bakerstreet | SHUT UP, THIS IS MY JAM.

"Every other letter, maybe." It's kind of weird, walking over barebacked to look at what he's doing, but on the other hand, it's Daryl. He's not a creep, even if sometimes he's an asshole.

She sets the two colours behind their respective ink cups and looks silently over the needles. They all look pretty unpleasant, but everything she ever heard about tattoos--mostly from friends with older siblings--is that they don't usually hurt as much as you'd think. She's kind of hoping that's true, because doing this by hand is probably going to take longer than it would with a gun.

"Too bad we don't have somewhere to stay," she adds idly, picking up a little bottle of red ink. "We could keep this stuff."

He's always an asshole, he's just sometimes quieter about it.

Pouring the inks out, he huffs a laugh.

"Ain't got one yet and you're planning the next?"

There's got to be paper towels around here somewhere, he figures, and goes to scrounge in the cabinet. The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol fills the air, covering up old decay and rotted wood for the moment; he hands her one sopping napkin, scrubs his own hands with another. In spite of himself, now, he's smiling faintly; it's not the same but he's been where she is. Maybe less nervous, though she seems pretty steady.

She shakes her head, a little sheepish. "No. I mean, maybe, but--I was thinking of everyone else."

Not that everyone else is around to think about, but if they were, it'd be worth it to try. If they found somewhere safe, somewhere with generators, or even just plenty of spare time and sunlight, they could have some fun with all this gear. Someone should, right? It's all going to waste, just sitting around, waiting to be busted up by walkers.

With care, she swipes the rubbing alcohol over her skin. It raises goosebumps on her arms, and the paper towel's filthy soon enough. If they found somewhere safe, with plenty of water to bathe in, that would be better than all the generators in the world. She'd do just about anything for a hot bath.

She's not too worried about any of this--or doesn't want to be, anyway--but she still can't help asking, "Did it hurt? The first time you got one."

It's a nice thought. If the prison were still standing-- but, of course, if it were, they wouldn't be here in the first place. Thinking of everything they've lost stings, viciously-- he pushes it away. They'll find their people, they'll find a place.

"There's other shops," he murmurs, trying to be optimistic. Satisfied that his hands are clean-- as best as anything can be, here-- he picks up a packaged needle to put it in the small holder.

"Ain't so bad. You get used to it quick."

Finally set, he looks up to meet her eyes. Last chance to back out, Beth.

They have to find them, if only so Beth can show Maggie just how she and Daryl wasted their time on the road--and that means she needs to let Daryl start in with that needle of his, or there'll be nothing to show.

Of course, she's going to have to say as much. He's looking at her like he half expects her to chicken out, and she's determined not to. Even if all she ends up with is a single pinprick of ink under her skin, she's at least going to get something permanent on her body today.

"Then we better not waste any more daylight," she answers, trying to sound confident. And she is, at least inasmuch as she's confident that she wants to do this. Whether she's certain it's going to be a walk in the park is a different matter. Her shoulders tense a little as she waits for him to start, bracing her skin against the sensation.

It's not as bad as it could be. He might not have much artistic skill or experience, but he's seen and felt this done plenty. And he's got steady hands, which can only help matters. With a slow, steady breath, he dips the needle in the ink-- guessing at how much is too much, really, it's nearly guaranteed this will be sloppy work but it'll do the job.

"First was on my back," he murmurs, unprompted, setting his free hand on her other shoulder just to steady them both. He takes a moment to gauge the size and spacing he'll have to go for before he makes the first dot of the first line at what seems like the right angle.

"Might be worse to see it comin'."

Beth wants to wince, but it's just one prick of five hundred. She's going to have to get used to the sensation.

"Probably faster," she answers, her lip curling up. "But this is okay."

Not exactly comfortable, but not terrible. Daryl holds her shoulder like he's done this a million times before, like the only thing he actually has to worry about is her bolting before he can get through it. She grips the arm of her chair, determined not to give him reason to think she actually might. "When'd you get that one?"

So far, so good. She hasn't yelped or smacked him or called it off, so he keeps going. The next prick, and the next, are less tentative; soon enough he settles into the rhythm of it, though he can only guess at whether he's got enough ink or too much, whether this will look at all the way he's aiming. He's working top-down with the blue, planning to pick up bottom-up with the purple.

"Little younger than you, I guess," he answers almost absently. "Got the rest the next couple'f years."

Tapping the needle on the cup to shake off a little excess ink, he pauses to glance up at her.

"Never had one hand-done," he offers up, faintly amused. She's got him beat, there.

It's not as bad when he keeps going with it. Getting poked by a needle's never going to be painless, but it becomes steady, and that makes each individual prick less unpleasant. One follows another, and she even gets tired trying to follow his hand. Her gaze shifts to his fave, as intent as if he were following a trail rather than making his own.

"We could fix that," she offers, glancing over toward the other bottles of ink. After seeing him do this one, Beth thinks she could at least try one herself. Nothing complicated, but maybe a star. Maybe the outline of a ladybug, if not the whole thing. "Why'd you get the first one?"

