CALAMITY.

chapter eighteen, whatever it takes.
[ season two, episode eight ]

AIDEN STANDS FROZEN, HER GAZE LOCKED ON SOPHIA'S SMALL, BROKEN BODY LYING STILL AMID THE FALLEN WALKERS. The child's once innocent face is now gray and decayed, her blonde hair matted with dark clots of blood and dirt. Her clothes, the same rainbow T-shirt and khaki shorts she was wearing when she disappeared, are tattered and stained with months of grime and death.

The morning sun beats down mercilessly through a hazy Georgia sky, illuminating the carnage around them, dozens of rotting corpses scattered across the farmyard like discarded dolls. The stench of gunpowder mingles with the sickening odor of decomposition, so thick Aiden can taste it coating the back of her throat.

"Aiden?" A gravelly voice breaks through her trance. Rough, calloused fingers brush against her forearm, the touch unexpectedly gentle, leaving a trail of goosebumps despite the oppressive heat.

She hums distractedly, her eyes finally tearing away from the gruesome scene to meet Daryl's. His face is streaked with sweat and dirt, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. Behind the hardness in his gaze, she sees something rare, vulnerability, raw and exposed.

"You still with me?" He asks, his voice low enough that only she can hear. His breath smells of cigarettes and the wild berries they'd found yesterday.

"I'm here," she manages, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. "Just can't believe we finally found her like. . . like this." She gestures helplessly toward Sophia's body, her hand trembling.

Daryl's jaw tightens. "Ain't right. None of it." His fingers move from her arm to her wrist, the contact brief but steadying. "This whole time. . ."

In the distance, Shane, Rick, T-Dog, and Andrea are dealing with the aftermath. Beth's hysterical sobs pierce the humid air as she collapses against her father's chest, her slender body convulsing with grief. Andrea stands over the twice-dead body of what used to be Hershel's wife, her pistol still warm in her hand, expression distant and cold.

"It's my fault," Aiden whispers, the words escaping before she can stop them. "I should've gone after her right away when she ran from those walkers in the woods. If I'd been faster—"

"Stop that shit right now," Daryl cuts her off, turning his body to face her fully. His eyes bore into hers with surprising intensity. "Coulda been any of us out there that day. You ain't responsible for every damn thing your brother or Rick decides."

Aiden wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dirt across her sun-freckled skin. Her shirt, once white, now a dingy gray, clings to her back, damp with sweat and streaked with walker blood. She feels Daryl's eyes on her, studying, assessing.

"You goin' with them?" He asks, nodding toward the house where the others are heading.

Aiden watches as the group makes their way back toward the farmhouse. Shane's voice rises above the others, his accusations carrying across the field, "we've been combin' these woods looking for her and she was in there all along? You knew."

She shakes her head slowly, pushing a strand of copper hair from her eyes. "Can't stomach another one of Shane's tantrums right now. He's been itching for a fight since we got here."

Daryl grunts in agreement, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His shoulders are tense beneath his sleeveless shirt, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. "Your brother's got a way of makin' things worse. Like throwin' gasoline on a goddamn house fire."

"That's putting it mildly," Aiden sighs, running her fingers through her tangled hair. A twig comes loose, and she flicks it away. "Used to be different, you know. Before all this. He was. . . steadier. Reliable."

"I already told ya, new world's got a way of bringin' out who people really are ," Daryl replies, spitting on the ground.

She glances back at Sophia's body, so small in death. "We should. . . we should bury her. Properly. Not just another roadside grave. Carol deserves that much."

Daryl follows her gaze, his expression hardening, but something softening around his eyes. "Yeah." The single word contains volumes of unspoken grief. He clears his throat. "She was just a kid. Shouldn't have ended up like this. Not her."

They stand in silence for a moment, the farmyard eerily quiet now except for the distant arguing from the house. Maggie's voice rises in defense of her family, followed by Shane's bellowing response, "why was she there!?"

"Never thought it'd end like this," Daryl finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. He kicks at the dirt, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. "Spent all that time trackin', searchin'. . . found her damn doll by the creek. Thought we were close. Should've looked harder."

"Don't do that to yourself," Aiden steps closer to him, close enough that their arms almost touch. "You did everything you could, Daryl. More than anyone. That fall you took, the arrow wound, then being shot by Andrea— you nearly died looking for her."

He scoffs, but doesn't pull away. "Wasn't enough, was it?" His eyes drift to Carol, who's-walking back to the RV, shoulders hunched and shaking.

