aaron scoffs, a quiet little sound, more of a breath than anything. It's another in a long line of testaments to Daryl's apparently indefatigable kindness, and he appreciates that, really, but- it makes him feel stuck. Trapped in a tiny spotlight. A petri dish of mourning.
"I don't-" He shakes his head, biting back something pointless and hollow. No, doesn't Daryl deserve honesty? "I'm not sure I really need anything."
Except, of course, the one thing. But that, no one can provide.
Calling it kindness might be overstating it. That plays a part in it-- for all his uncertainties about Alexandria in the beginning, Daryl considers them part of his group now; and for all Alexandria's uncertainties about him, Eric and Aaron took him in without a second thought. Gave him a purpose, a way to fit himself into that world-- hell, even the simple gift of dinner without too much side-eyeing or fretting about whether he was tame enough to be let indoors. Of the Alexandrite still with them, Aaron's his oldest friend.
But he's also, in a simpler sense, just one of the group; which means they can't afford to lose him, which means he's gotta work his shit out. Chances are one way or another Daryl would do his best to help any of them. It's just with most of the others, the best thing he could think to do would be to stay out of the way.
"Time," he suggest. It's bullshit what they say, it doesn't heal a thing, but it helps. "Gettin' shitfaced, gettin' mad. I dunno." Healthy coping is beyond his reach.
The fact that he's trying, more than anything, inspires Aaron to try in return. He'd been content to let the feeling slip away until it disappeared from him completely, but he doesn't want Daryl's effort to be in vain. Aaron has always hated waste.
"What works for you?"
He never asked what kind of lives they lived, before they came to Alexandria. It never seemed like his place. People need a secret part of themselves, something to keep for their memories, not to be trotted out and made to dance for others' amusement.
It's just that these days, Aaron always assumes everyone's lost someone.
He resists the urge to dismiss the question; turning things back on someone else, it's a good tactic. Daryl's a good listener mostly because he hates to talk. Aaron's casting about for something, though, and he deserves an answer.
"Go off on my own a while," he answers, lifting a shoulder.
And you cry like a bitch, Merle's voice adds, still in the back of his mind after all these years. (The fucked up thing is, it's almost comforting, thinking it.)
"Find somethin' to do." A beat, and he adds-- feeling all too vulnerable, but pushing past it for the sake of offering the same honesty he's demanding-- "Somethin' to protect."
It would drive Aaron mad to be alone right now, he knows that much. He's never been a people person, exactly, but he knows he shouldn't be alone when he's upset. Eric was always there, always willing to set some time aside for him. He has no interest in proving a dead man wrong.
The idea of finding something to protect, though. Aaron smiles, and for once it's not strained. "Of course you would," he says softly. "That's what you are."
But me, I... No, Aaron has no ambition to turn the subject selfishly back to his foibles.
You can't quite call it a smile, the expression that twists the corner of his mouth. It's trying to be, maybe. That's a nice thing for Aaron to say. Daryl would like to believe it's the truth; at the least, maybe that's who he's become.
"You keep goin'."
It's an assurance. They do, because... well, they just do.
He is, he knows, pretty shitty at this advice thing.
It's a strangely comforting thought, that time will stretch on inexorably no matter what Aaron thinks or feels. He's just a speck in the grand scheme of life. His pain may feel endless, but it's contained only to him. He appreciates that, in his way. He reaches up to pat Daryl's shoulder, a pithy attempt at comfort, but it's all he has at the moment.
"I'll take a page from your book, then," he says with a tired expression. "No more dramatics."
Maybe it's just the way things are, Aaron is always going to be looking for some way to turn it so he's the supportive one, not the one in need of comfort. They're well-matched in that Daryl is terrible at offering anything of use, and Aaron's even shittier at admitting he needs it, much less accepting it.
"It's fine if you gotta. We can lit and go pitch bottles at the wall," he answers mildly. "If it helps."
