If Daryl has to put a slimy rag on his chest to keep people from chipping away at him, he will. If only every deal could be this easy and simple. Some part of his wounded pride resurfaces-- of course she thought it was all your fault, of course she thought she had to fight you on it. You're a goddamn idiot stuffing a towel into your shirt. Who can ask for anything else from you?

He curls onto the cot, the rag sitting in his shirt without much finesse, and he finally lets his eyes close. He doesn't relax, not really, but he's getting closer. "You good?" Because it's her problem, not his.