[ which, he hopes, is some tacit reassurance that he's not planning to get drunk himself. He forgets sometimes that she worries, but then, he has the advantage of knowing his own plans and his own reliability. ]
[It's nothing he can help, her fretting. It's muscle memory to tense up when she hears about someone drinking, is all, even knowing that Daryl is as far from Ed as two men can be.]
[ It takes him a couple of tries to figure out whether he should send this. It doesn't seem like his place to explain, but it's also Carol; he doesn't like to keep things from her, and certainly he doesn't like to let her worry. ]
[What does it say that they had the exact same first reaction? Probably nothing awesome about Carol's emotional growth across time. Probably also doesn't say much that her second thought is wanting to know how it happened in case there's a new danger she should be planning for. At least she doesn't actually ask.]
[ Hasn't got much more to say. He's just hoping that'll settle things, reassure her that his heart's in the right place even if this is a shit way of dealing with things. ]
Let me know if you need anything. I'll be up. [She can't be talked out of waiting up, no matter what he says, no matter how late he's out. Loss is hard on them, even when it's secondhand, and she'll be damned to leave him with that even if they don't talk about it.]
[ He leaves it there, since there's nothing more to say-- and, well, it's questionable how supportive he is but someone texting is a lot less supportive-- and it's late, though maybe not so late as he'd feared, when he does come in.
Quietly, because he's hoping she'll be asleep, even if he thinks she's probably not. ]
Late it may be, but she's as good as her word, sitting in their mostly dark room with one ear bud in and going over a list of their inventory. She has a glass of water waiting on the bedside table for him, and as soon as he comes in she clicks off her iPod and puts it aside along with her notepad, then reclines on the bed in a way that invites him to snuggle close if he wants, but certainly makes no demand.
She doesn't speak just yet, because sometimes there's nothing to say and maybe this is one of tbose times. If he wants to talk, she'll listen; if not, she gets it.
Not much of a surprise that she's still up. He grunts a quiet greeting as she sets her things aside, shucking his clothes quickly, settling on the side of the bed. She's too thoughtful, like always; he gulps down the water and shuffles closer.
He's not drunk; part of taking someone out to get shitfaced is making sure they get back home safely, so he really just nursed a beer. But he's... quiet. Well, that's not so unusual.
Talking isn't his thing. Even when he feels like he ought to. After a moment he starts with something simple.
It's nice to have him close, even with the faint smell of booze (nicer still that he's not drunk, but she's trying hard not to care if he were). She gives him a soft but quick kiss wherever is most accessible given their position, which was at first intended to be in lieu of an answer but she thinks better of that. He tends to like it much more when she's honest.
"Been lots worse." Which maybe doesn't say much, considering. But yeah, she's okay enough. "You?"
If his question was his way of trying to start a conversation about whatever got stirred up by finding a friend in that state, she'll oblige. She starts gently stroking his hair to try and ease him into it... Or hell, just to be of some comfort if be wants to sleep it off.
He doesn't know what he wants. The space to think things through, except not space at all. Maybe just the means to it. And, really, maybe there's not all that much to say, or to do.
All the things it's on the tip of his tongue to say, they're things they don't say. And it doesn't bother him. Feels like it ought to, maybe.
He tries not to think about loss. Losing her, it's not a possibility, it's an inevitability, and sometimes something happens that makes it impossible to keep ignoring.
"Dunno if it helped much," he murmurs, a non sequitur that's about the best he can do for coherent discussion. If they're gonna talk that's how it goes-- halting and uneasy. He's trying.
Considering they'd both probably prefer, most of the time, not to talk at all, halting and uneasy is a victory, and expected. This stuff never gets easier even if it were familiar, which in some ways it is... Tragic ways they'd much rather forget, but can't. How could things so hard to think about possibly be easy to put to words?
"Maybe not, that doesn't mean it wasn't worth doing." Sort of like having a rough conversation. She learned that the hard way, thanks to him. And it was worth the effort, painful and precarious though it felt. She keeps running her fingers through his hair, trying to get him to relax and do whatever he needs to, whether that be talking or sleeping.
There, he doesn't disagree. At least in theory; only time will tell if it's what works for Nate. Since they left home they've had time to grieve, and it's-- well, it's not like there's a right way. Getting trashed always let him release a little of the tension. It's something. Better than nothing.
He doesn't ask if she knows them, not when she tries so hard not to know anyone here. There's wisdom in that; letting people in means sharing loss.
