A strange time. He had mentioned it in his interview, but only briefly. That they'd tried to seek shelter there after realizing that the military base nearest them was a lost cause, but it didn't work out. Which is true. Quite a lot hasn't worked out. Of that first group from Atlanta, just about thirty people, only five remain. Patchworked out with others they've met over the years into their surreal family.
(If he knew what Reid was wondering, he'd laugh. There's no way Daryl seems like he had a job at the CDC, he knows damn well.)
"As a hobby," he echoes. Genetic disorders. Daryl's starting to figure out that the younger man is a total weirdo, not just smart. Makes Daryl like him more, though. Not that he should be thinking about liking or disliking anyone here. He wants it to work out, but he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has to stay vigilant for his people, even while they decompress. They deserve the break, and given he has nothing else to offer, continuing to be a proverbial guard dog is the least he can do.
A shrug, then. "Sure." Why not. Daryl's DNA is already in a million databases due to the number of times he's voluntarily provided samples to get various cops off his back. There's nothing remarkable lurking in his genetics; he had chicken pox as a kid and he never did any of the intravenous drugs his brother trafficked. (Just the non-intravenous ones. He's not a saint.) Maybe he's developing lung cancer thanks to a lifetime of smoking, but at this stage, he figures if he ends up dying slowly and miserably in bed, he'll have lucked the fuck out.
no subject
A strange time. He had mentioned it in his interview, but only briefly. That they'd tried to seek shelter there after realizing that the military base nearest them was a lost cause, but it didn't work out. Which is true. Quite a lot hasn't worked out. Of that first group from Atlanta, just about thirty people, only five remain. Patchworked out with others they've met over the years into their surreal family.
(If he knew what Reid was wondering, he'd laugh. There's no way Daryl seems like he had a job at the CDC, he knows damn well.)
"As a hobby," he echoes. Genetic disorders. Daryl's starting to figure out that the younger man is a total weirdo, not just smart. Makes Daryl like him more, though. Not that he should be thinking about liking or disliking anyone here. He wants it to work out, but he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has to stay vigilant for his people, even while they decompress. They deserve the break, and given he has nothing else to offer, continuing to be a proverbial guard dog is the least he can do.
A shrug, then. "Sure." Why not. Daryl's DNA is already in a million databases due to the number of times he's voluntarily provided samples to get various cops off his back. There's nothing remarkable lurking in his genetics; he had chicken pox as a kid and he never did any of the intravenous drugs his brother trafficked. (Just the non-intravenous ones. He's not a saint.) Maybe he's developing lung cancer thanks to a lifetime of smoking, but at this stage, he figures if he ends up dying slowly and miserably in bed, he'll have lucked the fuck out.
"You need to draw blood, or just swab me?"