No meatballs? [closed]

[burningdaylight]

Who| Daryl and Luke.
What| Daryl joked about Luke owing him dinner for thawing him out back in the arena. Luke remembers that when he ends up cooking a little too much for himself and extends an invite. Noodles are slurped.
Where| D9 Suite
When| Before the Crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Bad table manners.

Luke starts simple. Because after years of cooking by fire like their heavy-browed ancestors and prying open ragged-edged can-lids just praying the stuff inside hadn’t rot to shit like the rest of the world, the rediscovery of proper tools and techniques is a gradual process.

He’s never been a whiz around the stove. But he had the interest in the goings-on in the kitchen from a young age and for more than sneaky finger-scoops of cake batter when he didn’t think mom was looking. Something that had no doubt dismayed dad some. He hadn’t left it up to the mere hope that Luke would trade plunging his hands into dough for plunging them into dirt and dragged him out of the kitchen as soon as he could, putting him to work around the farmhouse. Weeding this and planting those and gathering that. And after Luke clumsily broke one too many of his mom’s favourite dishes she was all too glad to push him outside to be more useful to his old man.

Wasn’t until college that he dabbled in cooking every now and again, largely to surprise his girlfriend-of-the-month after one of her long, soul-draining shifts. This time it’s Clem he’s looking to surprise with a small family dinner one day after he’d seen how her face lit up at the idea. But until he gains the skill and experience to tackle something that ambitious, he has to practice - and settle, tonight, for a pan-full of experimental pasta in a thick, savoury mushroom sauce. More than he can finish by himself before it cools.

So, before long, he decides to head seven floors up to Daryl’s room, meaning to repay a favour if the circumstances permit. It’s more than fair after the man had placed himself at risk to save his life. He taps lightly on the door, looking tired in an unassuming flannel shirt and broken-in jeans, his jaw and upper lip stippled with days-old stubble. The dull-red bruises shading his face somehow seem to fit.

Comments

[weaintashes]

All things considered, surviving, even thriving within the frozen wilderness had been remarkably easy for him right up until his last moments, and not even his grisly death compared to what came after. Survival in the Capitol is a different beast altogether sometimes, the people, the society, the circus that is life as a Tribute somehow more foreign and unknowable to him than any of the manufactured dangers of the arenas would ever be.

He's made what peace he can with his own temporary death, and though he deeply regrets Rick having to be the one burdened with preventing him from turning, this isn't solely what weighs on him. The worst of it is everything that followed. Courtesy of the arena footage played endlessly on loop, he had more than a fair idea of what Rick, Beth, and the few people counted as their allies endured after his untimely death. Once Rick likewise returned to the Capitol it was with a growing sense of dread that Daryl had begun keeping closer to him, virtually becoming his shadow, alert to the signs of deterioration.

Sleep is rarely restful, his mind too troubled for him to find any sanctuary there. Frequent nightmares are his unwelcome chaperones, chasing him into and from sleep like a pack of wild things whose snapping jaws seem to get imperceptibly closer each day. How does one escape from their own mind?

Beth and their puppy, Charlie, provide some much needed light amid the spreading darkness, and those moments with Rick that aren't so heavy with strain or the burden of leadership, where they're simply two people enjoying each other's company, as well as his continued education in signing with Nill. It's the latter to which he gives his attention currently, reclining on his bed fully dressed in his customary sleeveless shirt, vest token, and tattered jeans, books on signing scattered to either side of him and one open in his hands.

The only people who normally visit him aren't anyone whose knocking he'd ignore, so he's up and heading for the door without hesitation, book closed in one hand with a finger marking his place. The sight which greets him has him tipping his head slightly to the side, the flicker of surprise immediately supplanted by a look of disquiet. He can't imagine anything frivolous bringing Luke to his door.

"Need somethin'?" he asks gruffly, giving his visitor a once-over. Either the bruising is like his own healing black eye — injuries present every time their bodies are 'reset' — or else they might have something to do with why he's there. Schoolyard bullies been shoving him around?

[burningdaylight]

Thumbs hitched into his pockets, he shifts his weight and plays the waiting game, considering his shoes – and it doesn’t take all too long before he has half-convinced himself that Daryl’s busy or away or might not be remotely interested at the moment in something as blandly pleasant and domestic, almost, as sharing a bit of dinner. Which is fair, either way Luke looks at it. But he isn’t about to give up so soon. Because it’s not all about paying a debt.

There’s an unguarded surprise flashing across his own eyes when the door does open and his eyes find Daryl's, the past and present colliding. Tugging at his gut. He remembers the waxy mask of Daryl’s face shred to ribbons of meat. Remembers the slit at the temple under the dark tangle of hair where something sharp had punched in with purpose and how his body had been dragged carelessly through the snow, tracking slug-trails of blood. Luke blinks away the memory and resurfaces from his thoughts with a blank look, realizing he has been staring a shade too long to shrug it off as nothing.

