More than once, Daryl's thought about what Glenn would say. Probably he'd have forgiven him already, the bastard. That's the kind of man Glenn was, and maybe that's the greatest part of this loss. He was, in so many ways, the best of them. Brave and selfless and full of hope, when it was hardest to find. He's pretty sure that Glenn wouldn't hate him. It's part of why he's done such a top-notch job of hating himself.

But he doesn't want to put all of that on her. That's the least he can do, now; she's got enough to carry. He takes a step closer and shoots a quick, half-desperate glance back at her like she's gonna tell him to keep away, but that's-- that's not them, that's not any of it.

Because after all, even if it's his fault (it's his fault, he knows it's his fault), Glenn has been his friend for a long goddamn time, he's got his right to grieve, too.

He can't find the right words. He's got an inkling of what they oughta be, maybe, but he can't speak just yet, standing there between the two of them, his hand flexing into a fist and stretching out again, slow and repetitive, as though he could just grasp something to fix this moment.