bakerstreet | YOU WANT, UH, A TISSUE? MAYBE SOME SOAP? NEW CLOTHES?

It's not long after said thud that Paul appears, crouching next to Daryl and resting his forearms on his knees. "Damn." His eyes flick over the walker's corpse, brow furrowed. A couple of years younger than Carl and Enid at most and from the looks of it, not dead very long at all.

"Someone kept that kid alive this long." There's no guarantee of any lingering proximity due to the nature of walkers, but a kid being alive this long implies community, implies someplace that at least used to be marginally safe.

"All the other ones around here were as old as all the rest." Just one. Just this kid.

Daryl tries to make himself feel walled off and vigilant, wondering about where a camp might be and how they managed to keep a kid alive for so many years, wondering if they'd be a threat. But instead he just feels cold. Somebody loved this kid. Somebody might still be looking for him.

"Yeah."

Carefully, Daryl searches pockets for any clue about where he might have been holed up prior.

"I reckon Carl's a cat," he mutters. "Took a shotgun blast to the chest a while back, pulled through. Shot in the head, pulled through. So he's on life seven." A few folded pieces of paper are fished out, mostly doodles on the back of a paper restaurant place mat.

Paul keeps watch while Daryl looks through pockets. There's nothing else alive (or at least upright) in the building with them anymore, but it's still prudent to make sure. To be careful. "I don't doubt it," he murmurs, about Carl being a cat. "Toughest kid I've ever seen."

The rustle of paper gets his attention and he flicks his gaze down, curious. He knows that kind of place mat when he sees it: "address on it?" Just in case it gives some kind of proximity.

A beat. "Did he get bit as far as you can tell?" Or did he die of something else. Entirely possible, but good to know. Doesn't mean wherever he came from is still intact either way, though.

Daryl hands the folded paper over to Paul so he can investigate the answer to his first question, and begins to carefully check the kid for bites. He'd probably just flip an adult over and go about it brusquely, but Daryl's always had a soft spot for kids - not like this one would ever know for any rough treatment now. He still feels bad.

It makes him think of Sophia.

"Nothin' I can find," he says after a while. Which is puzzling. Backwoods CSI time, and Daryl frowns and remains quiet for a while as he inspects. "Car accident?" --is mostly to himself, touching the back of the boy's neck.

It doesn't take Paul long to make his assessment of the paper - there's no address on it, but he recognizes the embossed logo in the corner as one he's seen before while he was out. "About fifteen miles East from here," he surmises, "it's a little place set a little back off the main road. Picked clean last I was by about six months ago, but a sturdy building."

Could have been a safer stop off while traveling.

He folds the paper back up neatly and crouches next to Daryl, just quiet while he watches him. He heard what the older man said and he'd acknowledged it with a soft noise while I was thinking about directions, but now he waits for a full assessment. If it was a car accident it was probably something quick - there hadn't seemed to be many broken limbs, though that never means much for a walker anyway.

Daryl just makes a low mmm noise, obviously not to sure about what he thinks went on. Not much in the way of traumatic bruising, the kid's not too malnourished, no gunshot wounds. Whatever happened, it was quick. He thinks a broken neck, but that could have happened a dozen ways. He doesn't like it.

"Reckon we should check it out?"

He stands up finally, glancing over to Paul; he expects the answer is yes, but the real question is if they drive up or not. "Could take the car halfway," he says, gaze drifting back to the dead kid. "Hide it off the road, see what we see."

"Yeah." Of course they're going to. As he straightens Paul slips the place mat into one of his many pockets. Just in case there's someone left that might want it. It's dumb and sentimental, but no more or less than flowers.

At first he just nods, thinking on places. And, well. "There are a few places on the way we could hide the car," he confirms, "and the walk the rest of the way isn't too bad." Not that it'd stop them if it was, but it's a nice change for something to not be difficult (until something makes it difficult later, of course).

There's not much else to do here. Paul makes one more cursory glance around just to be sure, then nods toward the door. "Ready when you are."

"Mm." Another grunt, and he tosses his can of peas up and catches it in his hand again. Raises an eyebrow at Paul. That's 1-0, flippy shit, you need to catch up.

Anyway, yes, he's ready.

Assuming Daryl makes it back to the car without ending up in a headlock or something, Paul can drive. He's vetoing any and all CDs ahead of time, though, he knows damn well the red sedan is the eternal resting place of the disc folder full of early 90s trance mixes.

Daryl does not end up in a headlock but he does get flipped a double bird on the way out. It's the Mature Adult thing to do. He doesn't mind driving either, not even with Daryl being such a stick in the damn mud about early 90s trance.

Paul's still going to try and push a CD into the player though, whether it starts a slappy-hands fight or not. Try him.

It doesn't take long to get to where they'll have to veer carefully off the road and Paul slows to figure out where is best to turn off. There's a good place a little stretch from their destination so he's going to get that sorted out now.

