It's not really anger so much as instinct that makes him pull the trigger on the cop. It's an automatic response to a threat - action; reaction. When he shoots her, it's almost like he's not there - he's watching it all from above, away from his own body, unable to his muscles.

It's when he looks down, sees the river of blood flowing, the hand with the cast laying limp on the ground, that it really hits him. And it's the pretty sunshine-yellow hair, half wrecked, covered in gore that kills him.

Daryl wakes with a start, breathing erratically, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, making his dirty hair stick to his skin. He's out of breath, his throat is dry, and for a moment he feels like it'll close shut and that's what will finally kill him.

He sits up, clenching around himself, holding his arms to his knees like a child, trying to calm his beating heart, and it sort of works until he sees the silhouette of someone holding a rifle, walking back and forth, and then the two sleeping figures on the ground next to them. And his heart picks up again, just a little.

He gets up and walks towards the sleeping figures, always silent, not wanting anyone to get in his way. He stops, though, a ways away from them, and just stands there, his body stuck between wanting to move further and wanting to back away, and watches Beth's form rise and fall softly, a little bit of the crown of her hair illuminated by moonlight, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding at seeing those locks unmarred of blood, unbroken, so clean and perfect. And suddenly, he feels out of place, feels he's gazed too long, like a goddamned creep, looking at her when she can't tell him to stop. And, for a moment, he remembers a time in a kitchen in a funeral house.

So he does what he always does: he goes out into the woods, away from warmth, from his family, from that little strong thing.

Fingers reach into the inside of his jacket, pulling out the pack he got from that kid, Noah, and bites into a cigarette; as he puts the pack back inside the pocket he pulls out a Zippo he got ages ago from a geek and, somehow, it still works. He spends the next few moments sucking on the cigarette, watching the small light that ignites whenever he draws it in, the only warm light in the darkness of those woods, until he hears a crack somewhere beside him, and he tenses a bit, until he recognizes the sound came from the direction of the camp, and then there is Beth, standing with arms crossed, and what he thinks is a look of disgust on her face. She's so close to him, too close, not close enough.

"Y'know, those things will kill 'ya." She says, but with no malice, and with a touch of a smile in those words.

The corners of his lips turn up but he can't help but feel a little bit ashamed at his lit cigarette, so he moves to drop it on the ground and putting it out with his boot but she cuts him off "Leave it. 'Ah guess you need it."

She sits down right next to him, so close their elbows touch, and he tenses at the proximity and looks ahead, at the cigarette, anywhere but at her face, but he still feels her eyes on him, silently studying him. Ain't long, though, before she speaks again "You had a bad dream?"

He can't look at her, can't bare to, knows he'll only see her lifeless face, her bloodied hair "Some'n like that."

It wasn't a goddamned bad dream. It was hell. It was something fierce, that he can't put words to, cuz' that'll just make it worse.

But she doesn't wanna leave it at that; he still feels her gaze on him, staring him down, wanting to tire the words out of him. So he sighs, cuz' really, what else can he do, but tell her what she wants to hear, spill all his secrets to her, let her carve the demons out of him with her sweet words and big eyes?

"You was dead" he begins, voice hoarse and rough " that cop, the leader, shot you right in the head. You went for her first, wanted to take her out. Everythin' else before played out the same." He feels drained by the end, like all his energy was spent spilling out those words. Even the cigarette doesn't taste good anymore, so without care he lets it fall on the floor and rubs his boot over it. He looks at the floor, and when he looks back up there is Beth, crouching over him, hands on his knees for support, looking into his eyes in the dim light. And he's never seen them bluer.

"I'm still here, Daryl. You're here too. We're all together and we're alrigh', that's all you gotta think about."

"You almost weren'." He counters, voice breaking away at that last word "Ya're alrigh', but ya coulda been hurt...I don't even know what they done to 'ya in there...'f I hadn't been so stupid, opened that damn door..."

"Hey" She starts, voice stern all of a sudden "That, back there, wasn't your fault. None of it was. Ya have to know that. That's what 'ah know."

He feels Beth's right hand twitch on his knee, fingers lifting just a touch, like she's pondering something, and her whole arm tenses before she lifts it to his face, and her soft hand touches his cheek, fingers splaying on the rough beard over his skin, and it's that touch, so innocent, so sweet, and so Beth, that does him in. And, in a flash, he's reaching out for her, hands greedy with the need to touch her, hold her, and he pulls her tightly to him, buries his fingers in her back, his head in her shoulder, his nose in her hair, and just sobs. Sobs all he's been having to sob since that car with the stupid cross took her away, since he got a glimpse that she might still be alive, since he saw her in that hallway, looking small between all those other men.

He'd hugged her in the immediate aftermath of it, holding her tight too, but that was different. Then, he just wanted to feel her alive in his arms. This, now, is him breaking like a child in their mother's embrace. This is him, in his most fragile and broken, but maybe this is what he needs to be whole again.

And Beth knows it too, when she whispers to his ear "We're gonna be alright now."

And he can't help believing her.