Something about the Alexandrian calendar makes him uneasy.
They'd started keeping track of time at the prison, but it'd been guesswork as much as anything-- tracking the time and noting the days lengthening, shortening, going from there. It helped to have a broad view of when it was but it never mattered so much-- not really. That worked for him. Marking time to make sure things got done, keeping track of how long they'd kept going. He's never been much for a regular schedule.
In Alexandria it's different; they swear up and down they've been keeping count since the beginning, and somehow that makes it stifling, frustrating. It's like this little pocket of the way things used to be, and he hates how fake that feels. He doesn't give a shit about Sundays or birthdays or shit that happened way back when. Long as they know when to plant what, long as people have fair shifts, it doesn't matter much what day it is to him.
As autumn comes, though, and people start fussing about holidays, his vague distaste turns into a creeping dread. They're thinking about parties, celebrations-- shit that's bound to leave him feeling even less like he's at home. He doesn't talk about it. Complaining would be a pussy thing to do anyway. It gets easier, as time goes on. The notion of having to pretend through Christmas is horrifying but at least come Thanksgiving everyone will shut up and eat.
It's Beth who asks about Halloween, though, and she's one of theirs, he's not gonna say no to her. Besides, he did see a costume shop, and it did look relatively intact. So they set a day, they plan, he takes her out on the bike. No reason they should need more than the two of them.
He wonders, as they pull up in front of the weather worn store front, if the clown in the window looked more or less creepy before the world ended around it.
Beth loved Halloween when she was little. Not the creepy parts, but getting dressed up, having her parents drive her out to neighborhoods with close-together houses so she could go trick-or-treating, trading candy with her brother with the same kind of seriousness investors used with the stock market... Her memories all seem softer now, more cozy and less flawed, now that almost everyone in them is dead. It makes it feel like a perfect time to revive the holiday, once she realizes it's October. And the first person she goes to with the idea is Daryl.
She dislikes the creepy parts of Halloween, that clown mannequin included, even more than she used to. But the good things, the cider-drinking and candy-eating and laughter and costumes, all seem like they should stay around. They could all use a little more laughter in their lives. And more cider and candy, but those are both tall orders. They'll probably have to settle for clean water and mildly sweet little snacks.
As she lets go of his waist and slides off the bike, she looks the street up and down. The sound of the bike will probably draw a few walkers, and there might be some in the shop already. Only one way to find out, and she really hopes it's not going to be hard to do. The last thing she wants is to run into a bunch of gross rubber masks and lose it.
"We need face paint," she tells Daryl in an undertone, patting her knife as though to reassure herself it's there. "And easy costumes. Stuff anybody can use if they want to, like witches' hats. Only fun things."
Which is code for nothing that looks dead. She's hoping he'll understand.
Fun things makes sense. He gets the idea, even if it's not the kind of Halloween he had much to do with it. Cute storebought costumes for kids to go around getting candy in, the kind of stuff appropriate for the littlest ones. Life's scary enough, they don't need to invite it. More witches and bats, less skeletons. The jury's out on vampires and ghosts, but maybe it's best to err on the side of caution there.
This is one of the things where he's got something closer to a normal experience; there were a couple years he managed to go trick-or-treating in shitty homemade costumes. It didn't matter, which was part of the magic of Halloween; long as you were there they'd give you something, probably, and the year he tagged along with a group of other kids-- well, shit, he ate himself sick enough times that November it's a wonder he's got any teeth left.
"Don't look like people been through," he murmurs. There'd be little reason for it-- but they'll keep their eyes open either way. You never know. He waits a long moment before heading for the door, but either they're in a clearer area or the dead around here are too rotten to get to them quick. Standing out in the open isn't going to get them anywhere.
The door's locked but the wooden frame is half-rotted, enough that it only takes a few good shoves to bust it open. Tossing a glance over his shoulder at Beth, he inches into the dark interior of the shop, bow at the ready, knife within easy reach.
Somewhere in the back of the building, there's a faint rustling, but otherwise everything is still.
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They'd started keeping track of time at the prison, but it'd been guesswork as much as anything-- tracking the time and noting the days lengthening, shortening, going from there. It helped to have a broad view of when it was but it never mattered so much-- not really. That worked for him. Marking time to make sure things got done, keeping track of how long they'd kept going. He's never been much for a regular schedule.
In Alexandria it's different; they swear up and down they've been keeping count since the beginning, and somehow that makes it stifling, frustrating. It's like this little pocket of the way things used to be, and he hates how fake that feels. He doesn't give a shit about Sundays or birthdays or shit that happened way back when. Long as they know when to plant what, long as people have fair shifts, it doesn't matter much what day it is to him.
As autumn comes, though, and people start fussing about holidays, his vague distaste turns into a creeping dread. They're thinking about parties, celebrations-- shit that's bound to leave him feeling even less like he's at home. He doesn't talk about it. Complaining would be a pussy thing to do anyway. It gets easier, as time goes on. The notion of having to pretend through Christmas is horrifying but at least come Thanksgiving everyone will shut up and eat.
It's Beth who asks about Halloween, though, and she's one of theirs, he's not gonna say no to her. Besides, he did see a costume shop, and it did look relatively intact. So they set a day, they plan, he takes her out on the bike. No reason they should need more than the two of them.
He wonders, as they pull up in front of the weather worn store front, if the clown in the window looked more or less creepy before the world ended around it.
Hard to say.
no subject
She dislikes the creepy parts of Halloween, that clown mannequin included, even more than she used to. But the good things, the cider-drinking and candy-eating and laughter and costumes, all seem like they should stay around. They could all use a little more laughter in their lives. And more cider and candy, but those are both tall orders. They'll probably have to settle for clean water and mildly sweet little snacks.
As she lets go of his waist and slides off the bike, she looks the street up and down. The sound of the bike will probably draw a few walkers, and there might be some in the shop already. Only one way to find out, and she really hopes it's not going to be hard to do. The last thing she wants is to run into a bunch of gross rubber masks and lose it.
"We need face paint," she tells Daryl in an undertone, patting her knife as though to reassure herself it's there. "And easy costumes. Stuff anybody can use if they want to, like witches' hats. Only fun things."
Which is code for nothing that looks dead. She's hoping he'll understand.
no subject
This is one of the things where he's got something closer to a normal experience; there were a couple years he managed to go trick-or-treating in shitty homemade costumes. It didn't matter, which was part of the magic of Halloween; long as you were there they'd give you something, probably, and the year he tagged along with a group of other kids-- well, shit, he ate himself sick enough times that November it's a wonder he's got any teeth left.
"Don't look like people been through," he murmurs. There'd be little reason for it-- but they'll keep their eyes open either way. You never know. He waits a long moment before heading for the door, but either they're in a clearer area or the dead around here are too rotten to get to them quick. Standing out in the open isn't going to get them anywhere.
The door's locked but the wooden frame is half-rotted, enough that it only takes a few good shoves to bust it open. Tossing a glance over his shoulder at Beth, he inches into the dark interior of the shop, bow at the ready, knife within easy reach.
Somewhere in the back of the building, there's a faint rustling, but otherwise everything is still.