She can picture him having lied about his age, maybe there with his brother, even if she still can't imagine him a teenager. But she'd like to hear the details--the story, if he's up to telling it.

Asking that is asking a lot of him, if only because he's rarely inclined to talk about anything. It's not the most personal one, though, so after a long moment of going about on with the needle like he didn't hear the question, he hazards an answer. It's difficult, not because of personal associations, but because so much of it comes out of a context he can't expect her to easily grasp. The kind of friends he had, the music they listened to, the things that held their interest.

"Guess I was into that kinda shit," he muses, eyes back on her skin, the slow upper curve of the B taking shape. He's had the ink on his shoulder long enough that it's an unthinking part of who he is. "Demons and angels, things changing. And it looked cool," he adds, because it'd be a lie to pretend everything was deep and meaningful; he was dumbass kid with grandiose tastes, an inflated sense of his importance and his struggles. He saw something of himself, back then, in the design-- ambiguously rising or falling, uncomfortably cast in an role he never chose, but a lot of it was bullshit. A lot of deciding who you are always is.

(He's still got the vest with the wings, after all; he couldn't say his tastes have changed so much.)

"Bet you'd've guessed one of the small ones was first." Again, he looks up, his expressing hinting at a suppressed smile, curious if she'll argue.

Beth shrugs the shoulder further from his needle. "I dunno if I've seen half your tattoos. Makes it hard to guess."

When she thinks about it, she's only seen part of the one he means, only when he's in one of those shirts of his with the torn-off sleeves. The head of an angel or a demon, whatever it is, peeks out from the fabric. She never really thought about it, except to think it seemed like the sort of thing somebody who rode motorcycles would get.

"What about the other ones?" she asks then, wondering just how many he has.

He answers with a vague grunt, taking a moment to flesh out the line he's working on before he glances up at her again. "Different reasons. Don't talk about all of 'em."

It's not meant to warn her off asking, he's just got his limits on what he'll say. Like the lime green. Pausing, he pulls back and twists his wrist. Chances are she's never noticed the spot inked there; the small heart isn't exactly eye-catching, especially not when he spends more time covered in dirt and blood than not.

"That one was a favor." Okay, maybe he's trying to distract her a bit-- from the more complicated parts of his past, but also from the fact that he's repeatedly stabbing her. Though all in all she's taking it pretty damn well. (He's not really surprised. A year ago, a month ago, a week ago-- he might've been, but not today.)

Limits only make her more curious--if also aware that she probably needs to tread carefully. Neither of them need to be drunk to be mean, and if there's one thing she's learned in the last day, it's that Daryl's reasons for keeping stuff to himself are pretty good. He's probably full of awful stories about where he comes from. It's sad, and worse, she's not sure there's much that can be done about it. He just has to hold onto all that past and keep going. That's all any of them can do, right?

So she sort of recognizes the fact that he's holding up his wrist as a way of directing her attention, but she's also just plain interested. It's weird to think there are parts of him that have been in view this whole time, and she just didn't know to look.

(It's also just kind of funny, thinking of Daryl getting a heart tattooed on him, favor or not. Her own skin, and the needle poking holes into it, fades into the background in comparison, a steady irritation that isn't great but isn't bad enough to stop.)

"What kind of favor?" If she'd had to guess its origin, she would have assumed he'd lost a bet.

Digging around at his past is even likelier to make him lash out than getting him drunk. They've had more than enough of that already. It's funny, he knows, to be cagey about something that's in plain sight, but that's the way it goes.

(He's not likely to give her a better view of the one on his shoulder, either. It takes a lot to get him to bare his back; there's too much else written into the skin, and he doesn't like to risk pity, or questions, or his past influencing what people think of him now.)

Besides-- as intended, he's piqued her interest. For a moment he doesn't answer, intent on what he's doing-- the cross of her t is a tiny bit lopsided, but it'll do the job-- and thinking back on it. He tries not to consider the past much at all, and when he does, it's usually to regret the shit parts of it. It's rare to remember things that make him smile.

"New apprentice at the shop was kinda nervous 'bout workin' on folks," he answers finally, casual as anything.

She waits, watching the way his eyes flick between her skin and the little ink cups. Daryl's the kind of person--when he's calm, anyway--who seems like he's testing every word before he says it. You have to be patient, but your patience is usually rewarded.

The rules shift when he's annoyed, of course. But for now, it's that comfortable, working quiet she's started to recognize in him.

"So you helped him out." It's not too hard to picture that at least--it's the sort of small, quiet kindness that Daryl excels at. (Look at them right here and now, hidden in plain sight of the outside world, him diligently poking ink into her skin.) "Did he pick the heart? Or did you?"

When he focuses on something, any damn thing, he it wholeheartedly. As it turns out, the basics of this don't take too long to work out. Which makes sense, maybe. He's never gonna be an artist but she'll get what she wanted. With any luck it'll never be more than a story to tell, no stranger will ever see it and wonder who she used to be.

He tips his head to the side very slightly, and takes a moment to wipe off some ink, switch colors. It'll muddy it a little but maybe that'll make it a more gradual shift from purple to blue. His expression, though, is completely neutral.

"Can't remember whose idea it was."

