Gretel’s confirmation to Daryl’s suspicions did little more than cause him to nod slightly. What else was there to say? They were fish in a barrel, just waiting to be picked off one by one. And worse, Daryl hardly knew many of the people here. This wasn’t like the prison, where the ever-present danger was at least derailed slightly by chain link fence. It didn’t seem like much, but it gave them a clear and present idea of where they stood.
Marrowood didn’t have fences, or boundaries. It didn’t have people he knew very well beyond Rick, Michonne, Hershel, Beth, and Glenn. Much as he might have considered Gretel a friendly acquaintance, he doubted she would blame him. She, after all, had her brother-- others had their kids, their friends. When it came down to it, he knew without a doubt people would look after their own first and foremost.
Her question pulled him away from his troubling thoughts, and he turned his attention back to her face. He let out a low ‘pfft’ and stood back up, his legs relieved at the stretch of muscles. Daryl glanced down at his crossbow and offered a slight, half-shrug.
“Ain’t bad,” he said. “Kept me alive so far.”
Modesty was not a Dixon trait by nature, but he didn’t feel the need to brag at this moment. He was better than “ain’t bad” and he knew it- if he wasn’t, he’d be dead, and so would his friends.
“What about you? Sure you know how to use that thing?” he asked, nodding to her own weapon though his question was not a serious one at all. He was aware that Gretel was not likely someone whose skill could be questioned.