He rubs at his neck, briefly glancing away.

“Guess I prob’ly should a’ shot you a message first.” Luke huffs a soft, humourless breath of a laugh, unbothered by the Dixon-rasp he’s come to know well. His shoulders bob. “I jus' thought I'd come by an' see if you were up for some dinner. Got pasta back there if you’re hungry.”

[weaintashes]

As the silence and unusual staring are both drawn out, it only deepens his concern and serves to convince him that something is perilously wrong. And makes the truth of the matter all the more ridiculous once Luke finally spits out why he's there, which leaves Daryl giving him a look as though he's grown a second head. Is this guy for real?

"...You know I wasn't bein' serious about dinner, right?" The trace of irritation in his tone is largely directed at himself, for actually caring enough to be worried — and prepared to help with whatever the problem may've been. Dinner. Christ. What a waste of adrenaline. "Hold up."

Scrubbing his free hand over his face with a sigh, he turns away from the door, leaving it open. That should be enough of an indication he'll be back. His place in the book is marked with a slip of paper instead, then he tosses it onto his bed with the rest and briefly kneels at the end of the bed where he'd left his boots, pulling them back on. He pauses after he stands, giving his room a final look over. It's habit now. He likes knowing whether things are exactly as he left them, and can tell when someone has physically been in his suite; he has a feeling it hasn't always been Avoxes, when items are out of place in ways that have nothing to do with facilitating cleaning.

"This a group thing?" he asks as he slips out into the hallway with Luke, pulling the door shut. Admittedly he is hungry, but not enough to suffer through a social gathering just to get fed. He'd grab his food and make his escape, if he has to.

[burningdaylight]

"Yeah, I kinda figured as much.” The remark’s meant to be tinged with humour but it comes out sounding matter-of-factly, his barely-there smile fading, falling more at the stunned look than at the bite - or nip - to Daryl's tone. Then, under his breath, with a note of quiet amusement, he adds: "Guess I deserved that."

He's all the more aware that he should have dropped him a line now that he has the luxury of owning a working device that makes it possible to eliminate a surprise or two in their lives. It’s not like back in the cabin anymore, knocking gently on others’ doors and inviting each other in because everyone was just a wall away from everyone else and there was no other, politer option. He doesn't get to apologize, though, because Daryl’s bidding him to wait before turning and slipping back in in what seems like an act of reluctant surrender to him more than anything else. Luke hangs back, lips pursing as he considers the glimpse of the room he’s privy to from the doorway with dim curiosity. There’s not much else to look at that he hasn’t already catalogued and shelved away in his brain.

"Naw. There ain't enough to go around.” He confirms while watching Daryl shut the door behind them. “...Look, if you ain't feelin' it, then that’s fine." He spreads his hands lightly from his sides. "It ain’t that big of a deal. ...jus' puttin' that out there."

[weaintashes]

The suite Daryl's been assigned isn't much to look at. There's few personal effects, very little to distinguish it from any other suite aside from how he's rearranged the furniture to better secure the rooms. Physically, anyway; he knows there's little to nothing to be done about the pervasive surveillance. The lone poster, a gift from misguided 'fans', can't be seen from the doorway — thankfully, because he isn't about to explain the presence of a giant framed poster of Rick hanging on his wall (or why he hasn't bothered to take it down).

"You don't owe me nothin', is what I meant," he elaborates, speaking in an undertone out of habit, making it so the words won't carry beyond them. What offers an illusion of privacy in the Capitol is a vital survival tool elsewhere, and he doesn't want to get too comfortable here. His habits will remain well-practised.

That it isn't a group affair is unexpected, though, and even as he raises his chin slightly to both nod Luke forward and indicate his agreement, curiosity is plain in his expression. A private dinner, then, between just the two of them? No wonder Luke didn't try pitching the idea via communicator first. The implied intimacy is a little weird — unless one takes into consideration the last meal they'd shared, and everything leading up to it. This is perfectly normal in comparison.

"Won't turn down a hot meal," he says easily, and spends several moments contemplating Luke's disposition before allowing a hint of amusement to tug at the corners of his mouth. He figures he's earned the right to make at least one off-colour joke. "Let's try'n keep your clothes on, this time."

[burningdaylight]

Some people are more inscrutable than others and in time he thinks he’ll be better able to discern – to tease out - Daryl’s intentions from his economical gestures and choice of words. But, for now, he’s mildly surprised that Daryl doesn’t reconsider and take the out that he offers just as easily as the dinner invite.

“Well, s’prob’ly a li’l closer to room temperature by now,” Luke huffs softly, noting the small, reserved smile something about their conversation has coaxed out of Daryl. A moment later he finds out the reason for it.