Loosing a heavy breath, he shifts a bit closer. Always, loss makes him think of home. It's what's waiting for them.
"You ever think about goin' places? Through that gate."
He's not sure whether or not it's a change of topic.
Wisdom, that's definitely the wrong word. It's plain fear, nothing deeper than that. Selfish, cold, and absolutely more comforting than the alternative -- that doesn't mean, however, that she hasn't considered the alternative. Quite a lot.
"Sometimes," she admits. How could she not? She thinks about dragging Daryl and Carl through to Beverly's utopia of a world where they can explore space with a lot more comfort and certainty than they found on the Moira, about pulling Cinna away from his death once he's done all he could do, about reaching back to Teleios and nabbing their magical pets so they'll at least not be by themselves in that vast place. And she thinks about home, either rescuing their people from it or going back to try and salvage whatever they can. About going back and saving Sophia, saving Lori and Andrea and T-Dog and Hershel, so many that they lost.
But they tried that, once, and it was one of the worst things she ever had to do. They tried to do the honorable thing and go back into the hell they left, and it didn't work, it almost cost them everything they spent years building. If they tried again, who's to say it would work as intended, that they wouldn't get scattered to separate corners of separate universes?
And -- isn't once enough? How many times could anyone ask them to endure that torment? If some of their people found some semblance of peace on some distant planet, wouldn't she want them to stay there? Is the possible good they could do back home really worth giving up what they found here?
"I don't know if I'd ever get up the courage. But..." There's nothing intended to be at the end of that sentence. It's only there in case Daryl wants to say that he does, in which case she wouldn't want to shut him down before he says it. She wishes nothing more than for him to not say it, but if he's going to then she owes it to him to listen.
He's not even certain what he means by it. Daryl tries not to think in ideals, knowing they're a waste; there's little chance of ever finding a real safe harbor, whatever world they're in. Things here were better a while, but they seem like they're taking a turn.
With a huff of breath he shrugs a shoulder. "Ain't much work around if you don't," he reasons, which isn't anything either way. Everything weighing on his mind is too big to say, to feel, so they'll just have to deal like this-- whittling away the edge of it til the shape's there to be seen.
"Dunno if people're still gettin sick. Don't think so."
Nothing about this conversation, if one could call it that, is terribly comforting, which probably means it needs to happen. And they're not going to get anywhere dancing around the issue, so...
"Do you want to use it?" She actually succeeds at making it a real question and not a loaded one, miraculously. If he wanted to walk into that thing, she'd go with him. Hesitantly, granted, but she'd go. (Hopefully he won't ask if she wants to, because he always wanted her honesty and she's going to give it.)
It's not entirely about wanting. He hums, vague and uncertain; it's not an easy question to answer. Wanting is impractical, pointless. What he'd rather is for things to go back to normal, for more people to come here from home, for everything to even out so they can settle in.
He just doesn't see that happening.
"Just been wonderin' about this place. Since the weather turned."
And public opinion, too. People are always the real trouble.
She's quiet for a moment which, despite her intentions not to, stretches into a longer moment, long enough to be telling. She's trying to gauge exactly how pointless it would be to try and talk Daryl out of what he apparently has on his mind, whether he'd want her to. He's far more selfless than she is; shitty weather or not, she doesn't want to step into that thing knowing that the last time they tried to leave one dimension for another it's only by sheer dumb luck that it didn't lead to both of them being miserable, and this time there's not even the promise of losing their memories to soothe the blow.
Once the flood of sudden, frigid fear is ebbing, she recognizes that there has to be a reason this is coming up tonight. Maybe it's just the drinking, but he doesn't seem inebriated enough for that old cliche. That's the sort of thing she wouldn't normally ask about, but if he's asking her to consider jumping off a cliff than she has the right to at least hear the full story.
And yeah, she's a little hurt if he's been thinking, for all this time, about leaving, given what it might mean.
"All this time you've been thinking about maybe leaving?" She's not even a little mad, but she doesn't keep the anxiety out of her voice. Hell, he's been on her case forever to be upfront, so now he's got to face the consequences.
Somehow this is getting away from him, becoming more fraught than he meant. Granted he doesn't know quite what he meant by starting to talk.
"Not leavin," he protests. "Just travelin."
It's not like it was when they left Teleios, after all. People know where they're going, they come back.
(Unless they don't.)
He wants to say more but doesn't, struck by the truth he's implied already. He doesn't think of leaving. If they could go home... he doesn't think about doing that.
