CALAMITY.

chapter twenty, worth livin' for.
[ season two, episode ten ]

MAGGIE'S DELICATE KNOCK ON THE DOORFRAME INTERRUPTS AIDEN'S THOUGHTS AS SHE STARES OUT THE FARMHOUSE WINDOW. Outside, the early afternoon sun casts long shadows across Hershel's fields. The peaceful scene stands in stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside.

"Glenn told me that you've got some stories that might help Bethy," Maggie says, her voice low and urgent. Her eyes are rimmed with red, worry etched into every line of her face. She twists her hands together, knuckles white with tension. "From high school and your time on the force. The kind that might make her see things differently."

Aiden turns from the window, her reflection disappearing from the glass. She studies Maggie's face for a moment, recognizing the desperation of someone watching a loved one slip away.

"I've got stories that might help," Aiden replies, choosing her words carefully. "Things that might give her perspective."

The wooden floorboards creak beneath their feet as they make their way up the narrow staircase. Family photos line the wall, happier times captured in wooden frames. Aiden notices a wedding picture, assumes it's Hershel and Beth's mother. The woman's smile seems to follow them up the stairs, a ghost haunting this house even before the world ended.

As they approach Beth's bedroom, the scent of illness hangs in the air, that peculiar mixture of unwashed sheets, stale food, and despair that Aiden recognizes from her own darkest days. They've barely reached the doorway when Lori emerges, her face tight with anger and concern.

"She had a knife," Lori whispers harshly, pulling the door almost closed behind her. She holds up a small steak knife, sunlight glinting off its serrated edge. "Hidden under her pillow. Took it from the food tray we brought up."

The revelation hits Aiden like a physical blow. She sees Maggie's face crumple, watches as her shoulders slump forward under this new weight.

"I need to talk to her," Maggie says, pushing past Lori and disappearing into the bedroom.

Within seconds, voices rise from behind the door. At first, the sisters speak in urgent whispers, but their volume quickly escalates. The thin farmhouse walls do little to muffle their argument.

Lori sighs heavily and motions for Aiden to follow her back downstairs. Andrea stands in the kitchen, arms crossed defensively over her chest. The three women form a tense triangle in the center of the room as the shouting upstairs intensifies.

"I don't want to do this anymore!" Beth's voice breaks on a sob, the words crystal clear despite the distance.

Maggie's response comes quick and fierce, "how could you even think about this? How could you do this to us, to Dad?"

Andrea shifts her weight, the floorboards protesting beneath her boots. "Where's Hershel?" She asks, glancing toward the ceiling as another wave of shouting erupts.

"He doesn't want to know yet," Lori explains, running her fingers through her hair. Her wedding ring catches the light as she gestures vaguely upstairs. "It's a family affair. Let them work it out."

Andrea's eyebrows rise skeptically. "That's working it out?"

Aiden leans against the counter, the cool porcelain sink pressing into her lower back. The sisters' argument fades into the background as unwelcome memories surface in her mind. She remembers a different shouting match, her and Shane standing in her kitchen a week after she tried to take her own life, his face contorted with fury and fear. She remembers his hands gripping her shoulders too tight, shaking her as if he could physically rattle the depression out of her body.

That had been the worst period of her life, after Dalton's arrest, before joining the force. The months blur together in her memory, sleepless nights jumping at every shadow, days spent in a fog of anxiety medications, the constant crawling sensation of phantom hands on her skin. Depression had settled over her like a heavy blanket, smothering every emotion except despair.

The breaking point came after a particularly vivid nightmare. She'd awakened gasping for air, convinced Dalton had returned. In that moment, swallowing a handful of pills seemed like the only escape from the prison of her own mind.

Aiden's attention snaps back to the present as Lori speaks.

"When Beth stops fighting, that's when it's time to worry," Lori says firmly, placing the confiscated knife in a drawer and shutting it with finality.

Andrea shakes her head, disapproval evident in every line of her body. "This could've been handled better."

"How so?" Aiden asks, the question coming out sharper than intended.

Andrea meets her gaze directly. "You shouldn't have taken the knife away."

The statement hangs in the air like a thrown gauntlet. Aiden feels her muscles tense, notices Lori's spine straighten as if preparing for battle.

"Excuse me?" Lori's voice drops dangerously low.

