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rensgoggles · 1 day ago

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You Ain't Kin, Bro (FINAL PART)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Negan’s sister)

Summary: A medical emergency forces you to take a trip to Hilltop, with your travelling companions Dog, Daryl, Aaron, Siddiq and Michonne. Oh, and of course, your ex-warlord brother Negan. Disaster strikes on the road, forcing you into the woods. Walkers aren't the only showstopper when your baby decides to make a premature entrance.

Setting: Six-year time jump.

Warnings: Graphic childbirth scene / Medical trauma (preeclampsia, postpartum hemorrhage) / Mentions of death / allsuions to death / Estranged family dynamics / Emotional intensity (grief, anger, vulnerability) / Language (Negan exists) / Canon-typical violence and blood

Genre Post-apocalyptic / Hurt/Comfort / ANGST / Family & Found Family / Drama / Emotional Whump / Romance / Canon Divergence

Author's note: I won't be suprised if the entire app crashes when i try to post this because this is so long it's ridiculous but i don't want to have to make another part this was only supposed to be 2 parts max and that wasnt even considering if people took a liking to this. Anyway, get your drinks and snacks, enjoy the drama I am feeding you with a ladle. This is kinda crazy, like there is SO much going on in this part. Some crack here and there. Also, I had this idea in mind since I first saw a quiet place and omg I have always wanted to test it out in the TWD universe, see if you can spot it 🥴 yeah it's obvious why this took me 4 friggin days to write I really kept y'all waitin'. Hopefully you can tell the effort I put into this 😭 ENJOY!!!

The road stretched on beneath a silver sky, soft with mist and hushed like the world was still deciding whether to wake up. Trees lined either side in bowed reverence, their leaves whispering secrets no one bothered to listen to. For now, the world was quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

You were nestled in the back of the wagon like a royal invalid—blankets up to your chin, Dog curled protectively at your hip, and a coat you’d dramatically declared “scratchy, but acceptable” wadded under your head like a throne pillow. Your legs were tucked under so many layers it looked like you might vanish into them.

You leaned back against the stacked blankets, exhaustion pulling heavy behind your eyes, but comfort settling in around the edges. Dog had clambered into the wagon an hour ago—completely ignoring Daryl’s muttered “not enough room”—and promptly wedged himself across your legs like a weighted blanket you couldn’t argue with.

At some point, Dog had shifted and rested his head gently over your belly, eyes half-lidded but still alert, ears twitching now and then. His presence was steady—like armor—silent, loyal, and unshakable.

You ran your fingers through the thick fur behind his ear and murmured, “You know, you’re not subtle. Worryin’ about lil’ old me, huh, Dog?”

Daryl, seated close beside you with one elbow propped against the wagon frame, glanced down. “He knows somethin’’s off,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Always does.”

There was something in his voice that broke your heart a little. His quietness, the worry his voice held. Like something wasnt eating at him. It wasn’t exactly a mystery what it was. As fun as it was braving on your impending doom, you felt it wasn’t fair to lie to his face. To offer false words of comfort. You just looked up him and offered a weak yet earnest smile - which seemed to say everything. He returned it, his hand clutching yours. And it was enough.

The dog’s head shot up so fast it startled you, growling at some unknown entity off into the trees.

“Whoa—Dog?” Daryl’s voice cut through the air, but it was less confusion and more confirmation. He trusted Dog’s gut. He just needed to know what for.

Michonne pulled the reins tight up front, forcing the wagon to a halt. The horses stamped anxiously, one rearing slightly before Aaron caught the bridle.

“What is it?” Aaron called, scanning the woods.

Dog leapt down with a snarl and bolted to the treeline. He didn’t go far—just to the edge, pacing, barking, hackles raised.

Daryl had already jumped out the back, bow in hand, eyes sweeping the trees like he expected hell to step out at any second. You pushed yourself upright with effort, heart hammering.

Siddiq glanced back at you from where he was still tightening the lid on a med crate. “Stay down,” he murmured. “Just in case.”

Then it hit.

The smell.

