He accepts the glass, and then stands there awkwardly for a little while. Warring with the desire to tell him Let's get on with it, while aware that he's invited socialization by 1) walking down here and 2) saying more than just 'underwater' and leaving it at that.

Sucks to suck, Dixon. He sits down.

Once there, he shrugs a shoulder. "Just wanted to know."

The journey here was arduous, not always deliberate in its pathing; he did not set out from the very edge of North America and say I'm landing in France, he just ... left. It hurt too much to stay. He wants to be home, but home doesn't have a place for him anymore, and that threatens to stir the only fear in him that he has left. Nearly obsolete again, Daryl is. Best that he's out scouting. Sending back battered letters and bursts over the radio. The world is still out here. We aren't the only ones.

He makes a motion with his glass. Like a salute. Close enough to manners before he takes a drink, and thinks nothing at all about the notes and layers. A waste on a man who'd been drinking moonshine since childhood and has half the amount of taste buds as a normal human left because of it.