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piscesnebula2023-10-24 05:47 pm
technophobics) wrote in piscesnebula2023-10-24 05:47 pm
technophobics) wrote in piscesnebula2023-10-24 05:47 pm
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"That shit's crazy," he mutters, somewhat without his own say-so. Had people really been dispatched to try and help in that capacity? His most profound memory of everything finally giving way is he and his brother hustling it up to the roof of a motel to watch the military pour napalm down over the streets of Atlanta. Merle had laughed, cackling in his unhinged way, and Daryl had felt disconnected. Society, this overwhelming and intrinsic human thing he'd been shamed his whole life for not being a part of, went so bad so fast, like it was never real.
And Spencer and individual people like him were being flown around, trying to help. Surreal.
Daryl thinks to ask more. They've come across a lot of people, and not everyone in their group started out in Georgia. Maybe somebody's come across an FBI agentβ they've found cops and ex-marines and politicians and one rock star. You never know. But that.
Something behind Daryl's eyes shutters, even though his expression doesn't change. Awkward silence before he finally answers,
"Nah." Abrupt. He shrugs dismissively. All dead, he nearly adds, but doesn't. You're supposed to miss dead people. (Merle, cackling in his unhinged way. Daryl still sees him sometimes, like a fucking poltergeist.) "I'm just. Present. Reckon I can keep an eye out for your folks, though."
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"Sorry, that was thoughtless of me," he apologizes, wincing. Not everybody has people they miss. He's lucky, he knows; he'd found a family in his team, and not everybody gets something like that. Some people are just alone, or stuck with people they don't get on with, or in terrible situations.
If he hadn't had his team, he thinks the only person he'd be missing is his mother. He's been looking for her too, but unlike his faith in his team's ability to survive, he... privately doubts that his mom was as lucky, and it breaks his heart. Hospitals, mental hospitals, and nursing homes had been hit particularly hard with the outbreak. Vulnerable populations, enclosed spaces. He frequently has nightmares about finding her walking corpse.
"If you kept an eye out, that'd be really kind of you," he adds. "I'm done with the questions, by the way. I promise I won't be bothering your group for too long."
(He kind of wants to bother Daryl more, actually. He's interesting.)
"Can I get you anything, by the way? How are you settling in?"
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He sits back in the chair, and this time doesn't manage to stop himself from bringing a hand to his mouth to worry at the side of one thumbnail with his teeth. A nervous tick. It's only when he remembers that the still-healing burns on his hands are there, obvious and pale in stark relief against ruddy skin, that he abruptly lowers his hand again. Oops.
With a rough sound, he clears his throat.
"M'fine." Yep. Entirely. Real normal. "Reckon you won't find a job for me, so I'm just resting up 'til I can get back out there. Go on runs, or whatever."
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Spencer often forgets that most people aren't used to that, actually. He spent years around profilers every day, and even though they had a rule against profiling each other, it still happened. If he was thirty seconds too slow in turning a page, someone would notice. If he squinted a bit more than usual, someone would notice.
"Have you seen someone about those burns?" he asks, head tilted curiously. He wants to ask, but it doesn't take a genius to assume that the story probably isn't pretty. Walkers don't cause burns. People do. Unless Daryl tried to make a molotov cocktail and it backfired, or he rescued someone from a burning building. "They don't look extensive enough to cause muscular problems, but it's always good to double check if PT is indicated. Improperly healed, chronic pain can easily follow."
Given what he knows of Daryl's skills, having his job be external resource gathering is probably the best use of him, and Spencer's pretty confident Charlie will come to the same conclusion. That, or surveillance. So it'll be good for him to get some rest, after his long trek, and Spencer's already planning what he can bring to help with that. They even have working TVs thanks to their solar panels, and DVDs he can bring over!
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Still awkward. They aren't bad, just superficial things. He forgets because everyone is so screwed up, out there, that minor injuries start to look normal. Feel normal. It becomes unremarkable. And for Daryl, even grievous injuries have been unremarkableβ he feels disoriented, all of a sudden, even more than when they first arrived.
"Uh."
Hm. He looks away, and it doesn't take someone who can read microexpressions to tell he's embarrassed.
"... I'm gonna go get some rest, I think. I promise I'll get these looked after."
He doesn't know why he says I promise. It sounds corny. But it out of his mouth before he can think of anything else to say about it, and so he has to just leave it there. Sitting still only because he's sure getting up and bolting inside would look even weirder.
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It's probably a good thing that someone comes by at that moment and reminds Spencer he has a meeting with Charlie, because otherwise he would have rambled at Daryl about some seriously gory burn facts. He makes his apologies, almost trips when he goes down the stairs, and awkwardly says goodbye -- though it's awkward mostly just because that's who Reid is as a person, and not anything to do with his dynamic with Daryl.
Over the next few days, he's busy. There's malfunctioning solar panels to see to, genetic testing to be done, a new well being dug (not that he's useful enough to help with the actual digging), and other people of Daryl's group to interview. Also, one of their more adventurous members comes back with a whole wheelbarrow full of books, and some of them are pretty useful, even!
It's not until four days later that Spencer runs into Daryl again, and it's in the communal kitchens. The community is set up so that there's a communal meal three times a day, or people can request a biweekly food allotment so they can cook at home. Spencer's a decent cook when he wants to be, but he mostly just has the communal meals so he has more time to think about important stuff -- the thing is, though, lately some of his thoughts have been about Daryl. Like, a strange amount of thoughts.
He doesn't know what that means. He doesn't know what it means when he feels excited about seeing him again. As best he can tell, he just thinks Daryl's really interesting?