"Oh," she says, surprised, almost laughing at herself. Nothing like inadvertently admitting your fears when it wasn't even necessary. Even just traveling isn't entirely without concern, but at least he's not talking about uprooting entirely. (Not that she's so attached to this place in particular, but she is rather attached to him, and them being whatever they are. So.)
"There's still a risk of ending up somewhere we didn't want to be, maybe messed up in the head when we get there." But there's a good deal less stress in her voice now, so there's that. "Out of curiosity, did you have somewhere in particular in mind?"
He's not drunk, but maybe he isn't sober enough to be having serious conversations. Not that he ever is. What does he mean by this? Half his train of thought can't be retraced, the rest certainly can't be said aloud. What she means, what she is to him; how incomprehensible he finds the thought of parting from her. Of going home. Of losing her without ever managing to say anything about any of it.
"Ain't even 'cause I wanna go... just." He pauses, chewing it over, trying to sort out the right way of saying it.
"Feel better if we had a plan, for if shit here gets bad."
"Mm," she says, agreeing for whatever it's worth. It's probably best to stay where they have a stash of weapons and food, but there's no downside to having a Plan B if world-ending stuff starts going down. Lord knows they'd have preferred to have a magical "get the hell out" portal back home once the shit hit the fan. "We can look into it."
Certainly, if it'll make him feel better, than it's worth the time for that alone -- but he's not wrong at all about having contingency plans. It's the smartest play.
But, again, this coming up now is maybe telling, and she's just... worried. That somehow his friend's loss got to him on some level that tweaked the losses they've already had.
"Your friend must've been in a bad way, to get your mind on this." It's a statement, nothing Daryl need answer if he doesn't want to, she just can't swallow the idea of entirely sidestepping this. Just to let him know she gets it, and she's here however he needs.
Staying here would certainly be preferable. (There's a part of him that feels like it should rebel at the thought; but he's tired of always being on the run, on the road.) They've got something defensible, something-- well, nice, honestly-- but with the chill weather they're out both food and income, and with the public blaming the Moira refugees for all the recent trouble... It's just a matter of time, he worries, before they're going to put all those defenses to the test.
But that's only half of what he's thinking, complicated and knotty as it his. He sighs at that not-question, which deserves an answer he can't quite compose. Not in any way that touches on all the layers of why he's all twisted up at the moment. So, he treats it as simply as he can.
"His wife died."
Saying so feels too much like gossip, it leaves him uneasy, but maybe that will make this make sense. Maybe not.
Carol hasn't given up on this place, even with the weather. She's the one that fixes problems like this, the eternal troubleshooter, the one who can whip up the best casserole you've ever had with near-expired cans in the back of the cabinet. They can get a greenhouse together, set aside space in the house, maybe even figure out how to get more income from the animals. But, she has to admit, things don't look to be headed in a great direction.
When Daryl mentions that his friend's lost someone was his wife, the first thing she thinks of is Rick's face when she asked, after Daryl brought her back to their cellblock, where Lori was. And then about Glenn when Maggie vanished from Teleios. It's one thing to lose someone, but another altogether to take a loss like that... a loss Carol can' truly relate to. She lose children, but losing Ed almost wasn't even noteworthy in the scheme of things. She cried and put that ax in his corpse, yet she never had the look in her eyes that Glenn or Rick had.
"Damn," is what she finally comes up with, her head full of memories that relate to anyone but herself and Daryl. It's not that she in any way questions their importance to each other, but she has such a disconnect between her relationship with Daryl and her experience of marriage that the connection doesn't happen. "That had to be hard to watch. I'm surprised you're not drunker." (She's half joking, but wouldn't have blamed him for getting hammered after sitting with that for the evening.)
There's no good answer to that, so he just grunts. She can take what she will from it; he's not sure what he means. (If he wasn't so focused on making sure Nate got somewhere safe, and that he got home himself, sober enough to make sure no one tailed him since paranoia is basically as natural as breathing... And, yeah, if he wasn't aware that she'd be wondering how bad a shape he'd be in, and hoping not to horrify her too much...)
All those things she's thinking of, he remembers, too. But he's thinking of them, too. Carol's not his wife; it's not that he thinks of them like that, exactly, or that he thinks she'd ever want to be. But at the same time, unspoken, it's not like they're that different. (Deep down, guiltily, he's not sure he'd correct anyone who mistook them for a married couple, if only because he'd have nothing to correct them with.) And though she's here-- he can imagine, better than he likes, what it would be to lose her for the last time. Every time feels like the last time until he finds her again, after all.
