Getting Carol back's a godsend.

Only, he's not real sure that term applies anymore. Far as he can tell, he doesn't owe shit to the man upstairs, not now that He's gone radio silent. No, it's got nothing to do with God.

This one's all Daryl.

He's the one that saved her. The one that brought her back, when all the rest of them were sure she was dead. They made her fucking grave, and then Rick gets back, and there she is, sitting in that cell block. She's a little worse for wear, tired and weak from hunger and dehydration, but she's alive, and Rick knows he owes that all to Daryl.

And that gets him to thinking about just how much he really owes that man. He save Carol, and shit, what he did for Judith…and Rick can't even count all the times he's saved his ass. He can't repay all that. Couldn't even begin to. And the worst part's knowing is that Daryl doesn't expect him to. He doesn't do it looking for gratitude, doesn't do it for some other agenda he's got going on the side. He's just a damn good guy, and to hell with what anybody thinks about Rick being the leader; if it weren't for Daryl, their group would've fallen to pieces a long time ago.

The shitty thing is, he's not even real sure Daryl sees himself as part of it. Their group, he means. Their family.

Rick does. Damn, but he does. He didn't used to, back at the start of this, back in Atlanta. Daryl was a Dixon first and foremost; he was just hanging around the group until he found something better. The fact that he seemed to think that something better and his brother were one in the same's something that still gives Rick trouble, but he don't mention it. There's no sense in it.

But then Sophia went missing, and…shit, Daryl looked for that little girl like she was his own flesh and blood. Even Rick can't claim to have done as much for her as Daryl did, and it was his own fault she was out there alone anyhow. But Daryl spent whole days out in those woods, all by his lonesome, tracking her through houses and creekbeds and Lord only knows where else, because he could do it, and for him, that seemed to mean he should.

And he knew the moment he saw him coming out of those woods, all bloodied up and looking like shit warmed over, that Daryl was one of his. Hearing that gunshot and seeing him go down, Rick had felt his damn heart stop, and later on, when he caught his first real glimpse of all those scars Daryl had all over, the hot rush of anger was awful telling.

Chances are he's long dead, but Rick knows if he ever gets his hands on the son of a bitch that put those marks on him, he'll wish it was the walkers that got to him.

The fact of the matter is, it's probably the least he could do. See, it's right around that shit with that kid Randall that Rick starts realizing that Daryl does what the group needs him to do. Which would be one thing, if the group just needed laundry done or, shit, some squirrels to eat for dinner, even. But that's not the kind of stuff that seemed to fall on Daryl's lap. No, Daryl ended up doing the shit no one else wanted to do. Shit like beating on Randall, getting him to talk on his boys. And it doesn't matter much that Daryl knows what he's doing, that Daryl gets it done, because when Rick finally got around to actually thinking about it, it shouldn't 'a been him. It wasn't him that brought the guy back. Wasn't him that got them in the mess, but it was Daryl there getting them out of it. Doing what no one else could stomach to do, because he could.

But see, unlike Daryl, Rick knows that just because a man can do something, doesn't mean he should have to. Especially not something that, by all rights, it ought to be someone else doing.

That's the thing about Daryl, though, Rick thinks as he wanders aimlessly outside into the yard. Daryl steps up. He always steps up.

Like he did with Dale, that night.

And somewhere along the line – Rick's not rightly sure where, exactly – he started to rely on that. He started to lean on him, to trust him, even more than he did Shane. And that was even before he knew for sure Shane was trying to kill him. Because it seemed to him that Daryl was the most honest out of all of them. If that made him coarse, rude, standoffish at times, so be it. Hell, all the shit he'd been through, Rick thinks it's a damn miracle he's turned out as good a man as he has. Rick trusts him.

Only…trust don't seem like strong enough a word for it anymore.

Christ, just thinking back to that day after they lost the farm, standing out there on that road with Hershel and Carl, shaken and lost and so far up shit creek he couldn't see a way out. But then he'd heard the roar of that motorcycle, and he just…he remembered how to breathe again. Because he knew, in some weird, subconscious way, that things were alright. Least as close as they could be.

Daryl didn't disappoint, neither. He brought Glen, Maggie, Beth, T-Dog, Carol…Lori. Shit, he brought Lori back to him, and Rick remembers this one moment when he was sitting there with Carl and Lori in his arms, that it felt like something was missing.

A handshake didn't seem like nearly enough for what Rick was feeling.

He hadn't given much thought to it then, just dismissed it, reveled in the moment, but now he is thinking about it. Walking across the concrete of the yard – pacing, more like; taking a page from Daryl's book, he thinks – he's thinking, and the thoughts just keep coming.