"You were wrong," Andrea continues, unperturbed by their reactions. "Like Dale takin' my gun. That wasn't your decision to make. Beth has to choose to live on her own. She needs to find her own reasons, not have them forced upon her."

Aiden can't suppress an eye roll, the gesture automatic and contemptuous.

"Want me to tie a noose for her?" Lori asks, sarcasm dripping from every word. Her hands clench into fists at her sides.

Andrea's expression remains frustratingly calm. "If she's serious, she'll find a way."

"That doesn't mean I can't try to stop her," Lori counters, her voice rising slightly. "Or let her know that people care about her."

"That has nothing to do with it, Lori," Andrea insists. She gestures expansively, as if trying to encompass a concept too large for the kitchen. "She only has so many choices in front of her, and right now, she believes the best one is suicide."

The word hits Aiden like a physical blow. She feels heat rising in her face, her fingernails digging crescents into her palms as she glares at Andrea. The urge to physically silence the woman is almost overwhelming, to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Aiden imagines the satisfaction of telling Andrea to grow the fuck up and shut the fuck up, but she holds back. Barely.

"That's not an option," Lori states flatly.

"Of course it is," Andrea replies with maddening confidence. "She doesn't need to be yelled at or treated like a child."

Something inside Aiden snaps. The restraint she's been clinging to shatters.

"She's sixteen!" Aiden hisses, her voice trembling with barely controlled rage. Both women turn to look at her, startled by her vehemence. "She is a child!"

Her words come faster now, fueled by emotion she's kept carefully bottled. "She lost her mother a long time ago. CCf Beth needs to understand that suicide might stop her pain, but it will cause everyone else more pain than before."

Andrea blinks rapidly, seemingly taken aback by Aiden's intensity. For once, she has no quick retort.

Aiden can't bear to be in the kitchen anymore, can't stand the suffocating tension or the way her past is suddenly so close to the surface. She storms out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind her with a satisfying crack.

The fresh air hits her lungs like she's been underwater. She stands on the porch for a moment, considering her options. Rick and Shane are gone, taking Randall eighteen miles out as planned. She can't burden Glenn with this, Maggie will need him. Daryl is another possibility, but Aiden isn't ready to reveal another dark secret from her past to him, not when their trust is still so fragile.

There's only one person she can talk to.

Dale.

She finds him in the RV, tinkering with something mechanical. Sunlight streams through the small windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air. The elderly man looks up as she enters, his kind eyes immediately registering her distress.

Aiden slides into the booth across from him, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath her weight. The table between them is covered with small parts and tools, a project abandoned as soon as she appeared.

"You okay?" Dale asks, setting down a screwdriver.

"No," Aiden admits, running her fingers through her hair. Strands come loose from her ponytail, falling around her face like a curtain. "Beth hid a knife so she could kill herself."

Dale stops what he's doing, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Is it because of her mother?"

"I would assume so," Aiden replies, tracing an old coffee stain on the table with her fingertip. "Andrea thinks Lori was wrong for taking the knife away. Says suicide is an option." Her voice hardens. "It's not, Dale."

She meets his gaze directly, letting him see the pain she usually keeps hidden. "I used to think it was. Hell, I tried to overdose when I was twenty, after Dalton was arrested." The confession feels both terrible and freeing. "But Payton saved my life, and I got help. I got better." She swallows hard. "Beth will get better too. She just has to get out of that bed."

Dale reaches across the table, his hand wrinkled and spotted with age, but strong as it closes over hers. His touch is warm, anchoring her to the present.

"A wise old man once told me the past only makes a person stronger," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he offers her a small, comforting smile.

The tension in Aiden's shoulders begins to release. "Are you that wise old man?" she asks, feeling the corners of her mouth turning upward despite everything.

Dale grins back at her, his face illuminated by the afternoon sun streaming through the RV windows. "Perhaps," he says, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

They sit in companionable silence, the RV creaking gently around them as the wind picks up outside. For the first time since the argument in the kitchen, Aiden feels like she can breathe again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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Aiden's boots crunch on the gravel path as she strides back toward the farmhouse, her jaw clenched so tight it aches. After Andrea showed up in the RV, Aiden had to leave. Andrea's self-righteous words still burn in her ears, that condescending tone, that absolute certainty that she knew what was best for a suicidal teenager. The woman doesn't have a goddamn clue what she's talking about.

