He can't feel his hand, or his face, or his toes. What he can feel in the parts of his body attached to his extremities is pretty fucking cold. But he's not complaining and he's not rushing to wrap himself up in layers. It's taken him days to be able to get out of bed by himself, and it feels like no small miracle that he's walking, settled back into his usual grumping about self. He's going to take his small blessings and turn the anger within, at the expense of his own health.

Honestly he has no idea how everyone else lives life like this. With their body threatening to betray them all the time. All these-- limitations. This fatigue. Thanks, Sweetwater. He hates it.

At least Bucky's personality probably bears a little resemblance to Daryl's. He's not familiar but not a completely different beast either. He's visibly uncomfortable with accepting help, but. The fake people in this fake town are so overly helpful that he's a little hesitant to outright reject her and tell her to get off his snowed under lawn. What if Norman comes back and tells him he's been callous, and rude, and not holding up his end of the deal to be a good boy? His body will break if he has to go through another round in the chair after just recovering from the last bout.

He's probably going to bark if she touches his corner of the snow that he'd been working on. But he lets her pick another spot further down the path to start digging.

"Can I." ...paying her feels weird. His face twitches. "Make food. For you."