Without a real response, he just lets the silence stretch out between them.
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i'll get him back safe then come home
[ which, he hopes, is some tacit reassurance that he's not planning to get drunk himself. He forgets sometimes that she worries, but then, he has the advantage of knowing his own plans and his own reliability. ]
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Sounds pretty bad.
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he lost someone
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[What does it say that they had the exact same first reaction? Probably nothing awesome about Carol's emotional growth across time. Probably also doesn't say much that her second thought is wanting to know how it happened in case there's a new danger she should be planning for. At least she doesn't actually ask.]
Sorry to hear it.
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[ Hasn't got much more to say. He's just hoping that'll settle things, reassure her that his heart's in the right place even if this is a shit way of dealing with things. ]
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Quietly, because he's hoping she'll be asleep, even if he thinks she's probably not. ]
switching to prose for sanity
She doesn't speak just yet, because sometimes there's nothing to say and maybe this is one of tbose times. If he wants to talk, she'll listen; if not, she gets it.
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He's not drunk; part of taking someone out to get shitfaced is making sure they get back home safely, so he really just nursed a beer. But he's... quiet. Well, that's not so unusual.
Talking isn't his thing. Even when he feels like he ought to. After a moment he starts with something simple.
"You good?"
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"Been lots worse." Which maybe doesn't say much, considering. But yeah, she's okay enough. "You?"
If his question was his way of trying to start a conversation about whatever got stirred up by finding a friend in that state, she'll oblige. She starts gently stroking his hair to try and ease him into it... Or hell, just to be of some comfort if be wants to sleep it off.
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All the things it's on the tip of his tongue to say, they're things they don't say. And it doesn't bother him. Feels like it ought to, maybe.
He tries not to think about loss. Losing her, it's not a possibility, it's an inevitability, and sometimes something happens that makes it impossible to keep ignoring.
"Dunno if it helped much," he murmurs, a non sequitur that's about the best he can do for coherent discussion. If they're gonna talk that's how it goes-- halting and uneasy. He's trying.
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"Maybe not, that doesn't mean it wasn't worth doing." Sort of like having a rough conversation. She learned that the hard way, thanks to him. And it was worth the effort, painful and precarious though it felt. She keeps running her fingers through his hair, trying to get him to relax and do whatever he needs to, whether that be talking or sleeping.
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There, he doesn't disagree. At least in theory; only time will tell if it's what works for Nate. Since they left home they've had time to grieve, and it's-- well, it's not like there's a right way. Getting trashed always let him release a little of the tension. It's something. Better than nothing.
He doesn't ask if she knows them, not when she tries so hard not to know anyone here. There's wisdom in that; letting people in means sharing loss.
Loosing a heavy breath, he shifts a bit closer. Always, loss makes him think of home. It's what's waiting for them.
"You ever think about goin' places? Through that gate."
He's not sure whether or not it's a change of topic.
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"Sometimes," she admits. How could she not? She thinks about dragging Daryl and Carl through to Beverly's utopia of a world where they can explore space with a lot more comfort and certainty than they found on the Moira, about pulling Cinna away from his death once he's done all he could do, about reaching back to Teleios and nabbing their magical pets so they'll at least not be by themselves in that vast place. And she thinks about home, either rescuing their people from it or going back to try and salvage whatever they can. About going back and saving Sophia, saving Lori and Andrea and T-Dog and Hershel, so many that they lost.
But they tried that, once, and it was one of the worst things she ever had to do. They tried to do the honorable thing and go back into the hell they left, and it didn't work, it almost cost them everything they spent years building. If they tried again, who's to say it would work as intended, that they wouldn't get scattered to separate corners of separate universes?
And -- isn't once enough? How many times could anyone ask them to endure that torment? If some of their people found some semblance of peace on some distant planet, wouldn't she want them to stay there? Is the possible good they could do back home really worth giving up what they found here?
"I don't know if I'd ever get up the courage. But..." There's nothing intended to be at the end of that sentence. It's only there in case Daryl wants to say that he does, in which case she wouldn't want to shut him down before he says it. She wishes nothing more than for him to not say it, but if he's going to then she owes it to him to listen.
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With a huff of breath he shrugs a shoulder. "Ain't much work around if you don't," he reasons, which isn't anything either way. Everything weighing on his mind is too big to say, to feel, so they'll just have to deal like this-- whittling away the edge of it til the shape's there to be seen.