"It mattered," she insists, turning to face him fully now. "What you did mattered. To Carol. To all of us." She pauses, gathering courage. "To me."

His eyes flick to hers, surprised, uncertain. "Why's that?"

"Because it showed me who you really are," she says simply. "Not just some angry redneck followin' his brother's lead."

From the direction of the house, Shane's voice grows even louder. Through the screen door, Aiden can see him gesturing wildly, Rick trying unsuccessfully to calm him down. Hershel points toward the driveway, his meaning clear even from this distance.

"He's gonna get us kicked out," Aiden mutters, shaking her head. "After everything. . . after Carl and me getting shot, after all Hershel's done for us. Shane just can't help himself."

Daryl shifts closer, his presence oddly reassuring despite his perpetual scowl. "Been kicked outta better places than this." He glances at her from the corner of his eye. "Though that hot water shower was pretty damn nice."

A surprised laugh escapes her lips, drawing a hint of a smile from him, barely there before vanishing, like lightning in a summer storm. His eyes, usually so guarded, meet hers directly.

"First time I've heard you laugh in a while," he observes quietly. "Suits you better than all that worryin'."

"Haven't had much reason lately," she admits. "But I guess we take the moments when they come."

"You ain't like him, you know," Daryl says abruptly, nodding toward the house. "Your brother."

The unexpected statement catches her off-guard. She studies him, wondering what prompted it. "Sometimes I wonder. Same blood, same upbringing. Our dad had a temper too. Shane learned it honest."

"Don't." His response is immediate, firm. He shifts, uncomfortable with the conversation but pressing on anyway. "I've known enough assholes in my life to spot the difference. Grew up with one. Lived with one." He doesn't need to specify he means his father and Merle. "You got somethin' different. Somethin' better."

"I'm scared of what he might do," she confesses, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He's slipping, Daryl. I can see it happening and I can't stop it."

Daryl's hand finds her shoulder, awkward but sincere. "Ain't your job to fix him. Some people don't want savin'."

Hershel ascends the porch steps. His parting words drift across the yard, "I mean it— off my land. By sundown. All of you."

"Well, shit," Daryl mutters. "There goes the neighborhood."

"Where will we go?" Aiden asks, suddenly feeling the weight of their situation. "Winter's coming. Carl's still recovering, so am I."

"We'll figure it out," Daryl says with surprising conviction. "Always do."

Daryl looks at Aiden, something unspoken passing between them. Without a word, he reaches down and picks up a shovel that someone had dropped during the chaos. The metal blade gleams in the sunlight.

"Come on," he says, nodding toward a shady spot near the tree line where wildflowers grow in patches. "Help me dig. Figure we owe the kid that much at least."

"You think Carol will want to say goodbye?" Aiden asks, grabbing another shovel leaning against the barn wall.

"Don't know," Daryl admits, already walking toward the spot he's chosen. "But we'll give her the choice. That's more than most get these days."

Aiden takes a deep breath and nods, following him away from the house, away from Shane's rage and the group's despair. The weight of the shovel in her hands is strangely comforting, something concrete she can do in a world spinning out of control.

"Hey, Daryl?" She calls as she catches up to him.

He pauses, turning to look at her with a questioning expression.

"Thank you," she says simply. "For being the one person around here who still makes sense."

His face softens almost imperceptibly. "Ain't nobody ever accused me of that before." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Come on. Daylight's wastin'."

In this moment, digging a grave for a lost child seems more bearable than watching her brother tear apart whatever fragile sanctuary they've found. As they walk side by side, their shoulders occasionally brushing, Aiden feels something shift between them, not quite friendship, not quite something more, but a connection forged in the worst of circumstances.

Behind them, Shane's eyes follow her departure, burning with an intensity that sends a chill down her spine even from this distance. His hand rests on his gun, fingers tapping an agitated rhythm against the holster.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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The last shovelful of red Georgia clay falls heavily on Sophia's grave. The sound is final, devastating in its simplicity. The makeshift cross, two pieces of fence wood lashed together with baling wire, stands crooked at the head of the small mound, casting a long shadow as the afternoon sun begins its descent. The wildflowers they'd collected wilt already in the heat, their vibrant colors a stark contrast against the freshly turned earth.

The group disperses slowly, moving away from the gravesite in pairs and small clusters. Carol couldn't stomach it. She didn't come.