Faint. But unmistakable.

Decay. Damp. Mud and rotting flesh. Faint at first—but creeping in fast.

“Oh gross,” you said, arm going to mask your face from the overwhelming stench.

“Shit,” Michonne muttered, one hand going to her sword. Her eyes narrowed as she peered through the trees. “That’s not a few. That’s a lot.”

Aaron had already climbed up beside her, trying to get a better vantage. “Can’t see them… but I can hear them.”

The wind shifted. The moans rose like a tide—scattered, disjointed, but too many to count.

“Regina,” Michonne said flatly. “The horde’s been pushed south.”

“What the hell do you mean pushed?” Negan was already down from his saddle, boots squelching in the mud. “That bitch has a GPS now?”

“The rain,” Siddiq said, voice tight. “Must have forced her off the usual path.”

Michonne’s eyes swept the treeline, then the road ahead. “We can’t outrun that horde in this. Not with the wagon. They’ll flank us the second we hit the bend.”

You blinked hard, trying to clear your vision. You couldn’t see much—just shapes flickering between branches—but your gut was curling fast.

“We can’t go back,” Aaron said tightly. “We’ll drive them right into Alexandria.”

“We go forward, they’ll box us in,” Michonne added, her voice clipped, calm but taut. “They’re scattered all along the treeline. We won’t outrun ‘em with a wagon. Not with her like this.”

“So what’s the play?” Daryl asked.

Michonne was already moving, hands working the bridle of her horse. “We lead them off. Buy you time.”

Negan stared at her, incredulous. “You wanna play rodeo clown for a thousand walkers?”

“You volunteering?”

Negan blinked hard, jaw tightening as a grimace tugged across his face. “Fuck that,” he muttered, turning on his heel. He moved to the second horse, hands already working the straps with rough, practised motions. No way was he leading the horde away on horseback and leaving you - the least he could do was prep the horses for someone else to do that job.

The wagon jolted again as Daryl climbed back in, hand on your shoulder. “Hey. You with me?”

You nodded, throat dry. Fuck. You were gonna have to get up.

Daryl beckoned sharply, already peeling away the uppermost blanket. “Negan. C’mon. Help me get her up.”

Negan didn’t argue. He moved the side of the wagon where you were lying, hands moving with surprising care as they helped peel back the layers cocooning you. Daryl slipped an arm behind your shoulders, bracing you as you tried to sit up. Your face was flushed, eyes glassy, but there was a flicker of something alive there—willpower or adrenaline, maybe both.

Siddiq, already half out of the wagon, was cramming anything he could into a weathered satchel—gauze, meds, IV kits, the portable pressure cuff—his movements jerky with urgency. Meanwhile Dog circled in tight loops, ears pinned, hackles still high.

You grimaced, trying to push upright. “Okay, okay—just give me a sec. I can walk. I’m not gonna be dead weight.”

“Don’t push it,” Daryl muttered.

“I’m serious,” you panted, hands gripping the edge of the wagon, going to move your clothes so your swollen belly wasn't completely exposed for everyone to gawk at. “We need someone watching our six. We can’t waste both of you carrying me when I’ve still got legs.”

Negan raised an eyebrow, already slinging your arm over his shoulder. “Well, look who’s sprouting claws again.”

Daryl’s eyes snapped to him. “She falls, you catch her. That’s it.”

Negan didn’t bristle for once. Just nodded face grim. “Copy that, Daddy.”

Siddiq hit the ground with a grunt, hoisting the overloaded satchel onto his shoulder. “We don’t have time to argue. Once we’re in the trees, keep tight. No talking unless it’s vital. And keep pressure off her.”

Daryl helped ease you down, every muscle in his body taut like he expected the whole forest to lunge for you. The moment your boots hit the earth, cold and uneven, you swayed. Negan adjusted his hold fast—one arm steadying your back, the other bracing your weight.

To say the least Daryl didn’t like it. He should be the one holding you. But there was no time. He didn’t trust Negan to not fuck up clearing whatever or whoever they came across in the woods.