The screen door slams behind Aiden as she enters the kitchen, where Lori stands at the sink, methodically washing dishes with more force than necessary. The ceramic plates clatter dangerously against each other.

Without turning, Lori says, "I keep thinking about what you said earlier. About your own experience."

Aiden opens her mouth to respond when a sudden crash from upstairs silences them both. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, mutual horror reflected, before they're both moving, thundering up the wooden staircase, hearts pounding in unison.

Maggie stands outside Beth's closed door, her face drained of all color, fist poised mid-knock.

"Maggie?" Lori's voice cracks with urgency.

"She's in there. I heard glass," Maggie whispers, her words tumbling out rapidly. Her hands flutter uselessly against the door panel, fingers splayed like pale starfish. "I knocked but she won't answer."

Lori presses her ear to the door, the wood grain leaving an impression against her skin. "Beth, you alright?" The silence that answers is deafening.

"Don't do this, Beth," Maggie pleads, her voice rising in pitch. She pounds on the door now, each impact reverberating through the hallway. "Don't do this!"

A cold sweat breaks out across Aiden's back as visceral memories surface with brutal clarity. Suddenly she's not standing in this farmhouse hallway anymore, she's back in her own bathroom, tiles cold against her knees as she tries to count out pills with shaking hands. She remembers the profound silence, the absolute certainty that her suffering would finally end.

"Come on, Beth. Open the door," Aiden begs, her voice catching. She knows exactly what's happening on the other side of that wooden barrier, the deliberate calm that comes with finally making the decision, the strange peace of surrender.

Maggie's face contorts with sudden realization. "God, I left her with Andrea," she chokes out, and Aiden feels her rage ignite like a brushfire, consuming rational thought.

"Where's a key?" Lori asks, her hands already yanking open the small decorative table drawer in the hallway.

"I don't know," Maggie's fingers rifle frantically through the drawer's contents, sending old letters and knickknacks scattering across the floor.

Aiden's tunnel vision narrows to the door handle, to the barrier between them and Beth. Without conscious thought, she reaches for a heavy metal letter opener resting on the hallway mantle, its brass handle cool and solid in her palm.

"Maggie, Lori, move," she commands, her voice eerily steady. They step back instantly, recognizing something dangerous in her tone.

Aiden jams the letter opener between the door and frame, throwing her shoulder against the wood with all her weight. The door splintering open sounds like a gunshot in the confined space.

Time freezes.

Beth stands by the shattered bathroom mirror, blood streaming in crimson rivulets down her pale arm, pooling on the hardwood floor in a growing puddle. The jagged edge of a mirror shard glints in her trembling hand, reflecting fractured light across the room like macabre stars.

The sight hits Aiden with physical force. For an instant, the lines between past and present blur completely, Beth's blonde hair darkens to her own chestnut brown, the farmhouse bedroom transforms into her sterile apartment bathroom.

"I'm sorry," Beth sobs, her voice small and broken. The bloody glass fragment slips from her fingers, shattering into smaller pieces as it hits the floor.

Aiden can't breathe. Her lungs refuse to expand as the memories overwhelm her. Payton's fingers forcing their way down her throat as she fought against him, the burning agony of vomiting up pills half-dissolved, the betrayal in Rick's eyes when he and Shane arrived and realized what she'd tried to do, the horror on Shane's face when he realized what his baby sister had tried to do.

Maggie rushes forward, wrapping her arms around her sister's shaking form, heedless of the blood now staining her own clothes. "Okay. It's okay," she murmurs, though nothing about this situation is remotely okay.

Aiden watches, paralyzed, as Maggie guides Beth from the room, supporting her sister's weight as they navigate the hallway and stairs. Blood drips onto the floorboards in a macabre trail behind them.

Lori's hand on her shoulder startles Aiden back to the present moment. The older woman's eyes are filled with a terrible understanding.

"I'm gonna kill Andrea," Aiden whispers, each word sharp as the glass Beth used to open her veins. It's not hyperbole, in this moment, Aiden feels capable of violence she hasn't experienced since her darkest days on the force.

"Get in line," Lori responds, her voice equally deadly.

They descend the stairs in silence, following the blood droplets like breadcrumbs. By the time they reach the porch, Hershel is already bent over Beth's arm at the kitchen table, his veterinary suture kit open beside him. Maggie stands behind her sister, hands gripping Beth's shoulders, her knuckles white with tension.

