Daryl drifts in and out of consciousness. He's been trying to pass out for a while, propped against a wall on a stained, well-used sleeping bag, inside some kinda recreational building in what was a park Before. For barbecues or birthdays or family reunions or whatever suburban folks did. It's mainly a single big room, like a cafeteria in a school. There's a tiny office room full of scattered papers, empty bathrooms and a kitchen, but the wide-open space held them all for the night, gave 'em some cover, but they can all see each other. They all feel better that way.

Rick wouldn't let him take any watch shifts again tonight. I need you at your best, Rick told him bluntly after they'd eaten, and you look like shit.

So he tries. He nods off and pulls back out at noises: the others moving around, a chair scraping against the hard floor, a cough or laugh. Sometimes the illusion of falling backward startles him awake again. He'd walked all day, following behind the cars they took with 'em, bringing up the rear, and it isn't enough to ease him into sleep. Maybe it's the atmosphere of the group.

They're all edgy, paranoid, hypervigilant. Of the dead, sure, but more for the living that're somewhere out there. Of police brutality, an old world problem. There's an uneasy hush inside, and no light again. The fire earlier had been small and hurried, long enough to heat formula and food, then kicked out just as hastily.

He jumps out of another doze- a soft tap on the sole of his boot– his heart lurches. His eyes flash open.

It's just Beth. Her pack is slung over one shoulder, and a bedroll in her hand

"What?" It comes out more a growl, his voice hoarse and scratchy. Behind her, many of the others are in bed already. Across the room, Judith is cuddled against Rick's chest where he lays next to Carl, close by Michonne sitting on a table keeping watch out a window. Abraham stands at another cracked window, smoking a cigar. Rosita's across from him, talking too low to hear.

Beth slides her pack down her arm and sets it on the floor. She whispers, "You mind if I stay over here?"

On the other side of the room, Maggie and Glenn are under their blankets, unmoving. Tara sits near them, cleaning a gun. There's enough room next to Maggie for Beth to lay out her stuff. He rasps, "Why?"

"Cause." She drops her bedroll on the floor, too, not far from his legs. She kneels down and starts working the knots out of the twine wrapped round it. She avoids his face when she says, "Couldn't sleep last night, I'm worn out. Think I might sleep better… over here. That okay?"

She meticulously pulls at the rough strings, her tone tense, careful with her words. He wonders for the first time, watching her, if she's as nervous with him sometimes as he is with her, in the same way. Not just 'cause he's an asshole with a short fuse.

He glances back over to Michonne. She's looking back.

He clears his dry throat and adjusts restlessly. Beth peeks up at him uncertainly, the twine undone, her hands unsure.

He shrugs at her ambiguously. She must take it for the whatever, it's a free country it is, cause she unrolls her blankets. He smacks his pack around behind him, trying to find a more comfortable spot, while she makes her bed not far from him. Just a couple feet.

He flops back and rubs his chest, his still jackrabbiting heart. His bruised throat. He digs the butts of his palms into his eyes, even though they hurt, a little blackened from the brawl. He sighs roughly.

She bumps her boot against his again. She whispers, "You alright?"

"Hm?" He tilts his head to her. She's facing him on her side on the floor now, one blanket a thin cushion for the unforgiving tiles, the other over her hips and thighs. Her pack is her pillow, too, but she's got one hand curled under her chin. Her leg stretches across the space to his.

She raises her eyebrows at him, then touches her own neck with graceful fingers.

He grumbles out, "'M fine."

"You sure?" She presses.

He gives her a mulish glare. "Quit fussin', Greene."

She purses her mouth but she nods, her cheek rubbing against her hand.

"Go ta sleep," he orders.

It's silent for a long time after that. Beth's breathing evens and slows. He thinks she's out when he catches Michonne gazing over at 'em again. Their eyes meet. Then she stoically– blatantly– examines Beth's form beside him. Her face is inscrutable, even more so in the dark, across the room. He tries to guess what way her thoughts are leaning, but she just turns back to her watch, giving no hint.

He knows he'll get some shit eventually, at the very least.

He lets out another protracted, grating sigh.

Beth boots him again unexpectedly. He glances over and she's staring at him. The bruise is too noticeable in the corner of her pale, serious face. She asks, loud enough only for him, "What is it?"

He hums under his breath noncommittally, hoping she'll just let it go.

She hits his boot with a bit more force, jostling his foot. He raises an eyebrow, but she turns her piercing eyes on Michonne– who's still facing the window– with her own pointed stare. Then they flick back, settling on him, making sure he sees. That he understands.

He exhales gruffly again, shrugging himself into a better position, an arm behind his head. He closes his eyes. Pretending to go to sleep, makin' a show of it, backing out of this conversation. Like he used to in the woods when he didn't wanna even acknowledge her existence.

"Seriously, Daryl." She prods. He ignores her, but she doesn't take it personal, it seems. She questions, "What're you afraid she's thinkin'?"

"Ain't afraid of nothin'," He responds automatically, eyelids still down.

She scoffs under her breath, and he doesn't need sight, he knows she rolls her eyes. She quietly accuses, "You worried she's thinkin' like those cops did?"

Unsettles him that she sees so much. And would ask outright. He bites into his cheek to keep his mouth shut and his eyes stubbornly closed. Acting unphased, like he didn't even hear her.