He's thinking about that winter. Thinking about how much time he spent with Daryl, how many long notes they sat huddled together by the low light of the small fire trying to stay warm, poring over maps trying to figure out their next move. Daryl might not be book smart, might not know a whole hell of a lot about grammar and history, save those folk tales Rick's gotten awful fond of hearing him tell, but he's the smartest man Rick's ever met when it comes to survival. Sometimes, he couldn't help but just gape at him, because the way Daryl's head worked was just a hell of a thing.

He remembers a few nights, fatigue catching up with him. He never meant to fall asleep, but inevitably, sometimes, it happened, and he'd wake up a few hours later, more often than not with that damn poncho Daryl found in one of the houses they raided draped around his shoulders, because all the blankets around the camp or whatever house they were squatting in were being used. And Daryl would be sitting in a window or something, staring out, keeping watch. Rick knew he stayed up all night those nights, didn't catch a wink. Didn't dare.

Rick remembers sometimes, he'd just sit there, Daryl's poncho wrapped around his shoulders smelling like woods and musk and just something uniquely Daryl, looking at him. Because sometimes, as the sun rose, when the light caught him just right...shit, what a sight that was.

And sometimes, it'd be the other way around. All those sleepless nights'd finally catch up with him, and Rick could swear, Daryl'd be mid-stream and he'd just drift off. He'd just list over against whatever was nearby. There were times that was Rick, and if he's being honest with himself, those were the times he liked best, because in his sleep, when Daryl wasn't wound up like he always was, wasn't standoffish – although he was getting better about that, too, the more time passed – he just looked so damn at ease. He'd curl into Rick's side sometimes, looking for heat, because it was a little-known secret that Daryl loved being warm, and Rick'd tell himself it was just 'cause he didn't have the heart to wake him up and risk him not being able to go back to sleep again that he'd raise an arm and ease it around Daryl's shoulders, hoping to offer as much heat up as he could.

Had nothing to do with how nice it felt. How nice Daryl fit, slotted up against him.

It was nights like that he started noticing Daryl's edges getting harder. His ribs against Rick's side, his elbows, his spine…they all lost weight that winter, for sheer lack of food to go around, but Daryl's was the most dramatic. He started off in Atlanta with a little bit of padding to him, the modest beginnings of a beer belly and round cheeks. Come the end of winter, though, he was trimmed down to nothing but lean, corded muscle and bone, with cheekbones sharp as knives and arms like damn steel from non-stop fighting and that crossbow of his.

Rick started getting on him about it, and between him and Carol, he reckoned they did an alright job. But the fact of the matter was, if they didn't keep after him, didn't make him, Daryl wouldn't eat. And Rick didn't think it was coincidence the extra helpings always left over for Lori. He knows Daryl went hungry, and that tears him up inside, because once again, it shouldn't 'a been him. And there was a part of him – a little part, but a part nonetheless – that resented Lori just a touch every time she ate an extra couple pieces of meat or an extra serving of canned food and didn't ask where it came from.

And there was a part of him, a much bigger part, that resented himself for making Daryl feel like that needed doing.

Course, he reckoned the biggest part of all was the one that appreciated it. That admired it. Admired Daryl. Because for all his claims at being no good, Rick knows without a doubt that Daryl's a better man than him. Maybe a better man than all of them.

And Rick realizes then, with a guilty sort of twist in his gut, that he hasn't even thanked him. Not really. Not like he should've.

Funny thing is, his feet must've come to that conclusion a little bit before Rick did, because it occurs to him they've carried him up to the open door of the guard tower.

Inside, sitting up on the table with his knees bent and his crossbow on his shoulder, is Daryl.

He's thrown for a minute, but even thrown, Rick knows better than to catch him off guard. So, he raises his hand to rap on the doorframe. Turns out he didn't need to; the slow turn of Daryl's head instead of the sharp snap tells him Daryl knew he was there. But hell, he figures better safe than shot.

"Hey," he says, and he steps just far enough inside the guard tower to lean back against the wall by the door.

"Hey," Daryl says back. "You okay?"

Truth be told, Rick's not rightly sure how to answer that. The hamster wheel in his head that was spinning up a storm's gone strangely still, and there's this strange sort of clarity to everything. It's not a bad feeling, he reckons, just a…strange one. He's used to his mind pulling him in twenty different directions, all in a hurry. The quiet's kind of odd.

It's kind of nice, though, too."

"I'm better than I've been in a while," is what he decides on, and that's true enough. "It's good having Carol back."