The bright afternoon sun feels obscene against the horror they've just witnessed. Aiden squints into the harsh light, momentarily blinded, which is why she doesn't immediately see Andrea sprinting toward the house, her blonde hair flying behind her like a battle flag.

"Where were you?" Maggie's voice slices through the air as she storms onto the porch, blocking Andrea's path to the door. The question contains multitudes: accusation, fury, betrayal.

Andrea slows, taking in their grim faces. "I heard," she says, concern apparently genuine. "Is she alright?"

"She would be if you had stayed with her," Maggie spits back, stepping closer to Andrea, eliminating the safe distance between them. "Where were you?"

Andrea tries to peer around them into the house. "How bad is she?"

"It wasn't deep," Lori interjects, her tone frigid enough to frost the summer air.

Andrea's face shifts from concern to something close to triumph. "She wants to live," she declares with insufferable certainty. "She made her decision."

The audacity steals Aiden's breath. Her hands curl into fists so tight her nails cut crescent moons into her palms. She tastes copper in her mouth and realizes she's bitten through the inside of her cheek.

"She tried to kill herself," Maggie counters, her voice breaking on the last word.

"No, she didn't," Andrea dismisses with a casual wave of her hand, as if they're discussing something trivial.

Aiden steps forward, every muscle coiled tight as a spring. Images flash through her mind, her knuckles connecting with Andrea's jaw, the satisfying crunch of cartilage, blood spraying across the pristine farmhouse porch. Only Lori's restraining hand on her arm keeps her in place.

"My dad is stitching her wrist right now," Maggie hisses, her grief momentarily eclipsed by white-hot rage.

"She'll live," Andrea says with a shrug, then tries to step around Maggie toward the door.

Maggie moves with her, a deadly dance of blockade. "Stay away from her," she commands. "From both of us. Don't you dare step foot inside this house again."

Andrea looks past Maggie to Lori and Aiden, apparently seeking allies. She finds none. The silence stretches taut between them, vibrating with unspoken violence.

Aiden meets Andrea's gaze directly, letting every dark impulse, every memory of her own darkest moment, every ounce of rage show in her expression. She doesn't need to speak, the promise of retribution is written clearly in her eyes. Andrea flinches almost imperceptibly, then turns and walks away.

Behind them, through the screen door, Beth's quiet sobs punctuate the afternoon stillness. Aiden closes her eyes and remembers the hospital room where she woke after her own attempt, the sterile white ceiling, the beeping monitors, Shane asleep in the visitor's chair with tear tracks still visible on his face. The shame and gratitude that had warred within her then resurface now, alongside a fierce protective instinct.

She turns back toward the house, toward Beth, toward the girl who needs to understand that this moment isn't the end, it's the terrible beginning of something else entirely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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The afternoon sun shines down on the campsite, casting harsh shadows across the dusty ground that seem to writhe like living things. Aiden sits outside the RV, her back pressed against the metal, knees pulled to her chest so tightly it hurts. Her dark hair falls across her face in tangled strands, partially hiding the storm of rage and grief swirling in her bloodshot eyes.

Every muscle in her body is wound painfully tight, coiled like a spring ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Her fingernails dig crescents into her palms as she picks obsessively at a loose thread on her worn jeans, her knuckles bleached white from clenching her fists for so long that her joints ache.

The thread frays further, mirroring the unraveling of her composure. Her chest feels too small suddenly, like her lungs can't expand enough to catch a full breath. The memory of Beth's pale wrists, sliced open and weeping crimson, flashes behind her eyelids every time she blinks. The image has haunted her for days, a waking nightmare she can't escape.

That's when she sees Andrea.

The blonde woman strides across the camp with that same self-righteous swagger that makes Aiden's blood turn to acid in her veins. Each confident step Andrea takes ignites something primal inside Aiden, a white-hot fury that's been building for days, simmering just beneath her skin, threatening to consume her entirely.

Images of Beth, ghost-pale and trembling after her suicide attempt, flash through Aiden's mind in relentless, rapid succession. Beth's terrified eyes. The blood dripping onto the bathroom floor. The shattered mirror.

Something inside Aiden snaps with an almost audible crack.

She rises to her feet in one fluid motion, her movements eerily calm despite the hurricane of rage coursing through her veins. She walks with deadly purpose, each footfall deliberate and predatory, closing the distance between them until she's directly in Andrea's path, so close she can smell the woman's sweat and shampoo.

