They were staying in the church for the night. He could see the candlelight, faint though it was, through the windows, stained glass and clear panes alike. He's not sure how far he went, before he went to his knees. He's not sure how much longer he sat hunched like that, lost, until he heard the stirrings of walkers coming closer. There'd been four of them, probably people that had lived in this town, gone to that church on Sunday, pretendin' to be sorry. Now they wandered aimlessly.
He took them each out, putting his knife through the soft spot under their chins, through eye sockets, the back of their neck.
He's tired and hungry by the time he's turned around. Empty, hollow. Scared.
You don't get to treat me like crap just because you're afraid!
He lurks. He slides around in the darkness, finds a window to look through. They're in the house, a living room. They are seated around like a fucking kumbaya campfire. He just... he needs a moment when no one else can see, on his own, to come to terms with this.
It doesn't feel real. And a part of him, larger than he'd like to admit, is worried that it was just his imagination. He's worried somehow this will be taken from him. That he'll wake from this.
It takes him several hard, steadying breaths to have to balls to move his eyes around the room. He sees the back of Tara, Rosita, Abe's broad shoulders block a lot of the view. They're eating from cans, talking quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the bright blonde of her hair, swept over her shoulder. She's leaning into Maggie, but her hands are in her lap. He looks over the line of her jaw, her head is tilted down, but she's talking.
He tries, then, when that becomes too hard, to take her in, in pieces. For a while he stares at her hands, picking at her cuticles. Her knees, pressed together on the floor, they look bony even from here. He thinks maybe she's lost weight but it's hard to tell under all her clothes. He imagines she has.
Her elbows. Her shoulders.
He watches as she stands to throw away some empty cans, and her movements are stilted. She smiles soft at something Maggie says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. The line of her back. Once he realizes he's been looking at all of her, and he hasn't flinched away, once it feels more comfortable and like he won't make a big fool of himself in front of the others, he turns.
She seemed tired. Sad.
He dragged himself up the three steps on the porch. He let his knees go, collapsed against the wall of the house. His crossbow is sitting diagonal, waiting for him. He wonders who brought it over, took care of it.
He's not ready to go in yet, but Rick strolls out, his gun out. Checking the sound of heavy tread. When he sees Daryl, he puts the hand gun away, in his holster.
Daryl can't do much more than glance toward his direction. Then back down to his boots.
Rick asks, "All right?"
"Mm. 'M here."
Rick nods. Rubs his hand over his face. "You should come eat."
"I will in a while."
"She's alive, Daryl."
"Just... just ain't ready yet, ok. I'll take first watch."
"Ok, brother." He stands with him for a few moments before slapping a palm on his shoulder and heading back in. He must not get very far, because Daryl can hear them both clearly when she asks Rick, "Is he back?"
Her voice is strained. Daryl leans his head back. He closes his eyes. The southern lilt to her voice, it's so welcome it hurts.
"Yeah." There's a pause. Daryl wonders what he'd observe between the two of them if he looked. Then Rick says, "Beth, everything'll be ok."