"We good?"

You can see him lurking in the shadows, pulling on a cigarette. Now he steps into the light filtering through the screen door behind you.

"Sure."

His face is pale again, and he looks shaky and exhausted. That fight at the gate was definitely a bit much. He's usually so strong, it's easy for him, and everyone else, to forget just how much he's been through recently.

"You ok? You don't really look it…"

He turns his face away, doesn't say anything for a long time. You try not to be impatient. He is clearly still grappling with what happened. He shifts uneasily from one foot onto the other, and you know he's fighting the urge to bolt.

Finally, his body half turned away as he's not done in a long time, he speaks. It's so mumbled and so quiet you have to strain to hear. If he were Carl you'd tell him to speak up. But he's not your son. He's the man that you feel drawn to more than any other person in a long time, faults and hang-ups and all.

"'s those pills. Make me feel awful. An' that fight… 'twas jus' too much…"

In explanation he lifts his bandaged arm. You can see half-dried blood staining the fresh white reddish-brown. He seems to read your mind.

"'s all right. 's not bleedin' now."

You disagree with the assessment that it's all right, but you decide to let that one go. But you gotta ask this.

"Did you throw up?"

He nods, but preempts you again.

"'ve taken some more pills, don' worry. 'm no idiot…"

"I know you're not. Daryl…"

"Listen," he interrupts, and looks suddenly pained. Like he has something to say but isn't quite sure how.

"I wanna try this, here. Make a go at stayin'. But I dunno, d'you? Really, I mean? I know y'said, y'gonna be their constable…"

He trails off. Stops his fidgeting too, for the moment. You know he's doing his best. Trying hard to ask the right thing, talk about the stuff he's scared of.

You move a bit closer then, but stay far enough away not to make his nervousness kick in again. Close enough so he can hear you, though, when you quietly ask the question he can't ask.

"You want to know if we're in this together?"

He hesitates, unsure he's heard you right. Then he nods. You continue, even more quietly.

"We are, Daryl."

You've made a decision. All this here? You're not sure you can handle it, live with these people. They are weak. You're not sure you even wanna try. But you know you got to. For the kids. For your family. For him, too. Cos while you knew all along he doesn't much care for this, is feeling trapped already, he needs it. You can see it on his face now. He needs a break. Needs to be able to relax some, heal. Get over the loss, the exhaustion. The injuries, the sleep deprivation.

And you know the same is true for you. You need this as much as he does. And there's something else you need, and now is the time to try and get it, finally.

You step close, but slowly. He looks wary, narrows his eyes, and you think of wild animals, trapped. But he doesn't back away, and you take that as a good sign.

Before you speak again you just look at him for a while, and you make that look count. Let him read you, let him see some of what's been going on in your mind. Let him relax into this new situation, give him as much time as he needs. And you take your time too. It's unfamiliar territory for you both, after all. So close for too long, but you've never done this. God knows you wanted to, and now you don't remember why it's taken all this time to get here.

You study his face, still pale, still drawn. Dark circles under his eyes still too prominent. Lines etched where you could swear there were none just a couple days ago.

You raise your hand, hold it still where he can see it. He doesn't flinch, his eyes stay locked with yours. Your hand comes up all the way and you push some strands of hair off his face. Then you place your fingers against his cheekbone, gently. No pressure, he can pull away if he wants to. He doesn't. He tilts his head towards your hand, closes his eyes at the touch.

You cross the gap between you, bring your bodies together. Lean in and kiss him gently just as his eyes open again. For a moment you are sure you miscalculated, cos he doesn't move. You are about to pull away as he comes to life, presses close, responds to the kiss eagerly.

This feels good. This feels right. You can feel him tremble against you, and you know you're not alone with that thought. But then he pulls away, steps back, face suddenly flushed.

"This ain't right, Rick. 'm all dirty. Lemme go shower, if you… if you want this? Really wan'… us?"

He looks at you pleadingly and your amusement that has started to bubble up at the thought that he thinks you care about whether he's showered or not makes way for a somber realization. He's not worried about whether or not you want him to clean up, but whether you really want him.

You look at him, then reach out again and thread your hand into his hair, place it around the back of his neck, before he can even think about flinching away. You make sure his eyes are steadily on you before you speak.

"Daryl, I should have done this a year ago. It would have saved you so much pain. I'm sorry I kept chickening out. I want this… I wantyou more than you could ever know. I need you. I need you by my side, now, forever. Please…"

And you have to stop cos your throat is closing up. You see his gaze change, from panic and fear of rejection to wonderment, to affection. He puts his hand against your chest, looks down at it for a moment. Then he looks up, and now his eyes are full of pure desire.

"Y'room? Fifteen minutes?"

"Ok."

And he's disappeared into the house before you can even draw breath.