Andrea stops abruptly, her eyes narrowing with irritation. "What?" She hisses, her tone dripping with contempt, chin tilted up in defiance.

That single word, that dismissive, unapologetic tone, is the match that ignites the powder keg. Something animalistic takes over Aiden, a rage that feels both foreign and deeply familiar.

Aiden's fist connects with Andrea's nose before either of them fully register what's happening. The impact sends a jolt of savage pain up Aiden's arm, but the visceral satisfaction of feeling cartilage and bone give way beneath her knuckles drowns out any discomfort. The sound, a wet crunch, sends a thrill of dark pleasure through her body.

Blood erupts from Andrea's nose, bright crimson spurting against her skin. She stumbles backward, eyes wide with shock and dawning fear, hands flying to her face.

"You crazy bitch!" She splutters, blood seeping between her fingers and staining her teeth as she speaks.

"You left her!" Aiden roars, her voice barely human as she grabs Andrea by the collar of her shirt. The fabric bunches in her white-knuckled grip as she yanks Andrea forward only to slam another punch across her face. The impact vibrates up her arm, pain blossoming in her hand, but it only fuels her rage. "You left Beth alone to die!"

Andrea crashes to the ground with a sickening thud, dust billowing around her like a shroud. Before she can recover, Aiden is on top of her, straddling her torso, raining down blow after vicious blow. Blood, she can't tell whose anymore, spatters across her knuckles, her arms, dotting her face like war paint. It's warm and sticky between her fingers, metallic scent filling her nostrils.

"You don't get to decide!" Aiden yells, her voice breaking with the force of her fury. Tears mix with the blood on her face. "You don't get to tell someone suicide is an option and then walk away like it's nothing!"

Andrea's face is a bloody mess beneath her, one eye already swelling shut, lips split in multiple places. She weakly raises her arms, trying to shield herself, but Aiden knocks them aside with savage efficiency. Part of her, a distant, horrified part, watches her own actions as if from a great distance, but she can't stop herself now. The dam has broken.

Somewhere in the distance, Carol's voice cuts through the air like a knife. "Oh, my God! Someone help!" The panic in her tone barely registers in Aiden's consciousness, meaningless noise compared to the roaring in her ears and the desperate gasps from Andrea beneath her.

Andrea twists beneath her, bucking and clawing in desperate self-defense, but Aiden is beyond reason, beyond mercy. Every repressed emotion, fear, grief, helplessness, survivor's guilt, channels through her fists in a torrent that cannot be stemmed. The world narrows to just this moment, just this punishment that feels like justice, like salvation.

Footsteps thunder toward them, the ground trembling beneath the impact. Voices shout in alarm, but the words are meaningless noise in Aiden's ears. She doesn't stop, can't stop, even as hands grab at her shoulders and arms, trying to pull her away. She shrugs them off with unexpected strength, landing two more punishing blows that send fresh blood spattering across the dusty ground.

"Get her off!" Someone screams, their voice distorted by panic.

Suddenly, strong arms wrap around her waist from behind, lifting her bodily off Andrea. Aiden thrashes violently against the restraint, her legs kicking out wildly, connecting with flesh. She hears a grunt of pain but the arms don't release her.

"Let me go!" She screams, her voice breaking, torn raw from her throat. "Let me fucking go! She deserves this! She deserves it!""

"STOP! Stop it now!" A gruff voice growls in her ear, breath hot against her neck. Daryl's arms tighten around her like steel bands, an iron cage she can't escape despite her desperate struggles. "Aiden, stop. That's enough!"

His voice, the unexpected gentleness hidden beneath the harsh command, penetrates the blood-red haze of her rage. Aiden's body goes slack for just a moment before a different kind of tremor takes over. A sob rips from her chest, unexpected and violent, surprising everyone, including herself. It's followed by another, and another, until she's shaking with them.

"Man, screw all of you!" She chokes out, tears carving clean tracks through the dust and blood on her cheeks. She twists violently out of Daryl's loosened grip, nearly falling in her desperation to get away. She pushes away the helping hands that reach for her, recoiling from their touch as if burned.

The group stands in stunned silence as she storms away from them, toward Daryl's separate campsite at the edge of the property. Her shoulders shake visibly as she retreats, each step unsteady but determined. No one dares follow, no one except Daryl, who watches her go with an unreadable expression, his own knuckles white at his sides, before quietly grabbing a clean rag and a pail of water. His eyes never leave her retreating figure, something dark and protective flashing in their depths.

