When he hands her the crossbow, the others look at him with a dubious disbelief. And he gets that, he does. Because she doesn't look like much. But they don't know the fire that rages within. They can't see her past the caregiver role they've placed her in. And so he glares back at each and every one of them with all the defiance he can muster. Not because caregiver isn't a valuable role. But because no one person is ever just one thing. When his gaze falls back on her, he sees the doubt written across her own face. And it makes him hot and angry and frustrated beyond belief. So he pushes the shiny new bow at her again, forcefully. She has to hand Judith off to Carol in order to take possession.
He knows she can feel what the others are thinking. That's she's not worthy of this gift. But then he sees her pause and brace herself under a steely resolve. And something inside him slips. He has to swallow and press his hands into fists to keep from touching her. But then the wariness creeps back into her face and the moment washes away.
"Thank you," she quietly mumbles, "but maybe…"
"No. It's yours." He sees Maggie, standing slightly behind her sister. smile knowingly. Like she understands something that even Daryl doesn't know yet. Or isn't willing to know yet. The look makes him nervous and he glances down at his feet awkwardly, aware that everyone's still staring at him and at her, waiting for some sort of explanation. Nervously, he risks one last tiny look at Beth and then turns. Almost tripping over himself to get away.
The mill they've made camp in for the time being, abandoned long before the world went to shit, is big enough that he can disappear quickly and easily. He climbs the rickety iron stairs to the roof where he's set up his own supplies, tent, and lookout perch. Away from the others. He tells them it's so he can keep watch, but mostly that's a lie. Mostly he's just afraid. Afraid that what Joe said was right. That outdoor cats can't be indoor cats. And so he's isolated himself once again.
Except he rarely spends his nights alone. She comes to him over and over again. She doesn't say anything, not a word. Just crawls inside his tent and clings to him through her nightmares. Because if she doesn't, she won't sleep. Not ever. And so he lets her. But it worries him. Because when she doesn't come, he can't sleep. He tries not to think too much about what any of it means. He tries to pretend that no one notices.
If he's being honest, his nights aren't the only thing that belong to her. He finds reasons to stay close to her. To be there if she needs anything. To protect her. At least that's what he tells himself. Because it can never have anything to do with her. With her smile, with her light touches, with just needing a glimpse of her stupid, silly braid. There's no room for that. In this world. In his world. There never was. So he'll keep lying to himself every time she gives him the slightest attention, every time she gets close enough for him to feel the heat from her body collide with his, every time her fingertips dance across his bare skin during the longest, sweetest nights he's ever spent.
And he'll lie to himself about why he gives her that crossbow. The one he found earlier that morning on a scavenging run to the closest town. He'll pretend it was for her. So she can protect herself and feel better, safer, more secure. He'll pretend it's so the others can see how well she handles the weapon, how good her aim is. So that they'll understand her worth. Like he does. Like he hopes she does.
But really, it's for him. It's so he'll have an excuse in the mornings when she wakes up and goes about making her escape from his tent, his arms, before the others can notice. Now he'll be the one to wake her up, long before the sun rises. And they'll flee together. To the woods. To the quiet places no one else will ever know. Where he'll teach her to hunt and track. And she'll teach him to laugh and hope. And they'll lose themselves in the glow of dawn and the mist of morning. And if he accidentally on purpose gets close enough to smell the scavenged soap on her skin, at least they'll be covered in the cloak of darkness in what will feel closer to a dream than reality. And so he won't have to blame himself for hoping the things he's never been allowed to hope.
And when they return to camp, before she's beckoned by the hungry cries of babies and the many needs of the others, maybe she'll thank him. Maybe she'll reach for his hand one more time. Maybe, if he's lucky, she'll risk standing on her tip-toes to press her lips against his cheek like he's seen her do so many countless times to Rick or Glenn or Judith. And maybe then he'll feel like he's had enough. That he's had his fill. Or maybe he'll never know what enough means when it comes to her. Perhaps she'll do none of these things. Or many more. Or maybe he'll reach for her this time, next time. Whatever the case, she's teaching him to hope and so he hopes. He hopes so hard it hurts.