"But it's the kind of thing everybody has to be able to draw, I guess. If they want to be a tattoo artist, anyway." It's the classic tattoo, the heart with flowers or skull or a name. Seems right that Daryl'd have one on him.

She falls quiet for a moment, wondering idly what the letters look like. If she's ever seen Daryl's handwriting, she can't remember when.

When she does open her mouth again, it's to ask a question she knows might get her in hot water. But her curiosity is eating at her, and it at least sounds well intentioned--even if she knows that her motivations aren't entirely pure.

"Which one shouldn't I ask about?" she asks, keeping an eye on his facial features. Sometimes his mood's something that has to be noticed, not heard. "So I don't."

She gets a noncommittal hum in answer. It's not complicated-- not all of his are. That much is true. Even he could doodle that, though chances are good the lines would get blown and you'd end up with a fuzzy-edged blob.

When she asks that, he pauses again to look up at her quietly. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything; she's on that track, now. With is free hand, he taps the spot above his heart, not that there's anything visible at the moment.

Her gaze flicks down to his chest, but of course, all that's there to see is shirt.

"What is it?" she asks, and then she realizes that it sounds like she's prying. Which...isn't actually wrong, it's kind of prying to ask, but it's not like she's asking to hear the why. Just the what. "I mean...I don't think I ever saw that one."

As a rule, she's not really in the habit of staring at Daryl's pecs. He might as well tell her Rick's got something tattooed on his ass, for all she'd know the difference.

It's prying, a little. He pauses again, looking up. There's little change in his expression, but then he's so habitually focused it's hard to say whether his gaze sharpens or not.

"We ain't talkin about it," he reminds her, gently, like how a dog will catch your arm in its teeth and not bite.

(It's just too close. If he says a name she'll want to know whose, and that's part and parcel of why, and he doesn't want to get into any of it. He'd rather have her speculate on the others. Hell, he'd rather show her his back, scars and all.)

"You wanna take a look at yours so far?"

Okay, it's changing the subject. But it's a valid concern, right?

Fine, fine. Curious as she is, they're having a nice morning, and she knows pressing isn't going to make it nicer. She presses her lips together--see, not saying a word, not asking--and looks for something else to say. With him looking at her, it feels weird not to speak, like she's just dropping the conversation on the ground between them and leaving it there.

But he solves that problem for her, and she thinks about it. Part of her says yes, definitely,--but what if she hates it? She'll still have to see it through, or she'll end up with part of a name, which is about the worst tattoo she can imagine. But what if she spends the whole time hating the results?

It seems safer to shake her head.

"I wanna see it when it's done," she tells him, looking for an easy smile and finding something that's mostly hope and hesitation. "I trust you."

Silence doesn't bother him-- that can't come as a surprise to her, but it feels like an awkward spot to let things fall, which is why he makes the offer. It's fine by him that she doesn't want to peek-- the important part is having cut away, so they can talk about something else or not talk without leaving things so unfinished.

He nods, and without any reason not to, gets back to work. It's not quite as painfully slow as he'd feared-- she's been an obliging subject, so there's no reason to be hesitant about pressing onward. Maybe the pain doesn't bother her so much. Maybe she's just that determined to survive it.

With another vague agreeable sound, he thickens the lower curve of her B, and doesn't look up when he asks in a Completely Serious tone--

"How many Xs in your name again?"

He says it so casually that it takes a moment for his intent to catch up with the meaning.

"How many--Daryl!" Beth tries for outrage, but she mostly gets amusement, grinning as she looks. "You're gonna make me laugh."

And then you'll screw up a letter and I'll have a stupid-looking tattoo and--

It's the kind of moment that's so nice that she'll probably look back at it later and remember just how nice it was. So nice that she doesn't even realize it from where she's sitting now, because that would mean thinking about anything outside his careful actions and the ink taking shape beneath her skin.

Which is, of course, why there's a scraping hiss from the doorway, because nothing can stay so quiet--so good--for long. Her gaze snaps over, and of all things, she thinks I can't fight without a shirt on. "Shit."

Well, she'd be in good company, since he's laughing himself-- quietly, not more than a huff of breath. Good thing he's paused or she'd end up with a wobbly trail of dots cutting through the middle of an otherwise-serviceable amateur tattoo.

And he's just about to get back to work when the sound stops them both short. Figures. They'd gotten so caught up in the idea he hadn't even thought to try to close it up. As quiet as they're being it's more noise than this place has seen in ages.

Dropping the needle beside the inks, he jumps to his feet, reaching for his knife. Shouldn't be a problem, right? Sounds like just one, and she can't go fight without a shirt on. He's slow and careful as he leans out of their little cubicle, breath held.

Beth watches him, and as soon as he turns his back, she grabs for the hoodie he found. It's huge on her--and way too warm for this time of the year--but it zips up the front, and all she really needs right now is to be covered up. It's not much of a defense against walkers, but it's something.

Taking cautious steps, she comes up beside Daryl and gives him a wide-eyed what is it? look. It's not safe to actually ask, but they've wandered around enough out here that a stare from the right angle does the trick. Her hunting knife is clutched in her hand, ready to strike out at whatever's coming for them.

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