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The sun begins its slow descent behind the trees, painting the sky in violent streaks of crimson and gold by the time Daryl approaches his campsite. The shadows have grown long and distorted, stretching like grasping fingers across the uneven ground.

Aiden sits hunched on a fallen log, her body curved in on itself as if trying to disappear. Her hands tremble violently in her lap, no longer fueled by rage but by the hollow emptiness that follows such explosive emotion. Dried blood cracks across her swollen knuckles like a grotesque spiderweb as she stares unseeing at the ground, her eyes vacant and rimmed with red.

She doesn't look up when Daryl's boots crunch on the twigs and leaves, but her body tenses at his approach, shoulders hunching further as if expecting a blow or harsh words.

Daryl sets the pail of water beside her without a word, the soft thunk of wood against earth the only sound besides their breathing. The silence between them is heavy, electric, charged with unspoken questions and a tension neither knows how to break. The camp around them is unnaturally quiet, as if the whole world is holding its breath, waiting.

Finally, he lowers himself onto the log beside her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from his body but not so close that they touch. His presence is solid, grounding, yet undemanding. The contrast to her earlier violence makes her throat tighten painfully.

He holds out his calloused hand, palm up, an offering, not a demand.

Aiden scoffs, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so hollow, so broken. She stares at his outstretched hand for a long moment, then places her left hand in his. The moment their skin connects, an electric current seems to pass between them, making her breath catch. Their eyes meet briefly, forest brown clashing with piercing blue, before both look away, uncomfortable with the raw intensity of the connection.

"Why'd ya do it?" Daryl asks, his voice low and rough as he dips the rag into the water and begins to gently clean her knuckles. The water in the pail turns pink, then deep crimson as he works, evidence of her violence swirling away. His touch is unexpectedly gentle, at odds with his rough exterior, and something about this contradiction makes Aiden's chest ache.

Aiden winces at the sting but doesn't pull away, welcoming the pain as penance. "She deserved it," she says through gritted teeth, watching rivulets of bloody water trail down her wrist. "Told Beth suicide was an option, like it was nothing. Just some casual fuckin' suggestion. Then left her alone. Left her knowing damn well what she'd try to do. She might as well have cut Beth's wrists herself."

Daryl's hands pause for just a moment, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around hers before continuing their careful ministrations. "Suicide is the coward's way out," he says, his voice harder now, edged with something deeply personal that makes Aiden look up sharply.

"I know." The words are so quiet they're almost lost in the evening breeze that rustles through the leaves overhead, carrying the scent of pine and earth.

Daryl's hands stop completely this time. His eyes, sharp and perceptive as a hawk's, search her face with an intensity that makes her want to squirm. The question hangs unspoken between them, a heavy weight pressing against her chest until she can barely breathe.

She takes a shuddering breath, gathering courage from some hidden reserve. In that moment, she decides to reveal the one secret she'd hoped to keep buried forever, especially from him.

"I was stupid and twenty," she begins, each word like broken glass in her throat, shredding her from the inside out. "I had major anxiety, depression. Was suicidal." Her eyes focus on a distant point beyond the trees, unable to meet his gaze as she bares this ugly truth. "It was after Dalton was arrested the first time. Everyone knew what he'd done to me. The whispering, the pitying looks. . ." she swallows hard. "I tried to overdose. Pills. A whole bottle."

Daryl's grip on her hand tightens, almost painful now, anchoring her to the present. His breathing changes, becomes more controlled, measured, as if he's bracing himself against some invisible impact. The muscle in his jaw jumps rhythmically as he grinds his teeth.

"My best friend, Payton, found me," she continues, the memory so vivid she can almost taste the pills again, bitter on her tongue. "I was already half gone. He broke down the bathroom door when I wouldn't answer." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Made me vomit the pills up. Fingers down my throat until I was bringing up blood. Called Shane and Rick while he held me." A bitter smile touches her lips, trembling at the corners. "They made me go to therapy. I fought it at first, but eventually. . . I got help, got better. But that day lives with me."

"Ya tried to kill yerself?" The question is barely audible, as if Daryl can't bear to give the words full voice. There's something like horror in his tone, mixed with a desperate need to understand.