“Really?” It comes out faster than he could ever hope to bite back if he meant to, an incredulous lilt to his tone. The past is as fresh as ever, never too far away to wreak havoc. And for a moment he relives the confusion and the queasy, gnawing dread and the ache of wanting something so far removed from survival – the jumble of things he had felt while shaking under layers of blankets, clinging to life one shivery breath at a time. Something clenches in his gut and he blinks, finally settling on an answer with a faint shake of his head. He remembers to thumb the elevator button.

“Well, for the record, I kinda like my clothes stayin’ on me when it’s cold enough out there to freeze the balls off a goddamn pool table.”

There’s a grin of his own quirking his lips by the end.

He could do this. It isn't the first time he has hidden behind humour and it wouldn't be the last, either.

[weaintashes]

The reaction he receives is enough to make him want to laugh — want to, but he doesn't, though he can feel it there, stuck behind his ribs. An airiness that he isn't sure what to do with. Like he's inadvertently initiated a dance he doesn't know any of the steps to, and he has cause to not want to tread on any toes right now. So he settles for a smirk instead and briefly raises his hands as if to acknowledge this will be a hands-off undertaking, then slants a look toward Luke, using their wait for the elevator as an excuse to watch him.

Had he been approached even a half hour earlier, maybe he'd have turned down the offer. But he's been stewing in his own juices for so long that a distraction is welcome. Certainly doesn't hurt that it involves food, either. Never mind that as Tributes they have access to an overabundance of provisions in the Capitol, everything they could ever want and then some. An offer like this... it's meaningful, and he has an inkling it's more than simply fulfilling the punchline of his joke back in the arena. The sort of thing he should probably be worried about fucking up.

On the elevator, he thinks nothing of pressing the button for District 2's floor since he's the closest to the panel. His eyes have drifted to his feet, his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

"Won't turn down a lukewarm meal, neither," he says dryly, picking at that safer line of conversation and fully aware of the groan-worthy pun. A little proud of it, even. "You make the pasta yourself?"

[burningdaylight]

No dryly amused retort? Luke glances over half-expectantly, snorting softly as he catches Daryl’s non-verbal cues. There’s a time and a place to drop an all-too-relatable balls joke with a guy and he can’t blame Daryl if the last thing he wanted to think about, at dinner time and with pasta on the menu, was anyone’s junk. Smile dimming, he turns his head, noticing dozens of fingerprints smudging the shiny chrome doors before they slide open and he steps inside.

It’s not long before Daryl has him looking his way again, his brows lightly raised. “Jus’ the sauce.” He says, half-jokingly, while eying the countdown to the second floor. “It's nothin’ fancy. Mushrooms, parsley, salt n' pepper, bit a’ wine somebody left in the fridge. Oh, an', uh... hope you don’ mind a li'l garlic.”

He used to avoid it like the plague when he had somewhere to be and someone to kiss, a time before everyone you met stank of sweat and blood and wore filthy, guts-smeared clothes day in and out, out on the road and to bed -- if you were lucky enough to find a bed to sleep in.

Their trip eight floors down goes surprisingly uninterrupted – and the elevator judders slightly before settling, doors pinging open. There’s no small pan of pasta to be seen in the communal kitchen, something he seeks to explain to avoid giving Daryl the impression that he was lured here under false pretenses.

“Didn’t really like the idea of leavin’ it out for a good while, to be honest, so I been keepin’ it in my room.” He scratches the nape of his neck, aware of how stingy of him it’d likely seem to anyone else. True, the worry that he and Daryl might have little or nothing to come back to did cross his mind -- but infinitely more troubling was the possibility of the food being tampered with, maybe in someone’s idea of a prank or on a less harmless whim. He didn’t know the people of his own district particularly well and didn’t feel safe assuming that they all meant no harm simply on the logic that they all belonged to the same district. To say nothing of others who traveled between floors. Not all men and women had morals to keep them in line and the last thing he wanted was Daryl, especially, to be made sick and at a point in their budding alliance when trust-bulding was that much more essential.

“I could bring it out here, or we could have it inside." He shrugs lightly. "Whatever you want.”

[weaintashes]

Having essentially been raised by Merle and having shared many an awkward meal with him, Daryl's far from squeamish about these matters. Hard to be, when topics such as the general state of his brother's sexual health and penile discharge and the latest conquests had been standard fare for their dinner conversations, such as they were. It'll take more than that to put a damper on his appetite these days, luckily.

"I dunno, wine sounds pretty fancy to me," he points out, but draws a blank at the mention of garlic. Should he mind? Surely no one cares what his breath smells like, least of all him — no one really gets close enough to — so he's left to wonder if Luke's concern has something to do with food allergies or suspecting him of vampirism. Probably best not to dwell too long on the latter thought.

