Daryl comes from a family-- and sometimes, he thinks, a race-- of people prone to say some truly vile things at the drop of a hat. Over the last few years, he's largely curbed the habit in himself, except when he's truly angry. Then all the old words, the bitter cleverness, the poison and the spite, bubble up without a single reason to hold it back.

Miles struck a nerve today, and Daryl doesn't have a clue if he's even aware of how deeply he hit. All he cares about is hurting back. All he can see is red.

"You wanna talk about low hangin' fruit?" Daryl whirls on him. "Better hope you're a better soldier than you are a doctor, kid. Gonna end up smeared over the ground under somebody's boot. The hell you doin', orderin' folk around like you got any place tellin' us what to do? Can't even use a sword. Can't even use a bow. When they replaced your bones, they replace your thick fuckin' skull?"