Aiden nods, finally finding the courage to look directly at him. His blue eyes are dark with something that might be fear, might be anger, might be both. "I thought it was the only option," she admits, her voice steadier now. "I didn't want to go on living like I was— used up, broken, just Dalton's victim and nothing else. I just thought everyone would be—"

"I don' wanna hear no more." Daryl cuts her off sharply, the words like a whip crack in the quiet of the evening. Their eyes lock, and the intensity in his gaze steals what little breath she has left. "I don't wanna hear 'bout you hurtin' yerself or tryin' to kill yerself. Not ever."

"You wanted to know," Aiden murmurs, unable to look away from him now that their gazes have met. There's something magnetic in his eyes, something that holds her captive.

"I did," Daryl's voice softens unexpectedly, his thumb unconsciously tracing circles on the back of her hand, feather-light against her bruised skin. "But that don't mean I like to hear 'bout how you almost. . ." he can't finish the sentence, his throat working visibly as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "How you almost wasn't here."

The air between them changes, charged with unspoken emotions that seem to crackle like electricity. Daryl's eyes drop to their joined hands, then back to her face, tracking over every feature as if committing it to memory. Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability that matches her own, a crack in the armor he wears so carefully.

"Don't ever think about doin' that again," he says hoarsely, the words emerging from somewhere deep and raw. It's not a command but a plea, desperate and honest. His voice drops even lower, barely audible. "This world's shit enough without you gone from it."

Aiden's heart stutters in her chest, skipping several beats before resuming a frantic rhythm. Heat blooms in her cheeks despite the cooling evening air. For the first time since the apocalypse began, maybe for the first time in years, she feels truly seen. Not just looked at, but witnessed. Recognized. The realization brings fresh tears to her eyes, but these are different, cleansing rather than destructive.

"I won't," she whispers, and it feels like a promise. To him. To herself. To whatever future might exist in this broken world.

Daryl nods once, sharply, as if sealing a pact between them. His eyes linger on hers for one more heartbeat before he releases her hand reluctantly and resumes cleaning her wounds. But something fundamental has changed between them, a bridge crossed that can't be uncrossed. In this broken world where death comes easily and often, they've just silently vowed to fight for life, for each other's lives, with everything they have.

"It gets bad sometimes," she admits after a long silence, watching as he gently dabs at a particularly deep cut on her knuckle. "The memories. The feeling that I'm still that scared, broken girl."

Daryl's hands still for a moment before resuming their gentle work. "Ya ain't broken," he says firmly. "Ya fought back then. Ya fightin' now." He gestures toward the camp with a tilt of his head. "What ya did to Andrea. . ." a ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Ya stood up for Beth when no one else did. That takes guts."

"Would you have done the same?" Aiden asks, curious despite herself. "If it had been someone you cared about?"

Daryl's eyes darken. "Woulda done worse," he admits, voice dropping to a growl. "Much worse."

The confession hangs between them, honest and brutal. Aiden finds herself nodding, understanding completely. In this new world, violence and protection are often the same thing.

"Your brother," she ventures cautiously, treading on fragile ground. "Merle. Was he. . . was he like Dalton?"

Daryl's entire body tenses, his jaw clenching so hard she can hear his teeth grind. For a moment, she thinks she's gone too far, crossed a line that will send him retreating behind his walls again. But then his shoulders slump slightly.

"Sometimes," he admits, the word clearly painful. "When he was usin'. Could be mean as a rattlesnake." His eyes take on a faraway look. "Other times, he was the only one standin' between me and. . ." he trails off, but he unconsciously thinks to his back, to the scars that lie beneath his shirt.

Understanding flows between them like a current. She doesn't need him to finish the sentence.

"We survive," she says simply. "Whatever comes, we survive."

Daryl's eyes meet hers again, something deeper than mere respect kindling in their depths. "Yeah," he agrees, voice rough with emotion he rarely allows himself to show. "We do."

He dips the rag into the water again, wringing it out carefully. As he continues to clean her wounds, his touch becomes almost a caress, gentle in a way that makes her heart ache for all the gentleness both of them have been denied.

The realization hits him like a physical blow, unexpected and staggering. This feeling coiling in his chest isn't just concern or friendship. It's something he's never allowed himself to feel before, something he's never had the luxury to acknowledge.

His hands falter for a moment as the truth settles into his bones. He cares for this woman. Not just as a member of the group, not just as someone to protect, but as something more, something he doesn't have words for.