Aiden remains rooted to the spot, watching them go. Her hands are raw and blistered from the shovel, dirt embedded beneath her fingernails. Sweat has dried on her skin, leaving salt trails down her neck and back. She feels empty, hollowed out, as if she too has been buried in that small grave.

"You gonna stand there till sundown?" Daryl's voice comes from behind her, quieter than usual.

She turns to find him leaning against a nearby oak tree, arms crossed over his chest. He's changed his shirt, the sleeveless one now replaced with a faded gray button-up with the sleeves roughly torn off.

"Maybe," she answers. "Not sure I'm ready to face whatever's happening back there."

Daryl pushes off from the tree, approaching with that distinctive rolling gait of his. "Figured as much. That's why I brought this." He produces a battered metal flask from his back pocket and holds it out to her. "Ain't much, but it'll help."

Aiden accepts the flask, their fingers brushing during the exchange. "Where'd you find this?"

"Otis's truck," he admits without shame. "Man ain't needin' it now."

She unscrews the cap and takes a tentative sip. The whiskey burns a path down her throat, warming her chest. "Jesus," she gasps. "That's terrible."

A ghost of a smile flickers across Daryl's face. "Never said it was good. Just said it'd help."

She takes another sip before passing it back to him. "Fair enough."

Daryl drinks deeply, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes remain fixed on the grave. "Carol say anything to you? After?"

"Not a word," Aiden sighs, sinking down to sit on a nearby stump. "I don't think it's real to her yet. Finding Sophia like that. . . after all this time hoping."

Daryl grunts, taking another pull from the flask. "Hope's a bitch like that. Gets you through the day but kills you in the end."

"That's pretty dark, even for you," she observes, watching him closely.

He shrugs, passing the flask back. "Just callin' it like I see it."

From the distance, Shane's voice rises above the others, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable, angry, confrontational. Rick's calmer tone follows, trying to soothe, to reason.

"Shane's pushing to leave," Aiden says, taking another sip. The whiskey doesn't taste quite as bad this time. "Hershel gave us till sundown."

"Your brother always did have shit timin'," Daryl mutters. He kicks at the dirt, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. "Middle of winter, nowhere to go, and he wants to hit the road cause his pride's hurt."

"It's more than that," Aiden says, resting her elbows on her knees. "He's. . . I don't know. . . unraveling. Ever since Otis died, something's changed in him."

Daryl studies her for a moment, his blue eyes surprisingly perceptive. "You know what happened out there, don't you? With Otis?"

Aiden meets his gaze steadily. "I have my suspicions."

"But you ain't said nothin'."

"What good would it do?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Carl's alive because of the medicine they brought back. If I start throwin' accusations around. . ."

"The group splinters," Daryl finishes for her. He takes the flask back, his fingers lingering against hers for a beat longer than necessary. "Smart."

"Not smart," she corrects him. "Just. . . surviving. One day at a time."

The sound of an engine turning over draws their attention. Carol's Cherokee pulls away from the house, Rick in the drivers seat, Glenn in the passenger seat.

"Lori's pregnant," Daryl says suddenly, watching the vehicle disappear down the dirt road.

Aiden's head snaps up, eyes wide. "How do you—"

"Saw Glenn sneakin' off to town for pregnancy tests the other day," he explains. "Ain't hard to put together. The way she's been sick in the mornings."

They fall into silence, passing the flask back and forth until it's nearly empty. The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.

"We should head back," Aiden finally says, standing and brushing dirt from her jeans. "Help the others pack up."

Daryl drains the last of the whiskey before tucking the flask into his pocket. "You still think we should leave? Just cause your brother's on a warpath?"

She considers this, looking toward the farmhouse with its white clapboard siding and warm yellow windows now glowing in the fading light. "I think this place is as safe as we're going to find. Good soil, clean water, fences. . ."

Daryl steps closer, close enough that she can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the fine lines around his eyes that weren't there weeks ago when they first met on that highway. "So what's your play? Side with Rick or Shane?"

"Neither," she decides. "I'm siding with whoever keeps us alive through winter."

He studies her face, as if seeing her properly for the first time. "You're tougher than you look, Aiden Walsh."

"Had to be," she replies simply. "Growing up with Shane as a brother."

A rare, genuine smile breaks across Daryl's features, transforming his face. "Fair point."

"I have my moments," she returns his smile, feeling the whiskey's pleasant warmth spreading through her limbs.

As they begin walking back toward the farm, side by side but not quite touching, Daryl clears his throat. "For what it's worth, I think we should stay. Fight for it if we have to."

