Over the next few days, he feeds himself on the stew of emotions roiling in his guts. He's not sure of everything that's simmering in there, not yet. It's probably safer not knowing. Of that, he's almost certain.

Anger, for sure (At who, Daryl? Her? That big lummox with the stupid hat he's always wearin'? YOURSELF?)Frustration. Pain.

But, he thinks, also…regret? Fear? And, is it possible…desire?

He pushes these individual emotions, these feelings away as each bubbles to the surface; back down, down, down, so he doesn't have to examine them too closely. What's the goddamn point?

He avoids her as much as possible, though he doesn't admit to himself that's what he's doing. He leaves the prison grounds as often as he can. Yesterday, hunting with Michonne and a few of the Woodbury folks, he gets the crazy idea to just…run. To get as far away from everyone as possible.

Problem with that idea: he'd still be stuck with himself.

oooOOOooo

Too many people for him, nowadays. By far. He trains himself to rise early, just before dawn, to have a few moments of quiet solitude. He hears others stirring from his bunk, but not many: Rick, shushing a fussy Judith back to sleep; a few of the older folks, with bad joints and the ailments of the elderly, who slumber poorly, regardless.

He rises, splashes bottled water on his face, stumbles to the kitchen. There's always a pot of something simmering thickly on the stove, to ensure the masses are fed. He scoops some of whatever it is in a coffee mug, grabs a spoon, and walks out into the yard.

Morning is seeping slowly into the eastern sky. The indistinct figures on watch in the remaining tower raise their hands to him, and he waves back, shoveling food in carelessly. It burns his lips, and he curses softly.

"Take it easy," a voice from behind him. Her. She's gotten silent as a cat. "You're going to hurt yourself." He doesn't turn around. She pulls up next to him. She's got Judith in one of those baby-carrying contraptions strapped her front, like some kangaroo pouch or some shit. Li'l Asskicker is fussin'. He half-grins at the baby, unable to help himself.

"I knew bringing her was a good idea," she kisses the baby's head.

"Yeah?" He wasn't planning on saying anything, but she's good at getting him talking. Damn her.

"You've been in…a mood. I knew she'd put a smile on your face, and Rick needed to sleep," she sighs. He glances sideways at her. She doesn't sound playful. Not like she usually does. She strokes the baby's head, and Judith stops whimpering. She breathes deeply, looks up at the fading stars above them. "You don't have to do this. You're better than it, this dumb idea you've got that you need to run away from everything and anything good about yourself. From anything that makes you better."

She's looking right at him, relentless, and he doesn't let his eyes rest too long on her. He remembers. Back at the Greenes' farm all that time ago. She had accused him, furious, of shutting her out, taking away his friendship. She had said, fine. She'd lost so much more.

And now they both had. Lost. So much. And the possibility of what you could losewas endless. He thinks of Merle's destroyed head, his blood wetting the dry Georgia grass. Love is a bad joke, and the punch line is always at Daryl's expense.

He still doesn't speak, scrapes the bottom of the mug for the dregs of his breakfast. It sits in his stomach like a lead ball. She reaches out, takes it from him. Their fingers touch, and the sky brightens.

She stares at him over Judith's downy, sleeping form. "That's it then? Nothing else?" She is not the angry, broken, hysterical woman from the farm, not anymore. She doesn't need to remind him of her loss, and she doesn't try to shame him. She is calm, though he can feel her hand shaking, just a little.

"I don't have anything else," he chokes out, unaware he was going to say anything. He pulls his hand away too quickly, and the mug tumbles to the ground. It doesn't break. Just lays there in the dust, like an accusation. He bends over, picks it up.

She is walking away, back straight, shoulders squared.

"Carol!"

She turns. He debates momentarily, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other proffering the mug. "Take this up for me?"

"Always cleaning up your mess," she takes it. But her eyes aren't twinkling. She just looks weary. She heads back to the prison.

He waits until she's disappeared from view, holding onto the small object in his pocket, worrying over it. He pulls it out. A small bar of soap. He brings it to his nose.

Lavender and mint.