Daryl lets Rick get away with intolerable music because there are very few joys left in Rick's miserable life, and the combination of music and giggling over driving Daryl up a fucking wall seems to entertain him. Paul, however, has other outlets--

"No," muttered, slappy-hands, repeatedly, and then eventually: "You wanna get off tonight or not?"

It's not really a threat. Probably.

As they drive he makes a note of a particularly green spot in the distance with what looks like a hunting blind up a tree; could be worth checking out later. For now, though, they've got a diner to creep up on. Not much in the way of walkers as they pick their way through the trees - a bright spot, Daryl tags a raccoon. "Fat little bandit," he says as he dangles it by its fluffy tail. "He'll be good."

Edited 2017-03-19 02:57 (UTC)

"Stop being an ass," during slappy-hands, followed by a Very Affronted noise and shoving at Daryl's hand a little more before stopping with the CD thing because wow, rude, but also way to probably-fake-threaten a guy below the belt. "I take it back, now stop being an ass."

SIGH.

Paul likes to travel on foot when things aren't terrible so he enjoys it well enough, even with taking a moment to put down one of the very few walkers they see along the way. Knife in, knife out, done. The raccoon a bit later is far more interesting though. He lofts an eyebrow but smiles a little anyway, shaking his head. "You're way ahead of me today already, quit showing off."

(Fond.)

The diner is real close now - through the trees it doesn't look like much and even less like anything is amiss, but that doesn't mean anything these days.

Daryl doesn't snipe back, but settles contentedly in his win about the (terrible) music. (He doesn't really smile, but his expression is a decent approximation to anyone halfway fluent in Dixonese. Heh.)

His expression is smug - and fond - about the raccoon. Paul does more than most. Daryl more than doesn't mind being able to provide in some way, even if it's just being able to hunt for food. ('Just'.) Critter's worth more than a can of peas by a long shot, but he thinks they'll go nicely together in the end.

Briefly, he considers bringing up the fact that wild raccoons are much better eats these days - no urban living to poison their diets, it's not like eating the byproduct of walker flesh will do anything to the already infected-by-default humans - but decides against it. Too many words for one day, and really, it's probably only interesting to the long-defunct /r/hunting.

Near where the tree line thins out to give way to a gravel, slightly overgrown parking lot, Daryl crouches down behind a snarl of bushes and peers out.

He'll get you next time, Daryl Dixon. The not-smile is definitely familiar and it makes Paul smile too, even if he did lose the music battle. He doesn't actually mind.

'Just' nothing. They both do more than their "fair" share at bringing things in and by and large it's appreciated for its worth: aka a lot. People that don't go out don't know what it actually takes to bring back the things they do. They also don't like to think about the logistics of eating things that have eaten walkers but it's just a fact of life now.

Upon closer inspection there are only two vehicles in the parking lot - a sedan that clearly hasn't been driven as it's been stripped for parts, and a dusty old SUV that looks like it has the capability but also hasn't been driven in quite some time. No walkers around, diner windows still boarded up, door still on the hinges, so on and so forth.

Paul's about to take a step forward when he spots the remnants of a trap - a people-slash-walker alert system more than anything, but it's already been tripped and is little more than some tattered bits in the gravel. It's time for him to crouch now, brow furrowed as he looks down at it. "Could be more."

He exchanges a look with Paul. Mm-hm. He points in one direction, makes a circular gesture. Go around, meet each other halfway?

That settled, he takes off. It's comforting, in a way, no to have to actively worry about Paul. It feels like he's out with Rick or Michonne. Trust, he supposes. The thought slips away into mental white noise as he creeps through the perimeter, finding more string and tin cans, but only a few meters of it still standing, sagging over the remains of hand-made spikes jammed into the ground. Someone tried to hole up here, though it sure as hell looks abandoned now.

Something more interesting catches his eye-- but he doesn't dart in after it, waiting for the other man instead.

Paul nods. For all the shaky starts, they work like a well-oiled machine now. He takes off in the opposite direction, following the perimeter of the leftovers. Interestingly enough a couple stretches on his side have barbed wire though that peters out quick - ran out, he figures, since there's no other indication of anything different in that area. He makes note of the placement, though. It's the only part on his end that's still standing.

Nothing else all the way 'round.

He meets up with Daryl quickly enough, shrugging to get across that he hasn't found anything pressing enough to rush off after. It's difficult to tell from just this how long it's been since whatever this was happened, but it definitely was not in this state six months ago. The door they're near is ajar but he'll wait for a report on the other end of the search first.

Daryl half-shrugs in response, and points through the trees to a space near the rusted-out dumpster.

"Tire tracks. Ain't fresh, but they ain't as old as the rest. Other ones you can see're real dug in, but these'll be gone next time it rains. Rained what.. month ago? Bit more?" He glances at Paul, making sure he remembers right. Between the two of them they've got a damn accurate memory.

"Reckon this place was somebody's setup way back when, been empty 'til travelers came upon it and camped out for a bit."

A moment's thought, then: "about a month, yeah." Give or take, but not by much. Paul follows the path of the tracks as far as he can see them with his eyes before looking back to Daryl and nodding. "Worth looking into?"