Of all expressions of grief, destructive ones are the ones he understands best.
Aaron lets out a little huff, a fond expression on his face. He's never expressed anything that way, and he might never, but the idea has its appeal. He isn't sure he could pull it off, though. "Fire's the right idea," he says hesitantly.
"Maybe I'll light some candles. If we don't change it up soon, we're going to run out of room in the graveyard." Said with a sigh. It's good he didn't mean it as a joke, because it would have been an awful one.
He nods. It's a little somber; but then, all of this is more than a little somber. Fire's as good as anything. Makes him think too much of course-- about that time with Beth, about being in Atlanta with Carol; further back, the farm. Further back, his own home.
But this isn't about him, and there's been enough they've burned away to dull all the sharper pangs. It's clean and decisive, and more than anything, it's something Aaron is gravitating to, so it's a good first step.
"Bet there's some upstairs," he offers. Under better circumstances they could hike out a ways and have a proper fire-- find something worth burning, maybe-- but these days it's not safe to stray. Not that it ever was, really.
He's on the verge of offering to disappear, if that'd be better-- Lord knows he understands wanting to grieve alone-- but one thing at a time.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
worn_wings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"Really," he says, "I'm just... feeling sorry for myself." His voice wavers just slightly. "It's fine."
no subject
"So what?"
It's fine is one of those things that's almost never true.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"I don't-" He shakes his head, biting back something pointless and hollow. No, doesn't Daryl deserve honesty? "I'm not sure I really need anything."
Except, of course, the one thing. But that, no one can provide.
no subject
But he's also, in a simpler sense, just one of the group; which means they can't afford to lose him, which means he's gotta work his shit out. Chances are one way or another Daryl would do his best to help any of them. It's just with most of the others, the best thing he could think to do would be to stay out of the way.
"Time," he suggest. It's bullshit what they say, it doesn't heal a thing, but it helps. "Gettin' shitfaced, gettin' mad. I dunno." Healthy coping is beyond his reach.
no subject
"What works for you?"
He never asked what kind of lives they lived, before they came to Alexandria. It never seemed like his place. People need a secret part of themselves, something to keep for their memories, not to be trotted out and made to dance for others' amusement.
It's just that these days, Aaron always assumes everyone's lost someone.
no subject
"Go off on my own a while," he answers, lifting a shoulder.
And you cry like a bitch, Merle's voice adds, still in the back of his mind after all these years. (The fucked up thing is, it's almost comforting, thinking it.)
"Find somethin' to do." A beat, and he adds-- feeling all too vulnerable, but pushing past it for the sake of offering the same honesty he's demanding-- "Somethin' to protect."
no subject
The idea of finding something to protect, though. Aaron smiles, and for once it's not strained. "Of course you would," he says softly. "That's what you are."
But me, I... No, Aaron has no ambition to turn the subject selfishly back to his foibles.
no subject
"You keep goin'."
It's an assurance. They do, because... well, they just do.
He is, he knows, pretty shitty at this advice thing.
no subject
"I'll take a page from your book, then," he says with a tired expression. "No more dramatics."
no subject
"It's fine if you gotta. We can lit and go pitch bottles at the wall," he answers mildly. "If it helps."
Of all expressions of grief, destructive ones are the ones he understands best.
no subject
"Maybe I'll light some candles. If we don't change it up soon, we're going to run out of room in the graveyard." Said with a sigh. It's good he didn't mean it as a joke, because it would have been an awful one.
no subject
But this isn't about him, and there's been enough they've burned away to dull all the sharper pangs. It's clean and decisive, and more than anything, it's something Aaron is gravitating to, so it's a good first step.
"Bet there's some upstairs," he offers. Under better circumstances they could hike out a ways and have a proper fire-- find something worth burning, maybe-- but these days it's not safe to stray. Not that it ever was, really.
He's on the verge of offering to disappear, if that'd be better-- Lord knows he understands wanting to grieve alone-- but one thing at a time.