Daryl can refuse neither backstrap nor beer, especially feeling like he is. Wordless, he waves Maggie in, though the dog gets a quiet whistle it reacts to instinctively, running to sit on Daryl's unmade bed. It's a mess of blankets and furs, all shoved to one side so Daryl could put his foot up. Alone with only Maggie, Daryl favors his good leg much more obviously.

Daryl's favor never needs to be curried; it's there or it's not. And he rarely needs to be thanked, knowing he'll do the job regardless. But it's a rare, special thing every time, to be remembered in such a fashion.

"Little sore," he admits. It hurts like a bitch, if he's honest-- he's not feeling that honest. "What you got?"