Almost as if he were summoned he eased down onto the opposite side of the bench. Smooth as silk. He'd got some of his Dad's old clothes, the sleeveless (because they'd been ripped off or cut off) button downs that had long since rotted to pieces once he was old enough to wear them. He remembered the day his Mom had gone through the boxes, looking for something for him to have to remember his Dad with. Something that would still have his smell. He'd found her in the basement. Of the B and B in the middle of them all, in tears. Horrified that she hadn't stored them better.
Well Tim would be sure to store them better when he got through using them. In plastic containers, with mothballs a plenty. Sure Daryl's scent wouldn't still be there, but it would keep his mother from crying so hard that he'd had to carry her out. He knew it was more because she felt like she'd failed him, as his mother, rather than the tears for the man that had helped create him. While he was sure she still loved Daryl, it was in a different way than she had started out.
"Howdie. Look at you. This brings back memories." He teased in his gruff redneck accented voice. No one could answer where he'd got it from. But no one questioned it too much either.