Whatever it is, there's that weird little excited feeling in his belly when he catches sight of Daryl in the kitchens. But first, he apparently has to get lectured by one of the cooks, a big guy that Spencer knows only as Jones. "I know you've been skipping meals," Jones threatens, shaking a ladle at him, "look at you, you're a pipecleaner with a sweatervest on, you can't afford to skip meals. Do you know many calories the average human needs a day? You can't achieve that with coffee, Reid!"
"I know, I'm sorry," Spencer says quickly, already trying to sneak away, "I'll do better. Oh, look, it's Daryl! Hi, Daryl. I'll talk to you later, Jones!"
He leaves Jones grumbling and pouring out portions of soup, and does his best to hide behind Daryl instead. It doesn't work. Daryl's not quite tall enough.
"I'm using you as a human shield so he doesn't lecture me anymore," Spencer whispers. "I think he can only see me if I move. What are you doing in here, by the way?"
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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 unappetizingβ 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.
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It's a pleasant surprise to see Daryl helping out in the kitchens, though. He'd expected the man to stick to things like doing runs outside, but he looks downright domestic here, and it's--
Hmm. He's fairly certain he's experiencing physical attraction. That's not a common thing for him.
"I eat enough, I just... get caught up in things, and forget sometimes," he admits. A glance at Jones, who's now distracted by soup, and Spencer decides it's safe enough to stop hiding behind Daryl. He stays close, though, peering in interest at the pieces of meat Daryl's preparing. "You have a lot of different talents."
He'd asked Daryl's group about him; their opinions had been mixed. Gabriel had talked about Daryl like he was a psychotic serial killer, but Rick had nothing but good things to say about him. Very few of them seemed to know much about him, and none of them had told Spencer anything about what he was like before the fall. He's a very enigmatic figure, but Spencer does love a good puzzle.
"Charlie gave the final approval last night, you and everyone in your group is welcome to stay however long you like," he announces. "You likely won't be the last, there's other groups we've been in contact with, so we'll probably have to expand to another city block to accommodate everyone."
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At least Spencer doesn't actively make him feel like a freak when he says shit like that, though. He seems to mean everything earnestly. It goes a way to unwind some of the tension that threatens to pull a stitch between his shoulders. So he just makes a noncommittal sound, and continues wrapping up the last of his game assortments, one of which he decides at the last minute to keep separated from the rest going out. He's already separated and kept the grossest bits for himself, not wanting to give people anything to waste, but. An idea is forming.
"Yeah?" a glance at the younger man. A bit of relief. Despite the potential for conflict and growing pains, he expected it after seeing how short this place is on protection. But it's still nice to hear. "...Won't be too bad to clear out. Ain't got much activity in the area."
Momentary fidgeting. Daryl fusses with a folded edge of wax paper, uncertain. He's sure Reid won't be unkind to him if he shoots down the offer, but he still finds himself grappling for the fortitude to cough up a question.
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Which means a lot of engineering work, which means he's going to busy. He kind of likes keeping busy, though -- it gives him less time to dwell on things he doesn't want to think about.
He's told having friends is good for that, too, but Spencer hasn't had a whole lot of success at that. Like, ever. He's friendly with some people here, and he meets Charlie for a game of chess every Saturday, but that's about it. Daryl's sufficiently interesting enough that it keeps him distracted, though, and maybe a potential friend!
"Have you had lunch yet?" he asks, oblivious for now to Daryl's impending question. "I don't normally eat with everyone-- all the chewing sounds make me want to die, honestly, so I take my food somewhere else." Reid fidgets briefly. This is how friends are made, he tells himself. "Would you like to join me?"
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More barely-there fidgeting, worrying at one thumb nail with the same hand's other fingers. He's just deciding not to ask β the answer will be no, anyway β when Spencer goes and beats him to it. For a moment Daryl just looks at him.
"Uh."
Come on, Dixon.
"Sure." A nod, and he quickly looks down at the little wrapped up thing. He slides it closer, intent on scooping it up along with whatever else. "If soup ain't your thing, I can fix these up. See if you can stomach any."
Soup is fine with Daryl, though, and so he's content to get a container of it to go with whatever else is offered. He dimly makes a note about the younger man not liking chewing sounds, and wonders if it's got to do with the whole... reanimated corpses devouring flesh thing. His own table manners are not great (as in, non-existent), but he chews with his mouth closed. Not much of a mouth breather, despite all the smoking no doubt shredding his airways.
SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY the holidays really got the best of me π
Jones just grumbles in the background, still focusing on his soup. He's kind of a perfectionist about food, even in these trying times. No doubt Daryl will get a gruff thank you later for adding to the meat stores.
Spencer gives Daryl a moment to collect what he needs to, and then he leads the way out of the kitchen. "I never used to be able to cook," he confides to Darryl. "I could do sandwiches and some ready-made soup, but that was about it. I used to just order out a lot."
But the end of the world has made a lot of people learn skills they hadn't known before. He wonders if Daryl had known how to butcher before the world had turned upside down. There's something incredibly attractive about the-- not the butchering thing, specifically, but how capable Daryl is at so many things.
Hmmm. There goes that weird feeling in his chest again. That feeling he's come to associate with I am attracted to this person.
Outside of the community center kitchen, it's getting crowded with people waiting on lunch, and they make their way through the crowd to the street outside, where Spencer begins to take the path to the east. "My place isn't far." Then again, it's a five minute walk from east to west inside this closed community, so, everywhere isn't far.