You never knew where Daryl went when he disappeared from within the prison walls at night. You never thought too much of it, until you watched as he sauntered away, shoving his hands in his pockets. Daryl's boots squeaked on the floors until they hit gravel. The moonlight shined down on the man as he pulled a marijuana cigarette from his pocket, as well as a lighter.

A moment to relax - to pretend the world hadn't crumbled, that his brother wasn't gone, he didn't feel responsible for these people. As the smoke entered his lungs: inhale, exhale, his shoulders relaxed. He was still sore, stressed with worry wrinkles and a permanent frown, but it was enough to get him to sleep a little at night.

It was all fine until you snuck up on him, those big, pleading eyes asking to try just a little. Just a puff, please? Daryl was inclined to refuse, instinctively wanting to tell you to go back to bed, to quit bothering him. Something in those devilish little eyes, however, had him stuttering. He glanced at his joint, then back at you.

"You can have one puff," he decided, slowly passing it to you. "That's it. I don't wanna babysit."