Bad ➰Michael Jackson

Part 3

Part 3

Gray. That was the first thing that comes to Shaka's mind after being let inside Daryl's house. Everything was seemingly small and worn; battered down from previous uses. The living room was filled with quaint furniture of faded hues of pinks and whites. There was a brown coffee table in the middle of the living room, a gray recliner in the corner and a television stand by the front door holding a black box she wasn't so sure could be called a set.

There were also two main passage ways: one was leading into the kitchen which she could see easily in, and the other leading down the dark hallway to where the bedrooms were most likely at. The apartment was warm, which pleases her because of the coldness of the outside.

Upon entering the house she smiles, rubbing her gloved hands together to emphasize her pleasure at being allowed in. She looks at Daryl who locks the door behind them, turning around and solidly meeting her gaze.

"It's warm in here, feels good." She starts off lamely. God, could she be any slower? Daryl shrugs and shifts his weight, nonplussed with her aversion tactic.

"I turned the heat up some. Mother hates when it's too cold." Every time he speaks she's surprised, his voice being way lighter than she's expecting it to be. Its lilt was definitely different than Max's smooth New York drawl.

"Smart woman." She says. Before the silence that was ensuring could get too long, Daryl gestures to the couch with the flower prints on it.

"Would you like to sit down?" He politely asks. Her feet move before her mouth does.

"Yes, thank you." Shaka takes a seat on the couch and pulls her gloves and hat off nervously. Daryl watches her movements without speaking, which fails to calm her. His eye contact was very direct. He was also still standing and that wasn't helping either.

"How are you?" She starts off after a beat of awkward staring.

"Fine. How are you?" He asks her courteously, flipping the question back onto her with ease.

Shaka frowns, that wasn't she meant. She gazes at him and sees that he knows exactly what she was suggesting. His expression was a little too blank to be normal. She shakes her head and thinks of a way to say what she meant without seeming nosy. Or callous.

"No, how are you after last night?" She reiterates, crossing a slim leg over another. Daryl rubs a hand down his leg and briefly looks off to the side of her face at the question. If she wasn't looking so hard at him, she wouldn't have noticed the slight drop of his shoulders or the way his Adam apple moves as he swallows.  However, she was analyzing him pretty deeply so she notices everything.

"I don't know." He appears to give in to her gentle prodding, allowing a semi-honest answer. Instead of sitting next to her on the couch, he finally chooses the recliner and takes a seat looking weary.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she offers. Who knows, maybe he wants to vent to someone. Holding emotions in isn't really good. She sees it enough in Max and knew first hand that the outcome was never good.

"No." His reply is curt.

She's quiet for a moment before trying again. Persistence was key. "Max and them—they'll come around. They don't mean anything they did. Max just over reacts. He's a drama queen." Shaka tries to laugh his behavior off, fake chuckling as if that would help.

Daryl scoffs, rolling his eyes. She pulls back a little at the harsh reaction. Unexpected. "He meant everything he said and wanted to do."

"Not at all. He was overreacting." She insists