"Did I get you?" Rick asks next time he sees Daryl. The pain in his hand, down to a nice throb now after Hershel's had a look at it, is doing a lot to clear his head. It's good; he needed it. And when he catches Daryl walking down the hall, rubbing the side of his jaw, he can't help but wonder.

Daryl turns and gives him a funny look, and slows up enough for Rick to fall into step beside him. "Nah," he says, and it's times like these Rick's glad Daryl's a shit liar, because it means he can trust what he says is true that much easier. "Tyrese." That bit, though, even if it's true, doesn't sound much like he's real sure he wants to be saying it, and he's real quick to follow it up with, "Just clipped me with his shoulder, didn't mean to. Shit happens."

"That it does," Rick can't help but agree. Maybe it's just him, though, but it seems like shit seems to like happening more to the people that don't have it coming than those that do. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"Do what?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Rick sees Daryl cut his eyes over at him, but then they go right back to the door as they walk out into the yard. He's uneasy, and that ain't what Rick meant to happen; he just needs to get this out in the air. Make sure Daryl understands.

"Steppin' in like you did with Tyrese." And the words have no sooner left his mouth than he can see the brush-off coming on Daryl's, so he beats him to the punch. "I know we got each other's backs, and we don't hurt our own, but that don't mean I expect you to take a hit. For me, or anybody else."

Because that's what Daryl did back there. He didn't just get hold of Tyrese when he was coming for Rick. He let Tyrese back him up against that gate like that, pin him there and near choke him, and he kept Rick and Carol from stopping him. He was gonna take whatever it was Tyrese had to dish out, all heartbroken and flustered like he was, and he was just gonna do it like it was his job. Like it didn't mean nothing.

Proof's in Daryl's response even now, when he shrugs and hitches his crossbow up higher on his shoulder. "Didn't get hit," he mutters. "You an' Tyrese took all the good licks, didn't leave none for the rest of us."

It's true; they both got in their hard hits, and Rick was doing more than hold his jaw by the end of it. But he picked that fight. It was him Tyrese had the problem with, not Daryl, and much as Rick wasn't keen on getting the shit beat out of him – or beating the shit out of somebody in return – he was even less keen on Daryl getting the shit beat out of him for something he didn't do.

"But you would've," he says. "Wouldn't you?" 'Cept it ain't really a question; he knows Daryl woulda done it. He saw the look in his eyes, and he knew Daryl woulda taken it, and that bothers Rick more than it should. Daryl ain't a punching bag. He ain't their martyr, and he knows damn well Daryl coulda taken Tyrese down a notch if he'd wanted to, but instead he'd just stood there. No, he knows the answer.

He just wants to hear Daryl say it.

What he gets instead is a jerky, hesitant sort of nod, and for a bit, he thinks that's all he's getting, until Daryl opens his mouth. "Yeah."

And Rick knows he means it, is the kicker. It ain't bullshit; it ain't a line he's feeding to make himself look good. Christ, Rick's not even sure he knows how to do something like that. Thing is, when the shit hits, Rick might be the one holding the shovel, but Daryl's the one holding everything else. Holding all of them, either back or up or however they need holding to stay on their feet and keep things going.

Between that and that damn crossbow 'a his, it's no wonder he's got those steel shoulders.

"Ain't like y'all wouldn't do the same," Daryl tacks on, so low under his breath, Rick nearly misses it. They get to the door, and Rick doesn't answer yet, just pulls it open for Daryl and following him through and trying all the while not to act like, even muttered under his breath, that's as big a statement as it is. There was a time Daryl didn't trust a one of them far as he could throw them; now he trusts them to have his back. It's a big change, and a welcome one, and it's not one Rick's willing to abuse. That's why he's got such a problem with what went down out there.

He nods, because what else can he do? On that, Daryl's right. "We would. But that don't mean it's expected. Somebody comes at you, whether it's a walker or one of our own, you got a right to defend yourself."

"He wasn't gonna hurt nobody."

Rick wants to say his split lip and busted cheek beg to differ, but again, Daryl's right. He's got an annoying habit of it. Tyrese wasn't out for blood – not theirs, at least – he was just hurting.

Still, way Rick sees it, that don't make it right, what he did. Might make Rick a hypocrite, but…it just don't sit right. Daryl standing in, getting roughed up for no good reason, and just standing there and taking it because he thinks he needs to, thinks it's his place, it bothers him.

They make it up to the guard tower before Rick can figure out an answer. Daryl climbs up first and gives Rick a hand up when he follows since he's more or less one-handed for the time being, and while he waits for Daryl to get the hatch closed up, he's wracking his brain trying to figure out just how to put to words what he's got in his head. He was never real good at that.

This time, though, it's Daryl that beats him to the punch. "I can take it," he says after a second. It's quiet, mild, but there's something firm to it. Fierce. "Man needed to feel like he was doin' somethin'…I can take the punishment. Ain't like I'm made of glass."

Rick just frowns, though. "I know you ain't, and I know you can." He's got no doubt in his mind Daryl can take just about anything anybody could throw at him and still come out on top. He's seen it time and time again, Daryl pitted up against odds tipped so far the other way, any other man'd been dead ten times over, and he still comes out on top. Sure as hell wasn't worried what he could do with a man like Tyrese; strong as he is, he ain't a fighter. Not like Daryl. No. "I just don't want you feelin' like it's your job to take the beating."

Because Daryl's got this thing, Rick's figured out, where he seems to think just 'cause he can do a thing, that means it's on him to do it. And maybe that's right for some things – little things, like hunting and making runs, and even that Rick thinks they take too much for granted – but things like this, Rick doesn't think that applies.

"'fraid I'd be poaching on your turf?" Daryl says, not harsh as much as a try at levity, and he nods down at Rick's hand.