He passed Siddiq the last of the loaded supplies, then turned back toward the wagon, eyes scanning for anything they might’ve missed. “We ain’t givin’ him a weapon,” he muttered, low.

It hung in the air. No easy answer.

“Oh, cmon. We’ve got the best interest at heart here, “ Negan said. “You gotta give something to work with if it comes to it. I feel naked out here without one.”

Daryl hesitated, listing the pros and cons. Pro: he could protect you if it came to it. Con: he’d be carrying a weapon. Daryl turned, picking out something from the wagon and holding it to Negan. A small pocket knife. “You get one chance.”

Negan stared at Daryl before accepting the knife. At least it was something.

With that, the group split off: Aaron and Michonne on horseback galloped off into the distance along the road, leading the horde away, and you, Daryl, Siddiq, Negan, and Dog plunged into the underbrush. The air shifted—cooler, damp, thick with pine and the far-off murmur of the herd moving parallel. Siddiq led, carrying most of the medical load on his back, navigating with grim focus. Daryl trailed in front also, carrying anything else he could take from the wagon, crossbow drawn, checking every blind angle.

And you clung to Negan more than you cared to admit- heart hammering, every breath shallow. His grip wasn’t comforting, exactly. But it was strong. Unwavering.

Dog was of course trotting right beside you.

The deeper you pushed into the woods, the quieter the world became. Just the crunch of boots on undergrowth, the shallow drag of breath in your lungs, and—far off—the wet, dragging groans of walkers where Regina lurked behind the trees.

You were leaning against Negan’s side for support, more out of necessity than choice, one arm slung around his shoulder, the other cradling your belly. Your breath came shallow, every step pulsing like a drumbeat in your spine.

“Y’know,” Negan muttered, keeping his voice low as he adjusted his grip on your waist, “if you wanted a little quality time with your big brother, there were easier ways. Like, say, a nice brunch. Maybe a picnic.”

You huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were just the nearest vertical surface.”

He glanced sideways. “Wow. And here I was thinkin’ I was your knight in shining denim.”

“You’re my cautionary tale,” you gritted out, but your mouth twitched. Just a little.

He chuckled under his breath, eyes still scanning the trees. “Still sharp. I’ll give you that.”

“You should see me when I’m not dying,” you said, and this time your voice carried more air than bite—but it landed anyway, and his expression twitched.

There was a beat of silence, then: “I’d like that.”

You didn’t answer—not because you were ignoring him (though God knows he probably deserved it), but because you genuinely didn’t know how to. Not with the world folding in around you like wet paper, not with every dragging step pulling the group deeper into danger, your body aching like it had turned against you entirely. You were so tired—not just in the bones, but in the marrow, in the breath, in the soft parts of yourself that had nothing left to give—and it took everything you had just to keep moving forward.

Still, the back-and-forth lingered. The sarcasm, the jabs—it came as easily as breath, slipping into place like it had never left. Like you were merely siblings just trying to make it. And that’s what you hated most. That it was still there. That it still fit. That after everything, after the distance and the wreckage and the grief that had hollowed out the people you used to be, it could still feel like nothing had changed.

It didn’t feel like you were limping through the woods, half-collapsing with each step, but standing in the kitchen of a life that didn’t exist anymore, swatting peanuts out of the air while he cracked jokes to distract you from whatever fresh mess he’d caused that day.

So much had been lost. So many people are dead. And yet here he was—still tossing out dumb comments like they were worth something, like they could prop you up. Still acting like this was just another walk, another argument, another day you’d survive by sheer stubbornness. No matter how hostile you were, it just made things between you and Negan more familiar and easy. And now you were so exhausted that you just let the rhythm carry you. Because it didn’t feel like now—didn’t feel like you were one stumble away from falling flat on your face.

It felt like before. Like home. And you didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

“Try not to get misty on me, big guy,” you muttered. “Would really ruin your whole grizzled felon look.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, hoisting you slightly as you stumbled. “Don’t go dying, and I’ll keep it intact.”