Of course it is. It's just confirmation. "We can follow them out a ways, see what we can see, then loop back here. It's on our way back to the car anyway." Even if they only find a couple things (if anything), it'll be easier to haul them back instead of out and THEN back. "It looks like a clean departure from here, not that it means much." Could be messy inside. Could be messier out further in the trees.

Won't know until they look.

"Mm." Sounds good. Alright, in they go. Careful and quiet (even with the dead raccoon tied against him) and leading with the business end of his crossbow. The back door opens into the cluttered, poorly-lit labyrinth of back rooms and kitchen equipment, but pausing in the first opening heralds no groaning or shambling even after tapping his foot against a metal cabinet.

Doesn't mean it's an automatic all clear, though, and after exchanging another look with Paul he takes one side of the area and lets the other man handle the opposite.

"Cleared out," he says quietly after a while. "Footsteps in the dirt, but nothin' that looks like a scuffle. Some blood, but it's real old."

It's always nice to have a sound (whether purposeful or accidental) met with silence when they're out like this. It doesn't mean it's okay to relax, but it makes moving through the area to check things out a little less ... well, not harrowing but tense. Paul takes his time making sure everything is safe. At one point he crouches down but it's not clear what he's doing until he meets Daryl in the middle and nods. There's a satchel in his hand but it looks empty. Not tattered though; well taken care of.

"Not much else on this side," he confirms, "just this. Nothing in it. No struggle either."

"It's all weird."

If not for the dead kid and the timing, this would seem normal. But it's been so many years and the kid was in such good condition - it's the sort of thing he'd expect to see in the days of the prison or before, not now. Surely there aren't people like this left.

Into the main area of the restaurant, which is - to Daryl's surprise - comparatively clean. Tables have been pulled out and booths re-arranged to form makeshift beds, countertop tidy instead of just ransacked. The windows are boarded but someone swept away all the broken glass some time ago, no trace of it left. Layers of dust and grime have recently been scraped away.

Abandoned now. Empty. There's something sad about it; even isolated like this, cut off from any other viable supplies, it's not a bad spot.

"That's one way to put it."

He's wondering after all the same things. The whys and hows are pressing concerns. Who's out there still? Who took care of the kid? How'd he die? Are any of them left?

Damn.

The cleanliness of the rest of the place isn't lost to Paul either, who takes to examining things like he's looking for something in particular. He isn't, not really. This is a picture of a community that had it together, that took care of their own. And they're all ghosted away leaving only this empty diner behind.

There's some rough carving on one of the booth benches and Paul crouches to look at it, thumb rubbing over the scarred wood lightly before he straightens. "Couple names." Nothing else of note. It's just...

"Used to have some books scattered around. Religious ones, real "Rapture For Kids" stuff. I hated them but this makes me think of them."

It's unsettling to think about. Daryl's working theory, at this point, is that the kid had an accident. If the adults looking after him were his parents, he thinks they don't know what happened or else their exit from this waypoint would look much more haphazard, or they weren't related and shrugged the mystery off. He could be way off in either direction, though.

"Religious people are all fuckin' nuts, you know that, right." Casual. Because even though his boyfriend's name is Jesus, they're all still nuts. Maybe that adds to it, actually.

And then

and then.

"Oh."

Paul's wondering about the same things. The paper in his pocket feels like it's burning a hole in it - it's not like he thought he'd find some grieving parents and give them closure by giving them a drawing their kid made, but not knowing what happened is eating at him more than a little. There are still people to look after in the apocalypse and kids are so damn important.

"I definitely know that," he retorts, because of course they are. He's smiling a little though as he moves back to where the older man is standing. He's met people that think all this really is the rapture, that they'd just read the Bible wrong, and he's met people that had crises of faith after it happened. Doesn't matter to him any.

A beat.

"Oh?"

Weirdly, Daryl could converse for ages about religion and scripture. His education in it is all via osmosis, but he's cynical and nitpicky, the worst kind of person for anyone of actual faith to talk to. Maybe someday he'll have an opportunity to blandly give a real devout person a hard time and it'll make Paul laugh. (Priorities.)

The point is: this is related.

Daryl slides a flimsy framed picture from beneath a collapsed pile of curtains set on a back table and looks down at it, just taking a moment to behold its glory before turning and holding it up for Paul to see.

Hand-drawn cartoon Jesus.

Cynical and nitpicky suits just fine. If Real Human Dollars (tm) were still a thing, Paul would pay them to be able to watch Daryl giving someone a hard time about it. He makes a terrible Jesus, realistically. Or a great one, he'd probably flip a table too.

Anyway.

He watches this series of actions with both eyebrows raised - he thinks maybe Daryl has found a lead of some kind but then the older man turns around and

speaking of making Paul laugh, he lets out a surprised, open, all too rare laugh that he immediately stifles with the side of his hand.

"Holy shit." Paul. "It's beautiful."

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i'm crying bc i just noticed that dw gave you like 50% arm icons

whose fault is that

look i'm not complaining i know who did this