It don't stick, though. Much as Rick appreciates the effort, he's dead serious about this. "What I'm afraid of is you're gonna step in the middle of something you got no place stepping into, and you're gonna get hurt in the process."

That seems to take Daryl down a peg, even if that ain't how Rick meant it. He frowns, eyes flicking down to the floor again and lips pulling down into a frown. They're still not real good at this, these little heart to hearts. Rick thinks Daryl might even be worse at them than he is. But this ain't something Rick can just let go. "I'm not sayin' I don't appreciate it," he tries, because the last thing he wants to do is make Daryl feel like he's done something wrong. He's grateful. More than that, even, more than he's got the words for. He just can't run the risk of Daryl thinking that's his place in their group: somebody to take the punches and provide for them. Their hunting dog, 'cause that…that ain't right. "I just don't want you thinking that's always got to be you doing it."

Rick's grasping at straws, but it seems to him he might pick a good one, 'cause the frown lifts a little on Daryl's face. It ain't gone completely, and he's still got his body angled, and his weight's shifting like it always does when he's ill at ease, but at least he's not looking quite so ready to bolt.

Then he nods, and his eyes flick up to Rick's underneath his knotted brows and shaggy hair – he's tried offering a haircut, but Daryl just took one look at his beard and let out a snort, and that was the end of that – and even if he's not all the way on board, at least he's willing to think on it. "I know," he says, solemn and serious, and Rick knows he means it. But then his lip twitches up a little. "Least I know how to throw a punch without breakin' my hand, though."

The second try goes off better than the first, actually managing to pull a chuckle out of Rick. He gets a smile to boot, when Daryl takes a step forward and reaches for his busted hand at his side. He's careful, and Rick's grateful; he doesn't touch his hand, just the wrist, and he pulls it towards him so he can take a look at it. Like he's inspecting Hershel's work, even though Rick knows he can't see a damn thing through the bandages.

"Busted it up pretty good," he says, turning it over. Maybe he can see some of it – the bruising's spreading up into his fingers, and there's a little blood coming through the bandage. Rick guesses it don't matter one way or the other. Daryl's got to see it with his own two eyes, feel it with his own two hands, and Rick knows he's not getting that hand back until Daryl's good and satisfied he's alright.

So, he doesn't try, just lets Daryl do what he will, lifting the bandage here and there where he can and moving Rick's fingers as far as he deigns fit. It twinges here and there, but for someone so coarse, Daryl can be awful gentle when he tries. And while he tries at that, Rick tries to keep his mind off the way his brows do that little furrow and he chews on his lower lip when he's focusing, because he's having a hard time thinking of reasons why he shouldn't push Daryl up against that wall for the second time that day and show him just how much he appreciates what he did for him that morning. It's been a hell of a day; he could use the silver lining, and with the prison as crowded as it is now, it's getting a lot harder to find a remote corner to hide themselves away in for a while.

"That's what Hershel tells me," he says, which earns him a snort. And if his voice is a little hoarse, he'll blame that on the shouting earlier. "Guess I'm out of practice." He doesn't exactly make a habit of socking walkers in the jaw. Little too close to comfort to those teeth 'a theirs.

He almost regrets the loss when Daryl lets go of his hand, shaking his head. "Should do somethin' about that," he says gruffly. It's hard to tell if his voice is hoarse like Rick's, 'cause it always sounds like smoke and good whiskey, but there's definitely a little heat in his cheeks that makes Rick suspect he might've been thinking along similar lines.

He decides to go out on a limb. It ain't much of one – they've been doing this thing they're doing for what's passing seven months, now, and Rick don't see anything much changing – but he's learned not to take anything for granted. Especially not when it comes to Daryl, because lord knows he makes it easy to. Old Reliable, Rick thinks, and can't help chuckling.

"Somethin' funny?" It's as much a challenge as a question, and Rick just shakes his head to both, because he ain't about to run the risk of screwing up this chance running off at the mouth. Not when there're better things he could be doing with it.

He decides to make with that sooner rather than later, and what little distance there is left between them, he closes in a single step as he claims Daryl's lips with his own. He feels Daryl let out a quiet breath against his lips as his back hits the wall of the guard tower, but even if Rick would've thought to back off, he doesn't get the chance. Daryl's got that steel clamp grip twisted up in the front of Rick's shirt, and frankly, Rick thinks it's a wonder the fabric don't give the way he's holding. Daryl's beard's coarse against his chin, but he knows if they keep on, it'll be Daryl with the worse burn. Might've been he had an ulterior motive for offering Rick a shave, come to think of it. But that's something for another time.

Between the two of them, there's too much clothing for Rick's tastes. He's trying to fix it, but he's finding the buttons of Daryl's shirt – tricky enough under normal circumstances – are damn near impossible to get through with one good hand. "Goddammit," he hisses under his breath, and he's damn near ready to just say to hell with it and rip the damn things. Ain't like they can't be fixed, or else Rick knows he's got a couple shirts they keep bringing back from runs he ain't touched yet. Wouldn't be too great a hardship.

But just as he's getting fed up, Daryl's hands still, heated and firm on Rick's chest, and he's taking a step back. Rick knows the face he's wearing, the little downturn to his red lips, the hint of worry dancing in those clear blue eyes, and he wants to be exasperated, but he just can't muster it. He's lucky, having someone like Daryl care about him. Damn lucky.

"You alright for it?" Daryl asks, giving Rick the once-over with what looks to be special attention to his busted hand. He sounds skeptical and hopeful all at the same time, but Rick opts to ignore the former in favor of the latter.

In answer, he just smiles, curling his good hand tighter around the front of Daryl's shirt and pulling him right back in, this time even closer, and whispers against his lips, "I think I can take it."