Daryl felt as though he'd been on his feet for days. Only time he'd ever been this tired was running after that damn car. His heart hurt, too, but he couldn't bring himself to remind him the last time he'd felt something like that. Time to be kind to himself. Finally.
The katana – an inheritance of a sort - was in his hand still but his fingers were shaking something fierce and it was slipping in his grip. The blood probably wasn't helping none. He should let it go, really, waste of energy and it had done its job. But he didn't feel right without a weapon in his hand, really.
His heart hurt because he wasn't going to see them again. It'd always been an outside chance. He'd known the risk. Knew it was worth it. Still did. He felt bad, though. At least he wasn't gonna have to live with this like Rick was. But he'd get over it, one day. For Lil Asskicker's sake. Carl's too.
Daryl found he'd backed up to a wall and let himself slide down, knees bent to his chest. Probably wasn't helping the bleeding. But now nothing would. The metal of the blade skittered in the blood on the ground and Daryl dimly wondered how much of it was his.
The hunters were littered over the floor: Daryl guessed he'd grabbed the last free space. He'd done his job, protected his family. What was left of it. He could almost hear the clangs and grunts still echoing against the ugly cement walls. Nothing to do now but sit and wait. No one was coming. He'd told them not to. The risk was too great.
His family. What a weird thought. They consisted of two babies, if Judy could still be called one, a preggo and the last handful of the group and they hadn't stood a chance. Daryl had known this was a one-way ticket. His life for theirs: a fair trade. The room grew a little hazier now and the pain in his chest started to ebb away. Daryl leant into the feeling. Better just get it over with.
And then, something he'd never expect to hear: the soft sound of footfalls being picked with care. Only one person he knew who'd bother with that. Daryl lifted his head, amazed at how heavy it was. His vision rolled before he saw her, silhouetted by the light outside the door. Her hair was messy in its ponytail even as it glowed in the late afternoon light. Not a bad thing for the last thing you ever see, thought Daryl.
He must be dreaming, Daryl knew that. But damn, if a dying man couldn't make-believe, when could he? Before he could talk himself out of it, he heard her voice and his trembling hands stilled. She alone had that effect on him. It really was her.
"Oh, Daryl." She breathed out and he could hear the weight of all those missing years behind the words. She knelt, suddenly careless of the red seeping into her grey jeans. She reached a slender hand towards his face and he flinched, almost imperceptibly but she must have seen it, because she dropped her hand back into her lap.
"What have they done to you?" She asked, her quiet whisper clanging in this tomb. It took Daryl a few minutes to find his voice and another to work out what to say.
"Killed me, I 'spect." He coughed and felt something dislodge itself in his chest. Her face moved into the shadow and he could see her face more clearly. He had been trying to be funny but when he saw her expression he knew he had failed spectacularly. So much for not crying any more, Greene, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to try humour again.
"It's really you?" He asked her, trying to ignore the rattle that he was pretty sure hadn't been there that morning.
"Of course it's me," She smiled at him, though it was watery, "I couldn't just leave you." She said, patiently, as though she was trying not to add "duh" to the end of the sentence.
"You shoulda." He said.
"No," Beth said with a hardness to her voice he'd only heard a handful of times, "It's you and me. All the way to the end." She shifted her weight so that her back was to the wall and they were sitting side-by-side, "You should know that by now."
"Fine," Daryl grumbled, "Besides, this isn't real." He caught sight of her from in the corner of his eye. His brain sure was doing a good job of conjuring her up.
"Why do you say that?" She said, cool tone still there. Daryl tried to shift away from her a little, but a lance of pain spiked through the fog, leaving him gasping. That'd teach him.
"'Cos I failed ya, Beth." He said, between pants. He was talkative when he was dying, it seemed. Beth's frown melted away, head cocking to the side like he remembered.
"You could never fail me, Daryl Dixon." She reached for his hand and he tried to shy away again, afraid that at this final hurdle she would be revealed as a hallucination. He needed to believe. But her long, cool fingers closed over his, just as solid as they'd been that day in the churchyard. A breath he didn't know he'd been holding stuttered out of him in something like a sob.
"You're really here." He repeated.
"I am." She reached her free hand up to tangle in his hair, pulling his head to rest on her shoulder.
"Why?" He croaked. Sleep - or whatever this was - was rushing towards him now, pushing in on the edge of his vision: the blood and grey walls faded leaving only his bright, shining girl. She leant her head to rest over his and he could feel the smile spread across her face. He could even visualise how it would look: the sad smile that only she could muster.
"Who else is gonna take care of you?" She said, her voice distant now.
He felt a kiss drop onto his forehead and wished he had the strength to kiss her like a man, just one last time. She tucked her head over his again, rocking him in her embrace as his eyes slid closed. She smelt like moonshine and the woods and like Beth.
"You can rest now," Beth said, "You don't have to be the last man standing."