( original prompts for A Blood Offering and Mallrats are over on the TDM. i'm happy to continue any or pick something up from those if you're interested! )
» mallrats (extended cut)
[ After slowly oozing back together while sitting in the food court - only mild, trauma-induced dissociation while consuming an icee, no big deal - Daryl has reconciled with the reality that he needs to appear more like a regular weirdo and not a "might need to call the police" weirdo. He is not anyone's favorite customer in the reasonably priced clothes store, despite his stoic demeanor; he buys some tolerable shirts and a new pair of jeans, and changes in the dressing room. There's nothing to be done about the state of his kutte or jacket, and he still definitely smells like weeks-old sweat and crusting-over gore, but any improvement at this state is a huge one.
He still looks out of place. Dirty and exhausted, sullenly allowing a perplexed co-ed sell him a pair of boots. You'd never know it by the blank look on his face, but he's actually incredibly amused by this; Timberlands are affordable again, in the 1980s. This $100 is doing some work.
Later, he does a few rounds, awkwardly carrying a shopping bag and checking out every available store without walking inside. A strange lurker. He even does the same outside, potentially making at least one rent-a-cop nervous, but he never drifts near access doors or anyone's cars. Just looking, gaze towards the perimeter. ]
» back at the ranch (saturn motel)
laundry—
[ A new day, waking up in almost the same place. Alone in his assigned room, and with no self-harm requirement to get out. He feels something cold sink in his stomach with how settled and real it seems.
Tough shit, he tells himself. Daryl has things to do. His most intense impulse is to fuck off immediately, but he can't— if one of his people shows up, this'll be where. He doesn't even know if he's done a proper headcount of everyone here, yet, or if there's more information to be gleaned about the "Mayor" (ugh, like he needs another one of those, leaving an awful taste in his mouth thinking of the Governor). He has to at least try to stick around and not get kicked out. And so, freshly scrubbed, he drags all of his gross clothes to the laundry room.
Then he just stares at it for a while.
Cut to: Daryl walking back to the front desk to ask for quarters to use the washing machine. Daryl walking back to the laundry room. Daryl walking back to the front desk to ask for more quarters to get detergent out of the vending machine. Daryl walking back to the laundry room. Daryl walking back to his actual room, then back to the laundry room, having forgotten his shoes, which also have to go in. Looking increasingly murderous the entire time (or, depending on your point of view, like an increasingly despondent basset hound).
He has not removed the long, skinny sizing sticker from the back of his new forest green plaid shirt. ]
poolside—
[ At last free of the clutches of laundry, Daryl has posted up in the pool enclosure on the shady side. On one lounge chair, he's laid out his jacket and vest, out of direct sunlight. It'd be better for them to dry inside, but it's not like he keeps his shit in museum-quality condition anyway, and it just... really needs to air out. His pre-outbreak habit of deep cleaning his leathers every year or so has fallen off sharply. There may not be anything he can do to fully restore the kutte, at least— it may bleed forever, each time it's wiped down.
The man himself sits in an adjacent lounge chair, fully dressed, cheap gas station sunglasses perched on his face. He's also acquired cigarettes and a packet of Twizzlers, and is making headway on those while he finally inspects the Walkman from the roller rink. (A straggler, late in the evening; he can skate just fine, what do you take him for. He just didn't want to be in a crowd.) He'd grabbed it blindly on his way out the door, and now, its mild color surprises him. The yellow hue reminds him of lemonade or banana splits, instead of the eye-searing highlighter tone he might expect.
Daryl taps his cigarette to one side (nary an ash tray in sight) and flips the case open to look at the cassette inside, wondering. ]
» special features (wildcard)
( ooc; if you're interested in anything different, hit me up! i'm equally fine with prose or action. )
daryl dixon | the walking dead ( ota 💚 )
( original prompts for A Blood Offering and Mallrats are over on the TDM. i'm happy to continue any or pick something up from those if you're interested! )
» mallrats (extended cut)
[ After slowly oozing back together while sitting in the food court - only mild, trauma-induced dissociation while consuming an icee, no big deal - Daryl has reconciled with the reality that he needs to appear more like a regular weirdo and not a "might need to call the police" weirdo. He is not anyone's favorite customer in the reasonably priced clothes store, despite his stoic demeanor; he buys some tolerable shirts and a new pair of jeans, and changes in the dressing room. There's nothing to be done about the state of his kutte or jacket, and he still definitely smells like weeks-old sweat and crusting-over gore, but any improvement at this state is a huge one.
He still looks out of place. Dirty and exhausted, sullenly allowing a perplexed co-ed sell him a pair of boots. You'd never know it by the blank look on his face, but he's actually incredibly amused by this; Timberlands are affordable again, in the 1980s. This $100 is doing some work.
Later, he does a few rounds, awkwardly carrying a shopping bag and checking out every available store without walking inside. A strange lurker. He even does the same outside, potentially making at least one rent-a-cop nervous, but he never drifts near access doors or anyone's cars. Just looking, gaze towards the perimeter. ]
» back at the ranch (saturn motel)
laundry—
[ A new day, waking up in almost the same place. Alone in his assigned room, and with no self-harm requirement to get out. He feels something cold sink in his stomach with how settled and real it seems.
Tough shit, he tells himself. Daryl has things to do. His most intense impulse is to fuck off immediately, but he can't— if one of his people shows up, this'll be where. He doesn't even know if he's done a proper headcount of everyone here, yet, or if there's more information to be gleaned about the "Mayor" (ugh, like he needs another one of those, leaving an awful taste in his mouth thinking of the Governor). He has to at least try to stick around and not get kicked out. And so, freshly scrubbed, he drags all of his gross clothes to the laundry room.
Then he just stares at it for a while.
Cut to: Daryl walking back to the front desk to ask for quarters to use the washing machine. Daryl walking back to the laundry room. Daryl walking back to the front desk to ask for more quarters to get detergent out of the vending machine. Daryl walking back to the laundry room. Daryl walking back to his actual room, then back to the laundry room, having forgotten his shoes, which also have to go in. Looking increasingly murderous the entire time (or, depending on your point of view, like an increasingly despondent basset hound).
He has not removed the long, skinny sizing sticker from the back of his new forest green plaid shirt. ]
poolside—
[ At last free of the clutches of laundry, Daryl has posted up in the pool enclosure on the shady side. On one lounge chair, he's laid out his jacket and vest, out of direct sunlight. It'd be better for them to dry inside, but it's not like he keeps his shit in museum-quality condition anyway, and it just... really needs to air out. His pre-outbreak habit of deep cleaning his leathers every year or so has fallen off sharply. There may not be anything he can do to fully restore the kutte, at least— it may bleed forever, each time it's wiped down.
The man himself sits in an adjacent lounge chair, fully dressed, cheap gas station sunglasses perched on his face. He's also acquired cigarettes and a packet of Twizzlers, and is making headway on those while he finally inspects the Walkman from the roller rink. (A straggler, late in the evening; he can skate just fine, what do you take him for. He just didn't want to be in a crowd.) He'd grabbed it blindly on his way out the door, and now, its mild color surprises him. The yellow hue reminds him of lemonade or banana splits, instead of the eye-searing highlighter tone he might expect.
Daryl taps his cigarette to one side (nary an ash tray in sight) and flips the case open to look at the cassette inside, wondering. ]
» special features (wildcard)
( ooc; if you're interested in anything different, hit me up! i'm equally fine with prose or action. )