AN: Thank you for all the kind reviews and support! Rylynn is a fun character to develop, and Daryl is a bit of a challenge to write, so I am thrilled to hear that most of you are enjoying them on paper. I know my chapters are short- I want to give you guys consistent updates, as much as I am able to, so I tend to write a few pages and post them up. Hopefully this works alright.

The run back was uneventful, especially compared to the journey there. The backpack thumped heavily against Daryl's back as he ran alongside Rylynn, but he was determined to keep that fact to himself. In his opinion, she had already seen too much weakness from him.

Rylynn seemed content to trot along, half a step ahead of him as she looked around at the fading leaves and brilliantly-blue sky. Daryl saw her mouth curve into a soft smile, and he followed her gaze up to the trees. Two squirrels were sitting on the long branch of an oak tree. Daryl's first instinct was to reach for his crossbow and shoot them for dinner; but his crossbow was back behind the wall, and they seemed to make Rylynn happy, for no apparent reason, so instead, he focused on keeping pace with her.

Her stride was long and consistent, only changing when she bounded over a crack in the concrete or dodged the occasional shell of a car. Once again, Daryl was painfully aware of how awkward his gait was, and try as he might to justify it as the weight and bulkiness of the backpack, he knew that he was just plain awkward compared to Rylynn. Her movements were fluid, as if she had anticipated them thirty seconds before and proactively, gradually moved into place. He was reactionary, dodging potholes and focusing solely on his movement in that exact second.

He was so transfixed at her grace and control that he lost track of his thoughts and surroundings, which was nothing short of uncharacteristic of him. He trusted her judgement and her direction, which made no sense to him, but he let his mind rest as he trudged alongside her.

That was, until she stopped rather suddenly, and he smacked straight into her shoulder, throwing her off balance.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, surprised by her sudden loss of balance and newfound momentum. He grabbed her shoulder, partially to keep himself from falling forward and partially to try to keep her upright at the same time. She grabbed his hand on her shoulder to steady them both.

"You good?" she asked, her eyes dancing in amusement again.

"Why'd ya stop?" he asked, trying to frame her movements as the ridiculous ones, as opposed to his.

She shook her head at him and pointed forward. They were about ten yards from the walls of Alexandria.

"We're back, genius. Isn't situational awareness a big part of hunting?"

"Shut yer mouth," he muttered, causing a small laugh from her. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

She was about to fire off a teasing question about what, or rather who, he had been watching, when she saw the blush coloring his cheeks already. She closed her mouth and let the opportunity go. Daryl might have a tough exterior, but she knew that underneath he was self-conscious about his social inexperience.

She settled for, "Whatever you say, Angel," as they walked through the gate together.

"Will ya stop with the nickname already?" he mumbled to her.

'Why?" she asked. "I like it!"

"I ain't an angel," he responded.

"Okay then, Satan," she retorted, trying to appear serious.

"I'm warning ya," he almost growled.

"Oh no, a warning!" she dramatically feigned being distressed. "Not a warning! I've never been warned before!" She dropped the act and playfully elbowed him in the side. "Come on, it's a nickname! It's a sign of friendship and comradery."

"Ya don't drop it, I'll give ya one, too," he lamely countered.

"Oh please, I'd like to see you give me a nickname I'm ashamed of." She rolled her eyes.

He looked her over and glared, trying very hard to come up with something she would hate.

"Blondie," he tried. Andrea had hated it when Merle had called her that.

She gave him a look that clearly said, that's the best you can do? He sighed and continued his studying.

"Tights," he tried again, eyeballing the running pants she was wearing. This time she laughed, frustrating him further.

"Daryl," she chided. "Everyone in this town calls me by the first name they got out of me. I already have a nickname, and you already call me by it. So you're stuck with Angel."

"Over my dead body," he snapped. "Knives," he tried again. She rolled her eyes.

"Nicknames refer to something subtle about that person, something you have to get to know about them. Not the painfully obvious that anyone can see."

"Anyone can see my vest," he pointed out triumphantly.

"True. But I'm not calling you 'Wings'. I'm calling you something I had to discover about you."

"Well ya don't tell nobody here nothing about ya!" This game was becoming increasingly unfair in Daryl's eyes. "Even Aaron don't know yer real…" he trailed off, and then his eyes flew up to hers, excitement shining in the blue depths.

"I'll trade ya," he said, echoing her proposition from earlier that day. A grin split her face as she recognized the reference.

"Trade what?" she bantered back, leaning in to playfully challenge him. He leaned right back; this was his chance to level the playing field.

"A name for a name," he said. "I find out yer real name, an' ya have to call me by mine."

Her eyes danced in delight.

"Sure." She laughed. She stuck out her hand to shake on their agreement. He took her hand in hers and shook. Their laughing, competitive eyes met for a second, and the space between them seemed simultaneously too far but devoid of enough air. Daryl quickly let go of her hand and cleared his throat. Rylynn visibly bit down on her lips.

"I've got to go," she spoke first, heading off towards Aaron and Eric's house. "But I think it's only fair to tell you, my dear Angel, that I do believe you have started a game you cannot possibly win."

For once in his life, Daryl was alright with the idea of losing. The process of playing was already satisfying enough for him, he thought, as he walked down the street with the words "my dear" echoing in his head in time with his footsteps.