Daryl isn't difficult to read when someone knows what they're doing by looking, but he's effectively impossible to interrogate. Not a snitch. (Torture, physical and psychological, waterboarding. He doesn't crack. His hands don't shake.) The assumptions that the younger man is making, even if they were true, would never end up corroborated.
But. Daryl looks back at Reid, his gaze contemplative. Stormy blue eyes thinking about him and his eagerness to do things. Outside the walls scraping at willow bark despite clearly never having so much as gone camping before the turn, and now in here, doing these followup interviews while also soliciting participation in genetic research. Spinning plates. He wonders how much stale coffee Spencer drinks on the daily.
"Ain't what I meant."
He wishes he could ration another cigarette just to have something to do with his hands; he doesn't want to pull at his cuticles like a child. His fingers tap briefly on his knee, but he makes himself stop. Almost nervous. Communicating effectively past yes or no answers has never been his strong suit.
"Just don't know some of 'em well. The priest, the redhead, the chick with the busted arm. Folks we found on the road. I know Gabriel is fucking terrified of us, no matter we saved his life half a dozen times. Not his fault. He just wishes survival could be a kinder business, and being angry at the people doing the surviving is... easier than being mad at God, or whatever."
no subject
But. Daryl looks back at Reid, his gaze contemplative. Stormy blue eyes thinking about him and his eagerness to do things. Outside the walls scraping at willow bark despite clearly never having so much as gone camping before the turn, and now in here, doing these followup interviews while also soliciting participation in genetic research. Spinning plates. He wonders how much stale coffee Spencer drinks on the daily.
"Ain't what I meant."
He wishes he could ration another cigarette just to have something to do with his hands; he doesn't want to pull at his cuticles like a child. His fingers tap briefly on his knee, but he makes himself stop. Almost nervous. Communicating effectively past yes or no answers has never been his strong suit.
"Just don't know some of 'em well. The priest, the redhead, the chick with the busted arm. Folks we found on the road. I know Gabriel is fucking terrified of us, no matter we saved his life half a dozen times. Not his fault. He just wishes survival could be a kinder business, and being angry at the people doing the surviving is... easier than being mad at God, or whatever."