Rick can think of himself as emotionally distant all he wants but Daryl can read him like a book. A fully illustrated book in large font. Like knows like, after all; Daryl's the same way with his own feelings, never saying a damn thing unless he's pushed and pushed. Nights like these with Rick or Carol are as close as it gets, talking in careful circles around what they should be or want to be saying, but can't. As such, he feels pretty fucking confident that Rick needs to calm his ass down. He knows the other man's not going to transform back into a farmer overnight, but something's got to give, here, and it can't be Rick's sanity.

He sends the other man a sidelong glance. "Think you can wrangle a hundred and twenty pound wire back every reload?" Teasing. Draw weights on crossbows are a bitch, and Daryl's Stryker is meant for big game-- has to be, or else the bolts would never have enough force to take out things like deer, or penetrate human skulls. "Yeah. I'll show ya."