And for a moment, despite the ache in your legs and the cold sweat on your spine, you let yourself lean just a little heavier. Let yourself pretend, even briefly, that this was just another bickering. Just another day. Because if nothing else, you were still you.

You kept moving, weaving through tree trunks and patches of thick brush, the forest around them breathing mist and decay. You were flagging, but you hadn’t said it. Your weight had gotten heavier against Negan’s side, but he didn’t comment. Just kept steadying you like it was nothing.

After a while, maybe just to fill the silence—or to fill the space fear was trying to take—he spoke again.

“You know,” he said, voice a little rougher now, like it had to crawl its way up through something tight in his throat, “when you were a kid, I used to think you were gonna end up in some punk band. Or, like, maybe get arrested for arson. Probably both. Definitely not this.”

You glanced up at him. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “You were all elbows and attitude and smart-ass comebacks. Scared the hell outta your teachers. Dated losers. Flipped off a parole officer once.”

“He had a weird moustache.”

Negan huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Still. You had this fire in you. Still do. Just… I dunno. Lookin’ at you now and I keep thinking—shit, my baby sister’s gonna be somebody’s mom.”

You were quiet for a beat. Then, dry as ever: “Yeah, and you’re gonna be the weird uncle with too many opinions and zero filter.”

Negan’s grin cracked wide. “Damn right I am.”

There was something almost boyish in the way he looked at you then, like pride and disbelief were getting tangled up in his expression. He didn’t say anything right away. Just glanced down at your belly, then back at your face, and shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

“I’m proud of you, y’know,” he muttered eventually. “I don’t say it enough. Or ever. But I am.”

That one hit a little closer than you expected. No, you don’t give a rats ass what this man thinks. Get it together.

You looked away quickly. “You’re just getting sentimental because I might bite it.”

Negan made a noise in his throat—half scoff, half laugh. “Nah. I’ve seen you scrape your knees worse than this and still get up swingin’. You’ll be fine.”

“You remember when you keyed my Mustang?” Negan said, voice low but amused as they pushed through a stretch of thick underbrush. His arm stayed locked under yours, guiding your steps without slowing you down. “Didn’t even spell anything. Just—just a big ass scribble like you were doodlin’ something. Except you know - you were doodlin’ on my car.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “I was nine. And mad that you were ditching me for some one-night stand.”

He practically burst out laughing, the foggy memories flooding back. “ God, that’s right. You were the best damn Cockbloker in the state. Honestly? Still proud of you for that one.”

You let out a low chuckle—and then it hit.

Not a scream or a jolt or anything dramatic. Just a deep, cramping pull low in your belly. Slow, but solid. Enough to make you stop mid-step, hand braced against a nearby tree as you hunched ever so slightly, trying not to make a sound.

Negan paused and half-turned. “Okay, damn—I know I’m funny, but I didn’t that funny.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just breathed.

The damp earth. The scent of bark. The rhythm of Dog’s paws padding somewhere behind you. You focused on all of it, because anything was better than focusing on the tightening that rolled through your abdomen like a fist clenching from the inside out.

Negan’s brow furrowed. “Hey. You alright?”

Still, you didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Happy thoughts. Kittens. Cute little kittens. Cute little kittens with their mama. Their mama giving birth to said cute little kittens, writhing in pain as they tore out from her abdomen FUCK-

His tone shifted. Softened. “Hey. C’mon, kid. Talk to me1”

“I’m fine,” you said. Too quickly to actually be fine.

He didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

Negan’s voice dropped lower, and he took a step closer, one hand hovering like he might steady you again. “Is this—shit, are you-?”

You blinked, exhaled slowly through your nose, and forced a dry smile. “Just a cramp. Jesus cool your tits.”

From up ahead, Daryl stopped mid-step and turned sharply, his eyes locked onto you, scanning your face, your body, before your words even finished echoing.

Negan caught the look and raised his hands, all mock innocence. “Don’t look at me—I was practically a damn doula. Kept my mouth shut and everything.”

“Shuddup,” you mumbled, straightening a little. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

“Fine, my ass,” came Negan’s mutter.

