Daryl is a difficult one to pull in. Not inclined to adoration; he doesn't resist so much as side-step, and it has nothing to do with awareness. Instead, a long-ingrained habit of turning himself away from interest, like a dog that's been trained out of running towards food. He doesn't think anything about it.
Which is not to say the performance doesn't retain his attention. It does. He likes it, and though the getup Lestat is sporting doesn't do anything for him, he enjoys the way he performs. Reminds him of an old movie, the only kind that public broadcasting had the rights for even while the rest of the world moved on. Black and white musicals on during the day, giving him something to pay attention to besides the everything of his surroundings.
Would Beth like this place? Would artistic Europeans accept a country girl with her guitar and lilting soprano? She played the piano sometimes (he hears her confident but inexpert plinking, back in that lonely funeral home), but not this good. A clear voice singing her own arrangements of Tom Waits song, sounding full and haunting in the echoing acoustics of the prison, a southern siren. Daryl sees Rick's hands, fidgeting with his watch. He used to stand around in the common area and listen to Beth as she wandered and soothed Judith, like he was trying to absorb domesticity he was no longer suited for.
It is stressed, in Daryl's head. He has come a long way, and he's still not sure if he's gotten anywhere worth while, if he should have left, if he should have kept going further, if he should have let himself drown. Being away from those who shaped him into a real person makes him feel formless again, but he knows he can't go back until he understands... something. There's no place for him where he wants to be. It's not their fault. He isn't owed.
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Which is not to say the performance doesn't retain his attention. It does. He likes it, and though the getup Lestat is sporting doesn't do anything for him, he enjoys the way he performs. Reminds him of an old movie, the only kind that public broadcasting had the rights for even while the rest of the world moved on. Black and white musicals on during the day, giving him something to pay attention to besides the everything of his surroundings.
Would Beth like this place? Would artistic Europeans accept a country girl with her guitar and lilting soprano? She played the piano sometimes (he hears her confident but inexpert plinking, back in that lonely funeral home), but not this good. A clear voice singing her own arrangements of Tom Waits song, sounding full and haunting in the echoing acoustics of the prison, a southern siren. Daryl sees Rick's hands, fidgeting with his watch. He used to stand around in the common area and listen to Beth as she wandered and soothed Judith, like he was trying to absorb domesticity he was no longer suited for.
It is stressed, in Daryl's head. He has come a long way, and he's still not sure if he's gotten anywhere worth while, if he should have left, if he should have kept going further, if he should have let himself drown. Being away from those who shaped him into a real person makes him feel formless again, but he knows he can't go back until he understands... something. There's no place for him where he wants to be. It's not their fault. He isn't owed.
Even if Rick were to come back—
Especially if Rick were to come back.
Lestat has a nice voice, he thinks.