"I don't leave shit sittin' out either," he says easily, already suspecting that they're on the same page there. Never mind that he'd helped himself to the communal food back in District 7 during that ill-fated encounter with Jason; that had been to make a point, and anyway, the containers had been sealed and he hadn't suffered for it. Aside from that, he's been fairly cautious about sharing food and drinks, never leaves his own unattended in public, doesn't accept the weird offerings of ice cream and raw meat sent by 'fans'. It isn't paranoia, as far as he's concerned. It's logical precaution.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he paces away from the elevator and takes a look around. "Gonna have an audience either way. Don't matter to me." From certain types of people, such a question would be a test, but from Luke... he's probably legitimately concerned about the comfort of his guest, Daryl thinks. It's enough to inspire a small smile, one which is already masked by the time he glances back over his shoulder. "Your room's fine."

[burningdaylight]

At the reminder of an ever-present invisible audience he just nods, set of his jaw saying enough of his grim resignation. The reality of the situation is that they're likely unable to even shit or shower in peace. He can’t imagine the Capitol, as viciously totalitarian a government as it is, surrendering a measure of control to be so kind. Posh suites and access to basic amenities would never compensate for the dignity and freedoms they’ve stripped from tributes from the moment those hapless men and women and kids wake up surrounded by peacekeepers. The world people like him and Daryl had left behind was an unrelenting shithole of its own, but at least there they could live on their own terms within the circumstances, their mobility limited only by the strength of their own bodies and wills to push on and by the good fortune to find a working abandoned vehicle and fuel to siphon.

“Sure.”

He digs into a side pocket of his jeans for his key and lets Daryl in with a swipe, hanging back with a hand resting on the doorframe. There isn’t much to take in, the place looking about as lived-in as a hotel room after a quiet stay. Several years spent drifting restlessly from shelter to shelter – Carver’s compound being the longest they had kept put and not always by choice – has killed the all too human habit of accumulating stuff; there hadn’t been much to carry on their backs to begin with and little room in their bags for frivolities and sentimental belongings. The most precious possessions he owns now sit on the night table: a family photo from when days were bright and full of promise – now a relic of a bygone era - and a single paper crane folded out of a napkin, its crisp creases and folds softening, its form slowly coming undone.

The frying pan is the odd thing out, left on a coaster over the desk and surrounded by a few beer cans and wrappers, communicator, and a well-used notebook he had shoved aside to make room for it.

“You go on an’ make yourself comfortable or somethin’. I’ll be back in a sec.”

He turns away before long, returning after a couple minutes with scoop tongs, bowls (with a dusting of parmesan cheese in each,) and forks from the kitchen’s drawers. Then the pan lid’s off and he’s serving long, stretchy tong-fuls of pasta, stabbing a fork into Daryl's helping.

“Don’ know how much y’want,” He says, casually offering a steaming bowl to him first. “So jus’ take more if you like it.”

[weaintashes]

Daryl has the sense not to inspect the suite in an obvious, intrusive manner, instead limiting himself to taking it in with a glance as he moves to sit in one of the chairs. His hands smooth over the plush armrests as he perches on the end of the seat, slightly leaning forward, legs together at the knees. Wary because of the unfamiliar surroundings. Being left alone provides the excuse to have a better look around, but he doesn't find anything particularly noteworthy beyond the scant personal items. It resembles his own suite. Barely lived in. Luke apparently isn't putting down any roots here either.

His eyes flicker up from the floor as he accepts the proffered bowl in both hands with a quiet, "Thanks," and settles farther back in his seat, deliberately forcing himself to relax his tense posture. His discomfort isn't intended as a slight against Luke, it's merely a consequence of being out of his depth here, in a casual social setting with someone he still doesn't know too well, despite their shared experiences. Something he'd kind of like to change, but isn't sure how to begin.

Figuring out what to say really shouldn't be harder than expressing remorse for briefly wanting (and trying) to kill him, or stripping him naked to prolong his life a couple additional weeks... but it is. Those prior circumstances had been borne of necessity, as dictated by Daryl's moral code, while he's entered this one voluntarily. No established guidelines here.

Digging into the pasta buys him some time to think. He eats a couple forkfuls, then wipes his mouth on the back of a hand. "It's good," he offers, words a bit muffled by the food he's still chewing, an undisguised hint of surprise in his tone. Contrary to his struggle with conversation, it doesn't occur to him to be self conscious about his poor table manners. He watches his host with an uncertain look for a moment, debating whether he wants to navigate a potential minefield right now. Ultimately, he nods toward the photo on the nightstand. "Those your folks?"

Pointless to pretend he hadn't noticed it, when a family portrait like that is one of the only signs of life in this place that otherwise seems devoid of Luke's presence.

[burningdaylight]

“Thank you.”

He chuffs out a laugh at that food-muffled compliment as he pulls out the seat at his desk – where he spends nearly all his hours in the room when awake – and turns it around with a dull screech of chair-legs. His guest’s unease shows in every piano string-taut line of his body but at least he chose the best chair in the place. Maybe it’d help some.