Even Dog gave a low, skeptical whine and nudged your hip with his nose like he was calling bullshit.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, tugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Tuck your skirts in, ladies, cmon. Step to it.”

Nobody moved.

Daryl sighed, choosing to live another day and not fight with the heavily pregnant lady. “Alright. But you say the word, we stop. Got it?”

“Love it when you get bossy,” you breathed out. You watched him walk away, shaking his head. Ok, the delivery was a little off, granted, but you could have sworn that would have cracked a smile. You looked up at Negan, who wore a slightly repulsed look—bunch of prudes.

The woods swallowed you whole once more, branches closing in like teeth.

Beside you, Dog paced close—never more than a step away—his ears twitching at every shift in the wind. Up ahead, Daryl kept looking back, eyes flicking between you and Negan, jaw tight like he was waiting for you to fall and already blaming someone for it.

You couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

—

“Ugghhhh”

You were doubled over, one arm locked against the gnarled bark of a maple tree that scraped your palm raw, the other clinging to Daryl like a lifeline. Your body seized as the next contraction tore through you—lower back first, a white-hot vise clamping down, then forward, deep in your gut, twisting hard like your insides were trying to wring themselves out. It stole the breath straight from your lungs, left your ribs aching and your mouth open in a soundless gasp. Your knees buckled under the weight of it, legs trembling as your belly knotted so violently it felt like your skin might split.

Daryl held on. Your arm was around him so you would collapse from the sheer pressure, with Daryl rubbing slow, steady circles low on your back, grounding you with touch when words would’ve only frayed your nerves more. He didn’t speak much—just murmured close, voice low and gravel-worn, more rhythm than meaning. His breath was in your hair, his hand was warm, and right now, that was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just breathe. I gotcha.”

His voice was low, rough with worry but warm enough to settle beneath your skin, threading into the raw edges of your nerves like balm. You leaned into him without thinking, forehead pressed to the damp heat of his collarbone. Sweat clung to your skin, your breath catching in shallow, uneven bursts that sounded rather like dry heaving as the pain receded just enough to leave you wrung out.

His arm tightened around you, holding you upright as your legs gave a soft buckling tremor. You swayed with him, eyes shut, too dazed to speak but clinging to the rhythm of his chest rising and falling—steady, unshakeable, there. You let him carry your weight, every inch of your body trembling, trying to crawl its way back from the brink.

Behind you, Dog paced in anxious loops, ears flicking, snout huffing at the ground. He kept close, circling and circling, every muscle tense like he was waiting for something he couldn’t chase off.

Negan hovered a few feet away, hands flexing at his sides, clearly out of place. There was something about the intimacy of it—Daryl holding you like you were the only thing in the world, whispering into your hair, holding you like water that could slip through his fingers— it made Negan feel slightly uncomfortable. He was still coming to terms with the fact that his sister was having a baby with this guy- to have the sight of you two shoved down his throat… yeah, he was super uncomfortable.

Siddiq knelt just off the path, stopwatch in hand, eyes fixed on the screen. The moment the contraction eased, he spoke without looking up.

“That one lasted almost a minute. Let me know when the next one hits.”

You nodded shakily, not ready to lift your head yet. Your muscles trembled as you exhaled, long and slow, trying to let the wave of pain ebb.

“I’m okay,” you managed, breathless.

From behind, Negan let out a low, incredulous huff—half laugh, half what the fuck. “Jesus. Still lyin’ through your teeth, huh? Love that for you.”

You peeled your forehead off Daryl’s chest just enough to glance at Negan. He had started pacing again, dragging a hand through his short hair, eyes darting between you, Siddiq, and the woods ahead like he was waiting for someone to drop a punchline that wasn’t coming.

“I mean, what the hell’s the plan here?” he asked, gesturing with both hands. “She’s in labour, man. Not, like, maybe-labour. This is the real shit. We’ve got our asses hanging out, she’s running the dinner bell for all the walkers back there and you’re all just chilling like this is a fuckin’ Lamaze class in the woods.”