"Dunno if people're still gettin sick. Don't think so."
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"Do you want to use it?" She actually succeeds at making it a real question and not a loaded one, miraculously. If he wanted to walk into that thing, she'd go with him. Hesitantly, granted, but she'd go. (Hopefully he won't ask if she wants to, because he always wanted her honesty and she's going to give it.)
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He just doesn't see that happening.
"Just been wonderin' about this place. Since the weather turned."
And public opinion, too. People are always the real trouble.
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Once the flood of sudden, frigid fear is ebbing, she recognizes that there has to be a reason this is coming up tonight. Maybe it's just the drinking, but he doesn't seem inebriated enough for that old cliche. That's the sort of thing she wouldn't normally ask about, but if he's asking her to consider jumping off a cliff than she has the right to at least hear the full story.
And yeah, she's a little hurt if he's been thinking, for all this time, about leaving, given what it might mean.
"All this time you've been thinking about maybe leaving?" She's not even a little mad, but she doesn't keep the anxiety out of her voice. Hell, he's been on her case forever to be upfront, so now he's got to face the consequences.
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"Not leavin," he protests. "Just travelin."
It's not like it was when they left Teleios, after all. People know where they're going, they come back.
(Unless they don't.)
He wants to say more but doesn't, struck by the truth he's implied already. He doesn't think of leaving. If they could go home... he doesn't think about doing that.
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"There's still a risk of ending up somewhere we didn't want to be, maybe messed up in the head when we get there." But there's a good deal less stress in her voice now, so there's that. "Out of curiosity, did you have somewhere in particular in mind?"
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He's not drunk, but maybe he isn't sober enough to be having serious conversations. Not that he ever is. What does he mean by this? Half his train of thought can't be retraced, the rest certainly can't be said aloud. What she means, what she is to him; how incomprehensible he finds the thought of parting from her. Of going home. Of losing her without ever managing to say anything about any of it.
"Ain't even 'cause I wanna go... just." He pauses, chewing it over, trying to sort out the right way of saying it.
"Feel better if we had a plan, for if shit here gets bad."
It sounds thin and weak, said aloud like that.
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Certainly, if it'll make him feel better, than it's worth the time for that alone -- but he's not wrong at all about having contingency plans. It's the smartest play.
But, again, this coming up now is maybe telling, and she's just... worried. That somehow his friend's loss got to him on some level that tweaked the losses they've already had.
"Your friend must've been in a bad way, to get your mind on this." It's a statement, nothing Daryl need answer if he doesn't want to, she just can't swallow the idea of entirely sidestepping this. Just to let him know she gets it, and she's here however he needs.
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But that's only half of what he's thinking, complicated and knotty as it his. He sighs at that not-question, which deserves an answer he can't quite compose. Not in any way that touches on all the layers of why he's all twisted up at the moment. So, he treats it as simply as he can.
"His wife died."
Saying so feels too much like gossip, it leaves him uneasy, but maybe that will make this make sense. Maybe not.
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When Daryl mentions that his friend's lost someone was his wife, the first thing she thinks of is Rick's face when she asked, after Daryl brought her back to their cellblock, where Lori was. And then about Glenn when Maggie vanished from Teleios. It's one thing to lose someone, but another altogether to take a loss like that... a loss Carol can' truly relate to. She lose children, but losing Ed almost wasn't even noteworthy in the scheme of things. She cried and put that ax in his corpse, yet she never had the look in her eyes that Glenn or Rick had.
"Damn," is what she finally comes up with, her head full of memories that relate to anyone but herself and Daryl. It's not that she in any way questions their importance to each other, but she has such a disconnect between her relationship with Daryl and her experience of marriage that the connection doesn't happen. "That had to be hard to watch. I'm surprised you're not drunker." (She's half joking, but wouldn't have blamed him for getting hammered after sitting with that for the evening.)
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All those things she's thinking of, he remembers, too. But he's thinking of them, too. Carol's not his wife; it's not that he thinks of them like that, exactly, or that he thinks she'd ever want to be. But at the same time, unspoken, it's not like they're that different. (Deep down, guiltily, he's not sure he'd correct anyone who mistook them for a married couple, if only because he'd have nothing to correct them with.) And though she's here-- he can imagine, better than he likes, what it would be to lose her for the last time. Every time feels like the last time until he finds her again, after all.
Without a real response, he just lets the silence stretch out between them.
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