Luke settles with a sigh, pushing his pasta around in his bowl and mixing the cheese into it. “Good to know I still remember how to whip up somethin’ half-decent. S’been a…a long time since I done somethin’ like this…” A beat. He snorts. “Well, obviously.”

It’s a little unexpected, Daryl’s slurping and lip-smacking, and he watches a moment, helplessly curious and more than a tinge amused. After all he has seen and been through, straddling that razor-thin edge between life and death and learning to going without food for days, it isn't anything that can curb his appetite. Table manners aren’t the only thing to have largely fallen to the wayside when the old world ended and he can’t fault Daryl for wolfing his food when he has done the same, with only slightly more restraint, each time life has been forced back into his battle-bloodied corpse. God knows one of the things he had loved most about college dorm life was the freedom to chug juice from the cartoon or eat PB from the jar by spoonfuls – the dinner of champions - without mom chewing him out about not having raised him in a barn (‘well, I was pretty close to one’, he’d point out with a half-grin, which never helped the situation). Life’s simpler, guiltier pleasures.

The longer he looks over, the more it has the effect of unraveling the knot in his gut. No need to forcibly pace himself to make a good impression and hide the fact that he’s ravenous. He chuckles softly as he finally tucks in, stabbing his fork into the bowl and twirling it to gather a large spool of noodles he shoves into his mouth. It’s creamy albeit light and a bit over-peppered, but he’ll gladly take it to anything he could ever scoop out of a can. He glances up after a few forkfuls, catching Daryl’s glance with a questioning arch to his brows. But before he can ask, Daryl beats him to the punch. It takes a second for it click.

“Oh. …Yeah.” He feels a cold gnawing in the pit of his stomach, his fork stilling. His brows push together, eyes dull and unfocused a moment before they find Daryl’s gaze. “It’s… s’pretty old. Was sure I lost it for good in that arena back there, but when I showed up… they had it sittin’ out for me, dry an’ everythin’."

Might be a copy, carefully aged. Maybe not. The Capitol’s capable of things he’d never think possible and there are a scant few among them that he's any bit grateful for. Even if only for their cruel purposes, they're the only reason he can still say hello to Nick, still clap a hand over his back and play guitar and try to make up for lost time. For mistakes.

[weaintashes]

He's wholly aware of being observed, the scrutiny a nearly palpable thing, like the heat of a silent interrogation. But he doesn't acknowledge or return the look. What purpose is there in pretending to be something he isn't? If (a big if, he thinks) Luke mutually wants to pursue any kind of relationship beyond being tentative, cautious allies forever circling one another, he might as well know what he's getting into, atrocious social graces and all.

Which isn't to say Daryl's unwilling to learn, or incapable of making exceptions and adjusting his behaviour accordingly when needed. He cares to some extent about Luke's opinion of him. He is using the fork and not eating with his hands, after all.

Listening to the explanation of the family portrait, a sudden look of comprehension crosses his face before he drops his eyes, watching some point on the floor as he takes another few bites of pasta. What had seemed to be a confusing jumble of delirious babbling at the time, back when he'd found Luke in the last arena, now makes better sense — aside from concerns about Clementine, he can recall sputtered, shuddering words about something of importance lost beneath the ice, almost as though Luke had been talking to himself. And maybe he had been. Daryl had ventured out to the lake sometime afterward to have a look around, on the off chance he'd come across whatever had been "lost", but he'd found nothing.

"Glad you got it back," he replies inbetween bites, and decides against bringing up the lake incident. There's a few choice words he'd like to direct toward the Capitol, but knows it'd just draw unwanted attention to the both of them — and punishment. But the sentiment exists in his dour expression all the same.

There had been a tacit invitation for Luke to reminisce about his family if he wants to, but that doesn't appear to be the case, and Daryl certainly isn't going to pry. Probably stupid of him to even bring it up, he figures. Stealing a glance at Luke every so often, he continues eating in silence for a short time. Eventually he aims for a topic less dispiriting than presumably dead parents. "You forgot something," he lightly points out with a lopsided smirk, making a drinking gesture. A little social lubrication can't hurt right now.

[burningdaylight]

Luke blinks at him, eyes gleaming with mild curiosity, as if he didn't expect a kind word. But Daryl wouldn't have asked about his folks if he didn't care to know; and, by now, Luke thinks it's safe to assume that he wouldn't make conversation simply for the sake of being polite and filling silences with something other than the sound of them slurping hungrily. He considers him a moment, his gaze soft with weary relief and some indefinable emotion. "...Thanks." He says, with all the soft-spoken sincerity as if Daryl had fished it out of the lake himself, and he smiles a thin-lipped, distracted sort of smile. Nods faintly.

He looks back into his bowl after a moment, nudging a chunk of mushroom around with his fork before helping himself to another forkful. He didn't mean to kill the mood, but no one ever does. "Y'know, I think that's one a' the only photos ever taken where my old man’s actually smilin'." He had to wonder what charms dad had used to sweep mom off her feet - more so after dad dismissed his playfully teasing curiosity time after time with some noncommittal grunt. "Probably thought it was a 'goddamn waste a' good effort for somethin' no good'."