Daryl nods, and he starts to turn around on the table, Rick's guessing to stand up, but as he starts to shift, something catches Rick's eye. It's brief, just a flash, but…Daryl winced.

He frowns. "Maybe I ought to be asking if you're okay," he says. He's going for casual, doesn't want to spook Daryl, because he's learned that Lord forbid anyone be overtly concerned for him. He thinks a little bit of the worry might slip through, though, because Daryl shrugs him off.

"'m fine," he mutters, and Rick admits, it'd be awful convincing.

If his knees didn't buckle the second he tried standing.

"Shit," Rick curses, and he's across the room before Daryl can even get his feet back under him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip in case his legs decide to give out on him again.

In typical fashion, Daryl tries shrugging him off, but Rick doesn't let him. Especially not when he won't meet his eyes when he half growls that he's fine, because Rick's learned that means something really is wrong. Because Daryl's got this funny little thing where he can't look someone in the eyes and lie to them.

Imagine that.

"Hey," Rick says, and that, at least, gets Daryl to look up at him. He's not grimacing or anything, but there's this little bit of a line in his brow and a downward curl of his lip that he only gets when he's hurting or upset about something. And while it might very well be the latter too, Rick would go three to one that he's definitely the former. "What's the matter?"

"Just sitting too long," Daryl says, but he's back to looking at the floor again.

"Yeah, well, I think you might ought to sit a little bit longer." Not that Rick's giving him much choice. He uses the hand on Daryl's hip to guide him back to the table, and mercifully, Daryl doesn't see fit to fight him, sagging back onto the table with a clipped sort of breath.

Which is awful telling.

"What'd you do to your ribs?" Because that's the breath of a man that breathing hurts, and now that he's looking, the way Daryl's right arm's wrapped just a little around his belly's a pretty big clue.

Daryl must realize there's no sense trying to get Rick off his case, because he lets out a hitched-sounding sigh. "Bustin' down doors," he says. "Might 'a gotten a little impatient when one wouldn't open."

Rick feigns surprise. "Impatient? You? No."

"You just gonna jaw at me?"

"Nah. I don't reckon that'd be real neighborly of me, would it?" Honestly, Rick's less bothered by the idea of being unseemly than the idea of Daryl hurting and him not doing anything about it, but for the sake of their usual banter, he goes with that. "Come on," he says, stepping back a little now that Daryl's sitting down again and pulling at his shirt. "Let's get a look atcha."

Daryl grumbles something under his breath about neighbors and fences and biddies, but he reaches for the buttons on his shirt anyhow, so Rick doesn't much mind. Least not until he notices Daryl having trouble with it, and then he doesn't so much care about what he's griping about as what he's not. He's starting to get worried Daryl might actually be in worse shape than he's thinking.

"Let me help," he says after a few more seconds of watching, and it's not a request. He brushes Daryl's hands out of the way and makes quick work of the buttons, and he doesn't actually even get the shirt off before his suspicions get confirmed.

Daryl's whole right side's a mess of colors. Mostly reds and blues just now, but Rick gets the feeling he's gonna be a regular color wheel in a couple days when they really start to bloom.

"Christ," he breathes, easing Daryl's shirt off his shoulder so he can get a better look at it. The bruising actually seems worse around the back, and he notices there's a patch of color straddling his shoulder blade to boot. "Did the damn thing jump out and take a swing atcha?" Because otherwise, he must've been banging on that thing pretty hard.

"Somethin' like that," Daryl says, and Rick can't see his face because he's too busy checking the bruises, but it sounds like he might be smiling just a little bit. Course he is. Who wouldn't smile about getting the ever loving shit beat out of them by a goddamn door?

He suspects, though, that the smile might fall when Rick starts feeling around the edges of the bruise. Especially when he jumps and curses.

"Shit, Rick, the hell you pokin' it for?"

"I'm pokin' it to make sure you didn't go and break your damn ribs." There's not as much bite to the words as Rick wishes there was. Kinda hard to be mad at the guy when he knows Daryl got this bruise looking for Carol. Doesn't mean he's gonna let it go without checking, though, either. "I'm being gentle as I can. Just hold still and let me make sure you're okay."

Because he needs to - actually needs to make sure he's okay. There's this knot somewhere between his throat and his chest that's tied up tight, and he knows it's not gonna loosen until he's seen to it with his own two hands that Daryl's alright. He can't rightly explain it; Daryl's tough as nails, and he knows logically he probably wouldn't 'a been moving around half as well as he has been if anything was broken. But there's this…urge, this drive that feels an awful lot like protectiveness, and he's finding Daryl has this uncanny knack of bringing it out in him.