"Even if it means going against Shane?" she asks, watching him carefully.

"Especially if it means that," he answers without hesitation.

The farmhouse grows larger as they approach, the sounds of the group's preparations becoming clearer. Carol sits alone on the porch steps, staring out at nothing. T-Dog and Andrea load supplies into one of the vehicles. Dale stands guard on top of the RV, rifle in hand.

"Whatever happens," Daryl says quietly, "I got your back."

The simple declaration hangs in the air between them, a promise made amid funeral dirt and cheap whiskey, worth more than gold in this broken world.

"Same," Aiden replies, meaning it with everything she has left.

As they reach the edge of the yard, Shane emerges from the RV, his face thunderous when he spots them together. His hand instinctively moves to his gun, an unconscious tell that sends a chill down Aiden's spine.

Daryl notices, his body tensing. "Want me to handle this?"

"No," Aiden says firmly, squaring her shoulders. "He's my brother. Time we had a talk anyway."

Daryl nods reluctantly. "I'll be close if you need me." He peels away, heading toward his motorcycle parked under a nearby tree, but his eyes remain fixed on Shane.

Aiden walks forward to meet her brother, the taste of whiskey still on her tongue and Sophia's grave still fresh in her mind, reminders of how quickly things can change, how fragile life has become. Yet for the first time in weeks, she doesn't feel quite so alone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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"Takin' up with Dixon now?" Shane's voice carries that dangerous edge she's come to recognize lately, the one that precedes his worst decisions. There's a raw, almost feral quality to it that wasn't there before the world ended.

In the distance, Daryl pretends to check his motorcycle while clearly keeping watch. His crossbow rests within easy reach against the bike's chassis.

Aiden stops walking, leaning the trunk of the oak tree her brother stops by. "That what you want to talk about? Who I spend time with?"

"I want to talk about why my own sister's avoiding me," Shane counters, pacing like a caged animal. His boots leave dusty prints on the dirt below. "Why she's whisperin' with Rick behind my back. Why she's suddenly best friends with that redneck."

"Maybe because they're not the ones losing their damn minds," she fires back, immediately regretting the harshness of her tone. This isn't how she wanted to start.

Shane's eyes flash dangerously, dark pupils dilating. He steps closer, looming over her the way he used to when they were kids and she'd stolen his baseball cards or embarrassed him in front of his friends. But they're not kids anymore, and the stakes aren't baseball cards.

"You think I'm crazy?" He asks, voice dropping to that terrifying whisper she's heard him use on suspects back when the world made sense. "You think wantin' to survive makes me crazy?"

Aiden holds her ground, refusing to be intimidated. She can feel her heart hammering against her ribs, but keeps her expression neutral. "I think you're scared. And I think your way of being is making you dangerous."

Something in her words hits home. Shane turns away abruptly, rubbing his hand over his shaved head, a gesture so familiar it makes her heart ache for the brother she used to know. The setting sun catches the thin sheen of sweat on his scalp, making it glisten.

"There's somethin' I need to tell you," he says after a long moment, his back still to her. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. "Somethin' you need to understand."

"I'm listening." She says.

He turns back slowly, and the raw pain in his eyes nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. For a moment, he looks like the Shane from before, her protector, her confidant.

"I killed Otis."

The confession hangs in the humid evening air between them. Four syllables that change nothing and everything at once. A mosquito whines past her ear, but she doesn't move to swat it away.

Aiden looks up at her brother, studying the familiar contours of his face, the strong jaw, the dark eyes that match her own. "I already knew, Shane."

Shane rubs his bald head, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. His fingertips press hard enough against his scalp to whiten. "You. . . what?"

"I've known since I first saw you when I woke up. I know you better than anyone here. I know when something's wrong." She reaches out, touches his arm briefly. His skin is hot beneath her fingertips. "I knew the moment I found out he was dead."

A humorless laugh escapes him, more a bark than genuine mirth. "You were always good at figurin' things out."

"Still am." She replies, steeling herself for what comes next. The scent of freshly turned earth from Sophia's grave still clings to her clothes, a reminder of stakes too high to ignore. "Now, if you keep going batshit crazy and snapping at everyone I'm gonna punch you in the face."

The unexpected response cracks through his armor. For just a moment, his face softens into something resembling the brother who taught her to ride a bike, who took her prom dress shopping when their mom was working a double shift, who put her abuser behind bars. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"Alright." He laughs, moving to leans against the tree beside her. A splinter catches on his jeans, and he absently picks at it. "I'm sorry, Aiden."