Wryly amused, he leaves the thought at that - not reluctantly - when Daryl mimes drinking, looking around before he remembers where he keeps his beer. He ducks his head and reaches under his desk into the box. He’ll never say no to lubricant.

"Got beer?" He offers in a cheerily self-deprecating way, an apologetic host, walking his way over and holding out a can. Figures tossing it Daryl's way isn't the best idea at the moment. Besides, having a better look at the tattoos patterning his muscled arms gives him something to think about.

"Nice ink," He offers, unsarcastic, gesturing with his fork. “M'guessin' there's a story behind ‘ em?"

[weaintashes]

And then Luke's elaborating. A scant offering, but it's something, and though Daryl doesn't look up, such is his genuine interest that he's stopped eating in order to listen. The imitation draws a quiet snort of laughter and commiserating shake of his head; the irascible words really wouldn't have been out of place being bellowed from the mouth of his old man, either. For Luke's sake, he rather hopes that's where the similarities end.

"Thanks," he says for the beer, raising it slightly in a toasting motion once it's been cracked open. He takes a long drink, afterward licking away traces of foam coating his upper lip and beard, and doesn't immediately acknowledge the commentary on his tattoos. Instead he finishes what little's left of his pasta, then sucks his Parmesan and sauce-smeared thumb into his mouth. Waste not, want not. Using a fork apparently isn't foolproof, judging by the flecks of sauce that managed to find its way across his other fingers as well.

Eventually he answers, "'Course there is," and glances back up at Luke, eyebrows raised and cheeks hollowed as he absently sucks each finger clean one by one.

And it's a little funny. People who know him better than Luke does have never asked — have maybe never even wondered about the significance of these permanent, voluntarily acquired marks he wears. Or more likely, know him well enough not to ask. Whatever the case, he doesn't resent the curiosity, but it'll take a bit more than that to persuade him to lay bare these particular tales. Still, he pursues that line of thought to make it clear he isn't trying to shut down the conversation.

"Did some of 'em myself," he offers as he settles into a slouch in the chair, occasionally sipping his beer. Watching Luke. "What about you? Wasn't exactly checkin' for ink when you were in your birthday suit."

[burningdaylight]

There's a tickly twinge in his chest when Daryl sucks at his fingers and levels him a long, focused look, like it's a customary thing to do, and all Luke can think of is that terrible struggle to bite back a smile as a kid when his folks had been so fiercely pissed, stumbling over words and clumsily mangling expressions in the most unintentionally suggestive ways. Giving in and busting a gut had been worth a good old-fashioned ass-whupping.

To his credit, Luke fights no less hard now keeping a straight face in a bid to be respectful while obviously toeing personal territory. He drags a hand over his mouth - hiding behind it - and nods, frowning seriously. But his eyes crinkle in the silence that follows and once that first snort slips out there's no hope of holding back the rest. He doesn't just chuckle; he laughs. And laughs incongruously hard in that shaking, can't-do-more-than-gasp-every-now-and-again sort of way as something heavy shifts inside him and emotions swell into his throat and he remembers how to for the first time in years, left gasping with tears in his eyes.

"Fuck..." He manages pathetically, drying his eyes on his sleeve. "M'sorry. Jus' so you know, I wasn't laughin' at your tattoos or the fact that they mean somethin' special."

With a shake of his head he pulls in a slow, careful breath and exhales in one long puff, willing his breathing to steady out. Though it's hard to wear a sober expression when Daryl follows up with a reminder of his nakedness, a moment the Capitol had predictably recorded along with everything else. It's the stuff of a juicy tabloid, too easily taken out of context. A flush crawls up his neck.

"Nope. Really wanted one back when I was still livin' with my folks... an' I'm pretty sure they'd a' thrown a fit if I got it done. Think the only place I could've hidden it was, uh... below the belt, an' you couldn't pay me a million bucks to let somebody stick me in the balls with a needle, man."

Well, medical procedures don't count. But he'll pray he won't be so unlucky as to have that experience.

"Been thinkin' about it again these last couple days, actually. ...gettin' a tattoo somewhere else, I mean." His sheepish half-grin fades, falls. "Somethin' hopeful, for the family an' friends we lost along the way." He draws a line across his chest. "Right across the heart, maybe. I don' know. Guess it's kinda cliche... but I don' ever wanna forget how I got here an' all the people who made gettin' up every day worth it. Who kept me goin' an' doin' what I had to do."

He looks down, scraping up one last heaping forkful of pasta. "...S'pretty hardcore, doin' them tats on yourself. Jesus, think my hand would be shakin' pretty bad halfway in."