The intensity of the feeling terrifies him, makes him want to retreat, to run far into the woods where emotions can't follow. But he stays rooted to the spot, his body refusing to obey the instinct to flee. His heart pounds against his ribs so loudly he's certain she must hear it.

The sun casts long shadows through the trees as they sit in companionable silence, the only sounds the gentle splash of water as Daryl continues his careful ministrations and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night. The blood washes away, but the bond between them grows stronger with each passing moment, forged in shared pain and unexpected understanding.

When he finally finishes cleaning her hands, he doesn't let go immediately. Instead, his rough fingers linger against her softer ones, a touch that asks a question neither of them is ready to voice. His thumb brushes over the delicate skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath his touch. The simple contact sends a jolt through him, unfamiliar and electrifying.

He's never been good with words or feelings, has spent a lifetime burying both so deep they couldn't hurt him. But something about this woman pulls emotions from him he didn't know existed. The fierce protectiveness he feels seeing her hurt. The pride witnessing her strength. The strange warmth in his chest when she looks at him like she sees something worthwhile.

"Stay here tonight," he says gruffly, not meeting her eyes for fear of what she might read in them. "Don't gotta go back there. They'll all be talkin'."

Aiden nods, relief washing through her. "Thank you," she whispers, the words encompassing so much more than just the offer of shelter.

Daryl merely grunts in response, terrified by the urge to pull her closer, to wrap his arms around her and shield her from a world that's hurt her too much already. When their eyes finally meet, his walls come down for just a moment, and everything he's feeling, confusion, fear, desire, tenderness, is laid bare before her. In his gaze, she sees a promise of protection, of understanding, and now, unmistakably, something deeper that neither expected to find in this broken world.

As night falls fully around them, they remain side by side on the log, their shoulders barely touching. Daryl steals glances at her profile, illuminated by the first emerging stars, and confronts the terrifying truth: he's falling for her. It's inconvenient, dangerous even, in this world where attachments become vulnerabilities. He'd spent his whole life avoiding this very feeling, building walls no one could scale. Yet somehow, she's slipped through every defense.

The realization doesn't come with fireworks or sudden clarity, just a quiet certainty settling in his chest. A simple truth. He would die for her without hesitation. Not out of duty or obligation, but because a world without her in it would be darker than he could bear.

He shifts slightly, intertwining their fingers like she had the day before, a gesture so small yet monumental for a man who flinches from human touch. She doesn't pull away, and something fierce and protective unfurls in his chest. They sit together in silence, broken but not defeated, two survivors who have found in each other not just a reason to keep fighting, but perhaps, something worth living for.

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word count: 6,549

AND DARYL HAS FINALLY REALIZED THAT HE HAS FEELINGS FOR MISS AIDEN WALSH!!! i'm so so excited that he's finally admitted to himself that he has feelings for her instead of just pushing them away and ignoring them. now we just wait for aiden to realize that she also has feelings for him!!

the fact he cleaned her hands for her after she beat the crap out of andrea?? then told her to STAY AT HIS CAMP FOR THE NIGHT?!?!? daryl dixon you are a man in love and there's no denying that after this chapter. no denying it at all.

no but fr, andrea deserved to have her ass whooped. i do like andrea's character (i am an andrea and lori defender for life, don't come at me). but she is not justified at all for leaving beth alone knowing how badly she was hurting and what she was planning to do. and then trying to justify to maggie?? no, aiden is the only one justified for beating her ass.

and we also learned more about aiden's past. she tried to y'know after dalton was arrested. her past genuinely pains me to write about. because for one, it's something that happens so much in our country and around the world. and secondly, aiden was MY age (i'm twenty) when she was going through his abuse.

TRIGGER WARNING BELOW!!

but on a serious note. i know that suicide and suicidal thoughts are something so many people struggle with daily. i, myself, have experienced what it's like to lose someone to suicide. i lost my grandmother to it in 2016. i've struggled with suicidal thoughts and self-harm in the past. so i understand it, i do.

if any of you are struggling, i want you to know that you are not alone. and that you are so strong and so loved. and you deserve everything good thing in life.

if anyone, for any reason ever, needs someone to talk to that won't judge them and will simply just listen. my instagram is lanstovslver.wp. and if talking to me doesn't seem appealing, the suicide hotline number for the united states is 988.