"For what?" She asks him, though she knows the list is long. Crickets begin their evening chorus, joining the cicadas in nature's persistent reminder that the world continues, despite everything.

"All the shit I've done to you recently. I yelled at you, treated you like shit." He grabs her arm and shows her the bruises on her biceps. finger-shaped marks she's been hiding under long sleeves even since Daryl saw them. The purple-yellow splotches stand out starkly against her skin in the dying light. "I put fucking bruises on you, Aiden. Bruises."

She remembers the moment, his grip too tight as he pulled her away from the barn. She can almost feel the phantom pain of his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Shane," she starts, her voice softening as she notices the genuine regret in his eyes, "we've done worse to each other and you know it. I'm going to forgive you for a couple bruises. But everything else— the barn, going absolutely fucking insane—"

"I know." Shane says, shoulders slumping as if the admission physically depletes him. He stares out across the darkening farm before adding quietly, "Lori's pregnant."

"Rick told me." She studies his profile, searching for the brother she knows is still in there somewhere. "You think it's yours?"

"Of course it's mine. Lori don't wanna admit it but that is my baby." Her big brother says, conviction hardening his voice once more. His fist clenches and unclenches rhythmically on his knee, knuckles whitening with each contraction.

Aiden says nothing to this. What could she say? That blood doesn't make family anymore, not in this world? That whatever happened between him and Lori belongs to a different universe? The weight of his confession settles between them, heavy as the humid Georgia air.

Instead, she leans against him, shoulder-to-shoulder, the way they used to sit on their parents' back porch after their father's drunken rages, finding comfort in solidarity. She can feel the steady thump of his heart, the warmth radiating from his body.

"I forgive you, Shane." She lays her head on his shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric of his shirt against her cheek. "You're my big brother, I'll always forgive you."

She feels him take a deep breath, his chest expanding against her side, and lay his head on top of hers. His stubble scratches lightly against her hair. "I love you, Aid."

She smiles to herself, inhaling the familiar scent of him, a mixture of sweat, gun oil, and something uniquely Shane that reminds her of home. "I love you too."

They stand in silence as darkness settles fully over the farm. Fireflies begin to blink in the tall grass beyond the porch, tiny beacons in the gathering night. In the distance, the others continue preparations, for staying or leaving, no one quite seems to know. Daryl has abandoned his pretense of motorcycle maintenance and now sits cleaning his crossbow, still watching. The metallic click of his tools carries clearly in the evening stillness.

"What happens next?" Aiden finally asks, not sure she wants the answer.

Shane's arm comes around her shoulders, protective and possessive all at once. His fingers curl around her upper arm, gentler than before but still firm. "We survive," he says simply. "Whatever it takes."

The words should comfort her, but instead, they send a chill down her spine despite the evening's warmth. Because she knows her brother. And she knows exactly what "whatever it takes" means to Shane Walsh. There's a finality in his tone that makes her stomach knot.

From the tree, she catches Daryl's eye across the yard. The distance between them seems both vast and insignificant. He nods once, a silent affirmation of their earlier conversation. A promise kept. His crossbow gleams dully in the moonlight, ready.

"Whatever it takes," she echoes, wondering how much of herself, how much of all of them, will survive what comes next. The night presses in around the farm, bringing with it the distant moans of walkers beyond the tree line, a constant reminder that the world outside doesn't forgive, and it doesn't forget.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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word count: 4,220

okay woah, this entire chapter turned from a shit ass chapter written in 2019 to THIS. we got so much important stuff in this chapter and oh, my god, let's talk about it.

DARDEN DARDEN DARDEN 🥹. i will never get over them in this era. where they're in the space between the enemies turning into lovers. i'm so obsessed with them. like, come on, they are deadass soulmates who don't realize it yet (the blind leading the blind).

the fact they dug sophia's grave together while they're both still recovering from being shot and daryl being stabbed by one of his own bolts. even though it's not shown in this chapter, i like to think that when they both got too tired while digging they'd force each other to drink some water and take a break because they're both too damn stubborn to do it on their own.

but the scene with aiden and shane?? shane is still losing his bananas and we all still hate him (at least i hope you guys hate his guys as much as i do). but let's all be fr, he truly didn't mean to hurt aiden when he did, it really was just his anger but that DOES NOT excuse the fact he hurt her or his psychotic behavior.

five more chapters + the epilogue to be rewritten and then we're finally onto rewriting grief!!