[ It's true, Daryl cleans up badly. Probably would even in an expensive suit and a nice haircut— there's just something about him that says permanently feral. The constant greasy sheen he carries with him in the south has been stripped away by the northwest's comparatively cool and dry climate, but the tradeoff is now he just sorta looks crunchy.
In contrast, he thinks Alec looks like the most flattering possible filter of the guys he would run around with before the turn. Masculine features, dark attire, gnarly neck tattoo, obviously armed. Except he's well groomed and handsome, and his clothes look expensive. Suspicious. Are there universes out there where biker gangs are stylish, high class organizations, instead of meth-adjacent criminal tragedies?
Who knows. Pale eyes track the other man's hand, and finally, he notices the sticker. Huh. He'd snipped the tags off, but didn't do much of an inspection. ]
Thanks.
[ He picks at one edge until he can strip the whole thing off, and then shoves his laundry into the machine. The crank sound on the setting dial is loud, and dated. Flashbacks to rare trips to the laundromat in his youth. He dumps the recommended amount of powdered detergent into the slot, hits start, and then sets the little box down near Alec. A nod, pointing to it. He's free to use the rest, if he'd like to save a quarter.
Daryl drags his remaining items near to the large single basin wash sink; leather can't go in the washer, and his jacket and vest are both horrendous. The angel wing patches on the back of the vest are so stained they're almost camouflaged entirely. Lucky him, the trendy goth store had both desalter and balm. ]
You look like you had to donate to get outta your room at first, too.
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In contrast, he thinks Alec looks like the most flattering possible filter of the guys he would run around with before the turn. Masculine features, dark attire, gnarly neck tattoo, obviously armed. Except he's well groomed and handsome, and his clothes look expensive. Suspicious. Are there universes out there where biker gangs are stylish, high class organizations, instead of meth-adjacent criminal tragedies?
Who knows. Pale eyes track the other man's hand, and finally, he notices the sticker. Huh. He'd snipped the tags off, but didn't do much of an inspection. ]
Thanks.
[ He picks at one edge until he can strip the whole thing off, and then shoves his laundry into the machine. The crank sound on the setting dial is loud, and dated. Flashbacks to rare trips to the laundromat in his youth. He dumps the recommended amount of powdered detergent into the slot, hits start, and then sets the little box down near Alec. A nod, pointing to it. He's free to use the rest, if he'd like to save a quarter.
Daryl drags his remaining items near to the large single basin wash sink; leather can't go in the washer, and his jacket and vest are both horrendous. The angel wing patches on the back of the vest are so stained they're almost camouflaged entirely. Lucky him, the trendy goth store had both desalter and balm. ]
You look like you had to donate to get outta your room at first, too.