[weaintashes]

At first he thinks to ignore the laughter, not understanding what could possibly be so funny about their exchange and mildly concerned about the state Luke's in, but as the amusement only ramps up that quickly gives way to wide-eyed surprise, an expression that lifts some of the hard, weary years from his face that cause him to look so much older than he actually is. And then he gets it. Realisation brings a sense of relief — Luke's laughter isn't cruel, far from it, in fact it's a little infectious — and he ducks his head in knowing embarrassment. Yeah, so he has some weird habits. Big fucking deal. But his shoulders are shaking, his own laughter low and quiet, the kind of resonant sound that's easier felt than heard.

That's the exact moment when he thinks Luke might just have stolen across the threshold between ally and friend, because the knee-jerk defensiveness he feels is minimal, and he's remarkably lacking any desire to punch Luke in the face for laughing at him. He won't gladly play the fool, but this... isn't so bad. Not taking himself so seriously. And it's lightened the mood considerably.

He catches that flush creeping up Luke's neck, too, and thinks, serves you right. And his earlier smirk is back for a time, gradually fading into a pensive expression as they both sober, as Luke speaks with unexpected honesty about a subject so close to Daryl's heart. Figuratively — and literally.

"Fuck 'cliché'," he says with feeling, and taps his closed fist against his chest, right over his heart. "Already got one. Ain't somethin' I'll ever regret. And you won't regret it neither, not somethin' like that, wherever you get it. It's a damn fine idea. S'what most'a mine are... Reminders of what matters."

Doing it himself had been probably as much about the pain involved — a pain that wasn't inflicted upon him, but one he could choose, and had complete control over — as it had been about having the tattoos themselves. He figures that detail's best kept to himself, though. Knows that kinda thing isn't normal.

"Not sure I'd recommend doin' it yourself," he admits a bit ruefully. "And never shitfaced. That's just beggin' for trouble." He takes a slow swig of beer before holding out his right hand, palm tilted back to expose his wrist, baring one particular tattoo to Luke. What is unmistakably a little heart. In plain view. On his goddamn wrist. And okay, maybe he's grown fond of it over the years and that's why he hasn't covered it up with anything else, but still.

"Thought 'bout the design you want yet? Sketched it out or anything?"

[burningdaylight]

For a moment there while blinking away a film of tears, he had been bracing himself for his gut-clenching laugh attack to be taken the wrong way. Couldn’t blame him if it was. Growing up with Nick has made him all too aware of how a seemingly harmless, offhanded remark - nevermind laughter - could trigger a whiplash temper. But soon he notices Daryl’s shoulders bobbing too -- and, for just a little while, they're not only a couple of rough-edged survivors trying to carve out some manner of respectable life for themselves in a prison, but grown men unafraid to be kids. They're more than the pain they've endured. And while it has shaped them in ways, it doesn't define them. Not until they let it.

Carver was wrong.

Resilience lies in more than one's ability to go long stretches of time without food and water and rest. More than drying tear-stung eyes and marching onwards, every step and every breath an act of defiance. It’s in seeing glimmers of humour and hope in the darkest of times and finding ways to smile; it’s in being slowly bled out by the ugliness of the world and still opening oneself to the good that remains, even if it's a struggle. It'll always take more strength to take chances than to build walls.

Luke cracks open a can, feeling something loosen inside him and smiling irresistibly at the light chest-thump. It’s the most passionate he’s ever seen Daryl. But it’s shaping up to be an evening of many firsts. Eyebrows lifting, he nods, his expression somewhere between pleased and impressed. “I like your style,” He says, slurping at the beer-foam as it swells. It leaves him with a frothy mustache he licks away. “See, now that’s brave.” He points out, half-jokingly, at the sight of Daryl's bared wrist. A story for another day, maybe.

He slouches deeper into his chair.

“...Got nothin’ hammered down, least, not yet. But I really should. Guess I been so busy worryin' 'bout other things that I jus’ kept pushin’ it aside.” The cure. Perry and R and Kieren. Jane. He gazes long into empty space, his mouth skewing. “I’m thinkin’ somethin’ with wings… maybe a flock a’ birds flyin’ off together?" Sweeping his fingers through the air. "Jus’ their silhouettes.”

The thought is left to linger before he snorts softly, helping himself to another swallow. “…Iunno, you’re the artist. I'm jus’ the guy who studies the art an’ writes twenty-page papers on it.”

[weaintashes]

It's no small feat coaxing Daryl Dixon to laugh at himself, but Luke has somehow managed it and come out of the ordeal completely unscathed. That's some downright stars-are-all-aligned Houdini shit. The combination of a good meal, beer, and laid-back company may have something to do with it as well, but the tipping point is Luke's strange benevolence, the kindness he's extended seemingly without expecting anything in return. Unaccustomed as Daryl is with this sort of situation, he can't bring himself to fully trust it; there may yet be a catch, hidden motives, even something as simple as social cues he's missing. But he's willing to risk those to see where this leads.

