If Spencer folds the top half of himself to resemble a lollipop, he might be able to hide. Daryl has the shoulder real estate for it.
He also has... meat. Meat, wax paper, and a food scale. Portioning out sample selections of a few things, apparently. It doesn't look like a butcher's counter, no large cuts or masses of ground chuck, but small pieces in a variety of shades of inner flesh. Cleaned and snipped nicely. Slightly weird in with the cafeteria style setup and canned supplies. Daryl is slightly weird, as well, having finally been scrubbed clean and shoved into a new shirt (still under his ubiquitous vest). Navy blue plaid, buttoned up nearly all the way. Like he's a real person almost. He has a single bandaid around the ring finger of his right hand.
"Okay," he says, about being used as a human shield, because what else does a person say? He gives Jones a look, deliberately comical, but the man is back to his business. Ehhem. So. Daryl looks back over at Spencer.
"...Uh." He glances down at what he's doing, then back up. "Helping. I guess. Making shit last longer."
Proteins with shelf lives can be saved for emergencies when supplemented with fresh game. It's just a matter of convincing people that it's not unappetizing— something that Daryl struggles to understand. Food isn't a guarantee. Just eat it and be glad you don't have to dig for worms and chew on sticks. Speaking of. He eyes Agent Pipecleaner.
"You ain't eating right?"
Spencer is busy, he's noticed. Always busy, zipping around, proverbially juggling plates. Daryl's kept an eye on him from afar a little here and there, bookended around his hunting trip. The kind of person who seems like if he moves fast enough, he won't have to remember to look after himself.
no subject
He also has... meat. Meat, wax paper, and a food scale. Portioning out sample selections of a few things, apparently. It doesn't look like a butcher's counter, no large cuts or masses of ground chuck, but small pieces in a variety of shades of inner flesh. Cleaned and snipped nicely. Slightly weird in with the cafeteria style setup and canned supplies. Daryl is slightly weird, as well, having finally been scrubbed clean and shoved into a new shirt (still under his ubiquitous vest). Navy blue plaid, buttoned up nearly all the way. Like he's a real person almost. He has a single bandaid around the ring finger of his right hand.
"Okay," he says, about being used as a human shield, because what else does a person say? He gives Jones a look, deliberately comical, but the man is back to his business. Ehhem. So. Daryl looks back over at Spencer.
"...Uh." He glances down at what he's doing, then back up. "Helping. I guess. Making shit last longer."
Proteins with shelf lives can be saved for emergencies when supplemented with fresh game. It's just a matter of convincing people that it's not unappetizing— something that Daryl struggles to understand. Food isn't a guarantee. Just eat it and be glad you don't have to dig for worms and chew on sticks. Speaking of. He eyes Agent Pipecleaner.
"You ain't eating right?"
Spencer is busy, he's noticed. Always busy, zipping around, proverbially juggling plates. Daryl's kept an eye on him from afar a little here and there, bookended around his hunting trip. The kind of person who seems like if he moves fast enough, he won't have to remember to look after himself.