Despite his initial reaction, Daryl's actually pretty stoic while Rick looks him over. His breath catches from time to time, but he doesn't say anything, and he stiffens every now and then when Rick's fingers find a particularly tender place on his side.

After while, though, Rick realizes his breath isn't catching anymore, least not often. Hell, he hardly seems to be breathing, period. And now that Rick's paying more attention to it instead of the angry blotch of colors, he notices Daryl's whole body's rigid as a board.

It's not until he straightens up that he thinks he gets an idea of why. And then only because nearly the same damn thing happens to him. His breath catches and doesn't seem to be in any hurry to pick back up, and every damn muscle in his whole body locks up tight. He can scarcely bring himself to swallow, which might have something to do with the lump that's suddenly sitting pretty in his throat.

Shit, but Daryl's close.

He hadn't noticed; he'd been too focused on checking him out – which is, in hindsight, a poor choice of words – to realize he'd moved in closer, but he reckons he must've, because he's standing now between Daryl's knees, his own hips nigh flush with the edge of the table Daryl's sitting on. Standing straight, their chests are nearly touching, and Rick realizes with a jolt that their faces can't be more than an inch or two apart.

And he knows Daryl's noticed the same, probably even sooner than Rick did, because he's got this deer-in-headlights look on his face, all wide eyes and lightly parted lips that Rick observes very casually that he really wouldn't mind kissing.

But then the rest of his brain catches up with that one errant thought, and someone may as well've shocked him, the way he's jerking back. It's not far, just an inch, but for some damnable reason, that inch feels like a mile, like the Grand-fucking-Canyon's suddenly opened up between them, and Daryl looks as just about startled as Rick feels. Except, it's not how they were standing that startles him.

It's how much he wishes he hadn't moved.

It takes a hell of a lot more effort than it should to clear his throat, but he manages, somehow forcing air past the lump that's doubled up in his throat. He's not real sure what's happening, but he can feel his heart thundering, and he's half convinced Daryl can hear it, the way it's pounding.

"Daryl," he manages to say, hoarse as it is, "I just wanted to say—"

But he stops right there. Because what he should have almost said was supposed to be something like 'thank you,' but what almost came out…

It sounded a lot in his head like I love you.

And for a second, he's convinced he's lost his damn mind. Hell, that's probably just a foregone conclusion, all the shit he's had going on in his head lately. He loves—loved—loves Lori. And he hasn't…he's never even thought about another man anything close to romantically, much less like that.

Except….

Except he realizes he has.

That day after they lost the barn, when he was sitting there on that road with his arms around his wife and his son, and he'd been so damn happy, but…there was that something missing. And he realizes that handshake really hadn't been enough.

Those mornings when he'd watch Daryl sitting in the window, watch the way the sun would rise and light up his face. Daryl wasn't pretty, not like Lori. He never thought of him like that. But…the way the light would play off the hard angles of his face, the way his bright blue eyes would catch that same light until Rick was half convinced they made the light themselves, it was kind of…beautiful.

And Christ, those nights sitting up, Daryl curled up sleeping against his side, all the lines of stress and worry gone from his face…the seamless way they seemed to go together, the warmth Rick felt in his chest each time Daryl would let out one of those quiet sighs he does in his sleep. The way, on those precious few nights, he would actually dread the sunrise, because it meant losing this. Losing him.

Trust really isn't a strong enough word for it.

Not anymore.

He's not rightly sure what is, though. Love seems right, feels right, but something stops him from saying it, and there's nothing that comes to take its place.

So, he doesn't say anything.

He just takes another step, reclaiming the distance he'd put between them only a moment before. He reaches a hand for Daryl's face, slowly, giving him all the time in the world to back away if he wants, but at the same time praying he doesn't. And maybe there is a God after all, because Daryl doesn't move, doesn't even flinch as Rick's hand comes to rest against his jaw and slide around to cup the back of his neck.

And then he kisses him. It's slow and careful, cautious, and at least at the beginning, painfully one-sided. But just as Rick's about to pull away, the apology already on his tongue, he feels Daryl start to respond. He kisses back, and it's suddenly harder, deeper, teeth clicking and tongues warring, and those steel arms of Daryl's find their way around Rick's shoulders, and it's just so fucking right that it feels a crime when the need for air finally forces them to part.

His eyes meet Daryl's, but neither speaks. There's an unspoken agreement between them: there aren't words for this. Not yet. But it's Rick, and it's Daryl, and it's them.

And as Rick leans in to claim Daryl's lips a second time, he gets to thinking…it's pretty damn perfect.