Some of the tension in his body has been released along with their laughter, allowing his posture to more comfortably relax by degrees as each layer of discomfort dissipates. Something in him responds to Luke's smile, and though he doesn't return it, there's a subtle softening of his features that's about as good as one, and he's looking at Luke as though truly seeing him for the first time.

"Ain't much of an artist, just know what I like and got steady hands." Which is more than half the battle won when it comes to doing tattoos. Nothing ruins them quite like shitty linework, since it can rarely be fixed in any worthwhile way. You do tend to get what you pay for in that regard, he's found, and having spent most his life in poverty, it's little wonder why he picked up the necessary skills to do it himself — and practised enough to do it well.

If you're going to do a thing, might as well do it right.

"That's a start," he says with a clear note of encouragement. "Keep thinkin' about it." Lowering his eyes back to the floor, he brings his free hand up and absently rubs his chin in thought, fingers rasping against the roughness of his beard. For several months he's been considering it — getting more ink — and since trusting the tattoo artists of the Capitol is out of the question, he would have to do it himself. Figure out whatever technology is available, try to acquire it, and learn it if it's different from the equipment back home; failing that, do it prison style. Their conversation has given him additional incentive, the push he's needed.

"Depending on the kinda equipment they got here... You figure out a design, and I could do it for you. If you want." He tilts his head in lieu of a shrug, glancing up at Luke now. "Been thinkin' about gettin' more myself, and sure as hell don't trust any'a these Capitol people to do it."

[burningdaylight]

The amusement drains from Luke’s face, his expression furrowing into something pained and grimly sympathetic for the moment he looks on. His gaze slides to the floor. If he’d make himself vulnerable and leave it to someone to handle something deeply personal, let it be someone he trusts not to do him harm. Someone who understands what it means for bittersweet memories to be all that remains of so many people whose presence in their lives had brightened their own. Traveling companions turned family. What did the Capitol know of respecting the dead, of valuing human life?

“It ain’t jus’ about a new look. An' I don’ think that’s somethin’ they’d understand.” He raises his drink, pausing before he finally takes a long, thoughtful sip. Sucking at his beer-slick lips before he drifts back to awareness, blinking, and looks up.

“Well...” It's his turn to offer Daryl a long, meaningful look, sans finger-licking. A smile comes easily to him. “I’m glad you offered, ‘cause I was gonna ask you if you felt up for it.”

A rush of purposefulness and resolve swells into his chest, and with it, an unexpected trill of excitement. An old but not forgotten itch to hit the drawing board as soon as he could, something he realizes he hasn’t felt since dreaming of grand business ventures with Nick, surfing the web and firing off emails and note-taking deep into the small hours of the morning. His body hums with it, his eyes warm and brighter with life neither home nor this world hasn’t all quietly strangled from him.

“Tell you what -- I’ll take some time to figure somethin’ out, get somethin’ finalized, an’ I’ll get back to you, uh… iunno.” He scratches at his chin and his considerably patchier beard, if it could be called so much. “Maybe even the beginning a’ next week? In the meantime, lemme me know what you find. That a'right?”

[weaintashes]

Luke's look is met with one of constrained surprise, as though Daryl isn't sure he should believe what he's being told, never mind that he'd initiated this by extending an offer first. That someone is willing to trust him with this and actually wants him to be involved in what is, to him, a deeply personal experience, it isn't something he takes lightly. Discussing feelings has never been his forté, but his would be made apparent later in his earnest manner, his attentiveness while working, in the careful precision of every inked line. He hopes for it to be a good experience for Luke, even if it may end up being a one-off undertaking.

"Sounds like a plan," he easily agrees, and spares a moment to finish the last couple swallows of his beer. "I know what I'm lookin' for. If the stuff's available here, it'll be real simple." The technology is his main concern — if it isn't close enough to what he's acquainted with, he may need to spend the necessary time learning a whole new process first.

But he's optimistic things will work out, whatever the case. It feels good having an attainable goal for a change, something to work toward that will produce tangible results. For those very same reasons he's subtly been involving Rick more in Charlie's care, and providing him with plants to look after, and Daryl's realising now he should have been looking for similar outlets himself. Hell, maybe he'll take up gardening too.

"Guess I'll leave you to it then," he says after a few moments, surfacing from his thoughts and giving Luke a nod. After lobbing the empty beer can into the garbage, he stands up. "Thanks for dinner. I'll drop this stuff off in the kitchen." Holding up his dirty bowl and fork in one hand to illustrate, he reaches with the other to take Luke's. By which he means he'll wash the dishes, since helping with the clean up is the least he could do and it doesn't sit right with him, thinking of an Avox doing it for them. The pan's also collected on his way to the door (the scant leftovers will be eaten before he even reaches the kitchen), and he momentarily balances everything in one arm to free up the other, offering Luke a brief wave over his shoulder as he lets himself out.