"'Cause, you know," she says like it's obvious, "that's bullshit."

It's the cussing that gets him. She always says it with a little extra seasoning, she does it so rarely. Her daddy wouldn't have liked it. He gives in and peers back over at her from under half-closed lids. Her expression is stern and sincere, conviction a little fire making her tired-lookin' blue eyes somehow brighter in the darkness.

She tells him, "They don't know you. They don't know any of us."

He rumbles out a cynical, disbelieving grunt, looking away from that penetrating gaze. He glowers at the ceiling.

"Daryl, I'm safe– I'm safest with you, and… It's just important you know. What they said, it's bullshit. It ain't what we are."

What are we, Beth? He just about asks. It's right there, on his tongue, behind his teeth. He clenches them so tight together, his jaws sting.

Honestly, what they thought isn't far off. It didn't start out like that, sure. She'd just been the sheltered, youngest daughter of a man he eventually respected- that didn't happen often, respecting another man. She was just a member of the family to try and protect. But it's different now. It's been different since that drunken fight.

The kiss in the woods comes to him fast. He thinks of her bra.

It's close enough to the truth now.

And it's nothin' he don't already know. He's known what people would see when they look at them. They woulda thought it before, and they think it now.

But still, her words have their effect. A whole bunch of shit fills him up– so much, so quick– he can barely name it all: guilt and shame more familiar, alarm, grief and longing, something like satisfaction, a warm buzz that could be elation if he let it grow– he feels choked. His inflamed throat aches.

He swallows thickly, it scrapes down, but he still forces out, "Before… when I couldn't catch the car. The guys that found me after,... they were the kinda guys they're talkin' about."

He takes a heaving breath, glancing over at her self-consciously for only a split second. "Real pieces a' shit. …But they knew too. I look like 'em. Talk like 'em. Grew up like 'em."

"You aren't, though–"

"I was with 'em," He states definitively, baldly, choking off her argument. But he needs her to get it. "I was with 'em when they found Rick. I didn't find him, Beth. They found 'em–"

"Daryl…"

"Those assholes, them cops, they know." And so does he, even if he's tryin' to put it away. So will the others. He mutters darkly at the pock-marked ceiling, "They know an outdoor cat when they see it."

Beth makes a small sound of disgust. "That's bullshit, too. You aren't like them. You blend in well enough, but ya never really were, and neither was Merle–" At his skeptical glare, she reinforces, "-not really.

"You aren't some outdoor cat," She says with particular distaste, as if she knew whose mouth it came from. "You aren't an indoor cat either. You're not a damn cat."

There's a pause, maybe so she can choose her words or gather her confidence, but then she tacitly announces, "You're ours, Daryl Dixon."

Claimed!

Feels a lot different than before, though. Nothin' like the Claimers. Ain't like when Rick calls him family, neither.

He can't even begin to think of what to say. He can barely look over at her; his chest is filling too fast, its warm buoyancy almost uncomfortable. It overwhelms, coming up his swollen windpipe, makes his eyes water. When he blinks at her, and their eyes do meet– her pale face a little moon in the dim light– it's as powerful as touch, his skin prickling where the clothes shift. The expression on her face is starkly, dangerously open.

Feels like that look they shared once before, weighted, laden.

He hears her swallow, can see her throat work.

An urge to actually touch her becomes keen, pointed, sharp, obsidian stone want.

"I wanna be with you," She suddenly interrupts the full moment. When the genuine words register, it sends his eyebrows up and goes right to his gut, kicking it over, sending sensation south. When she realizes her words, the implication, her face darkens so much he can tell in the dim.

"Here– with you. I want to be here with you-" Beth stammers, breaking the eye contact. Then she half-shrugs, readjusting her blanket over her, "Wherever 'here' is."

He's stuck staring at her, though, his mind blank of all words, for once.

He knows what she means, but his body heard otherwise.

Sounding a little frustrated with herself, with the embarrassment, she murmurs finally, "I'd rather be with you in the woods."

He can't get his tongue to unstick in his dry mouth, wouldn't even know what words to spit out. His brain's still empty, a voiceless echo. Even Merle didn't open his big fuckin' mouth to ruin it. His ribcage feels overfull. He huffs out the air he didn't know he's holding when he jacks himself up and leans over, grabbing the edge of the blanket she's on. He's not totally sure what he's doing till he's in the middle of it–but he can't touch her. So he yanks the blanket hard.

Her whole bedroll slides about half a foot closer to him, she lets out a soft abrupt gasp, the leg she'd left across the divide knocking squarely into his.

He knows even it's too much, someone would say something if they saw, but that's a problem for another time. The pleasantly surprised look on her face is worth it for now. It gives him some small smug satisfaction to put her off-balance again for once.

He lays back down and she smiles a little, tapping his boot one more time, before resting her ankle over his. She settles her head back on her hand.

He's got no goddamn clue why the end of the world is giving him shit like this, while it rips so much from everyone else– if he thinks about it now, he'll be back where he was– but for the moment, he's so fucking grateful. So much it's a mindfuck. He cuffs her foot with both of his, trapping it between his boots for a short, deliberate squeeze. As close as he can get right now. Still, he sees her soft smile out the corner of his eye, before he closes them and relaxes.

When Bob shakes him awake for the next day of travel, he's sore as shit from the floor, his throat is dry as fuck, the weight of Beth's leg is still on his.