"Do you believe in ghosts?"
He doesn't know if he's hearing her right. Her voice is muffled by her pillow, her back to him, but when faced with his silence she turns over, blue eyes luminous in the darkened room. He stares at her, brow furrowed. This was not the type of conversation they usually had on nights like these.
"I just…I was thinking. The world we live in now – I used to see movies about it. There were books. And everyone went on as if it could never happen. So what if…what if all the other stuff we think is fantasy is true?" Her voice quickens as she sits up, eagerness to discuss her train of thought making her eyes wide and bright as she looks down at him. The covers slide off her shoulders and he automatically pushes them back up. Her skin feels ice cold – he's always trying to warm her up these days.
Daryl brings a hand up to rub his face, trying to think of an answer to appease her. Questions like these were like cold water to him, a sharp reminder of just how young she was. He had once believed that there was secret magic in the world too. But life had stomped that out of him quickly – no magic had ever saved him from his father, his mother, his brother, or the crippling loneliness that their treatment had saddled him with. But Beth, though she had lived through hell, had also had the ease of an upbringing that allowed her to dream. And now, she wanted him to dream too.
"I think…that if there was such a thing as ghosts, you should pray that we never run into one." The idea, if he's being honest, scares him. Who would he really want coming back to haunt him? He can think of only one person, and she's already here, cold and small against his side.
She blinks at him, a shadow of a frown creasing her forehead. "Why not?" she asks, though she probably already knows the answer. These days it seems that she always knows what he's thinking. But she likes to hear him say it anyway.
"I just don't think any ghosts I know would be all too friendly," he replies gruffly. He tries a laugh and it comes out too shaky. He reaches out a hand to touch a stray curl falling from her ponytail, but it flutters away in the wind coming through the boards on the window. Daryl hates this moment, though it comes every night like this. The moment he realizes how far away she really is. The walls blur slightly and the fear wells up real and unavoidable in his stomach.
Beth notices the change immediately, eyes turning sad in the moonlight. "I'm sorry I brought it up," she whispers, small hands busying themselves with the comforter wrapped around her. "I ruined it, didn't I? I always do."
"No, no, not your fault." He's fumbling, trying to salvage what he can, trying to fix things. He's always doing that with her now. Trying to hold them together for as long as he can before the illusion shatters.
Her face changes abruptly. Her concern, her fear, her love is gone and he knows it's too late. She laughs, and it's a harsh sound cutting through the night. She smiles bitterly, all her teeth showing.
"I'm sorry I can't always be your friendly ghost."
And with that, she is gone. The thing lunging for his throat isn't Beth. He knows it's not. It's his nightmare – his fading hope, his fear of what he'll find someday – ripping into his hardened skin. He lets it happen. He can feel her blood and his blood dampening his clothes and the sheets between them. Each bite feels like a payment to her, to Beth. For letting her down – both physically and in the last moment of silence between them. She deserved so much more than he could give her, so why not give her the only thing he had left? His life.
With a start, Daryl Dixon wakes up. He rubs his eyes, visions of blood and death and big blue eyes swimming before him. He stretches, slowly packing what little belongings he has, slinging his bow onto his back. He has to keep moving. He has to find her. It's what gets him up, keeps him fighting. Every night he dreams that she's with him again, and every night he is reminded of his goal. He won't let her become one of his ghosts.