Siddiq didn’t look up from his timer. “She’s early, but not critical. Yet.”

Negan threw his arms up. “Yeah, well, hate to break it to you, doc, but we’re a little short on hospitals. So if we could skip the calm-and-collected bullshit and maybe get to a shelter before she starts drawing in the walkers with her howling—”

“How far?” Daryl cut in, sharp but quiet. His hand never left your back.

Siddiq finally looked up. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. If we don’t stop again.”

You sucked in a breath, bracing your hand against the tree as another cramp rippled through your abdomen—not a full contraction, but close. Daryl tightened his grip instinctively, keeping the closeness between you two as he gently shushed you.

Negan’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. Cool. Let’s just take a fuckin’ stroll while she dilates in real time. I’m sure the baby’ll hold off outta sheer respect.”

“arghh! Where the fuck did you learn the words dilate, doula, and lamaze class?!” You shouted. You were way past calm and collected by now. Your brother knew more childbirth terminology than you, and you were the one pregnant.

Before Negan could retort, Daryl stopped him. “You freakin’ out ain’t helpin’ nobody!” Wow. Daryl was shouting now. Ahh, there it is. The pre-parental panic.

Negan grunted but fell in step as Daryl gently coaxed you forward again. Dog brushed against your leg protectively, trotting close, still tense.

Fifteen minutes. You could do fifteen minutes.

Negan reassumed his stance by you, your arm naturally curling around his middle so you could lean on him. Fuck you could feel your belly practically dropping to the floor.

“Fifteen minutes alrigh’. Thats all,” Negan cooed.

“Oh my god”, you murmured. “I’m gonna have my baby in this spider forest, aren't I?”

“Oh, relax,” Negan drawled, which earned him some major stink eye from you.”Could be worse. Could be having a redneck baby in the forrest. Oh wait-“

You glared. “Keep talking, jackass. I’ll make you catch it.”

They kept moving, slower now. You leaned on Negan more than you liked to admit, your hand digging into the meat of his shoulder every time a cramp came. He kept one arm braced around you, the other hovering like he wasn’t sure where the hell to put it.

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” he said. “Breathe and don’t, y’know, rupture anything. Or my shoulder.”

You managed a snarl. “You’re not the one being eviscerated from the inside. Suck it up.”

He snorted, half-carrying you forward. “Jesus, still mean as ever.”

Up ahead, Daryl came to an abrupt halt, one hand lifting in a silent signal. The group froze immediately. Dog stiffened beside him, letting out a low whine, hackles raised and nose twitching toward the trees.

From the shadows came the sound of groaning—subtle at first, then unmistakable. Shapes stirred just beyond the treeline, peeling away from bark like they’d grown out of it.

“Shit,” Daryl muttered under his breath, already moving. He swung his crossbow from his back with practiced ease, eyes sweeping the dark. “Siddiq—on me,” he ordered, voice low but clipped. “Negan, stay with her.”

“The fuck I am!” Negan yelped. “She’s gonna hulk out and eat me alive!”

Another contraction hit.

Your arms flew to cover your mouth as you yelped into your sleeve, clutching Negan’s coat like it owed you money.

“GOD DAMN IT!! This SUCKS!”

“Okay! Okay!” Negan staggered under your weight. “You’re good, just—ow, JESUS CHRIST, ease up! That’s my hand, not a chew toy!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL RIP YOUR THROAT OUT!”

That shut him up.

Daryl threw one last look over his shoulder—eyes wild with concern, like he might turn back then and there—but more walkers were pushing through the brush.

“I got her!” Negan barked. “Go!”

Dog circled you both like a worried sheepdog, ears pinned back, guarding you. Siddiq and Daryl moved fast, cutting down the first walkers, clearing a path. The forest was filled with the sound of snarls and bolts piercing through the air.

Back with you, Negan was panting. “Next time, maybe don’t get knocked up during the literal apocalypse, huh?”

“Next time,” you hissed, curling your fingers into his shirt with the strength of a woman in active labour and no patience left, “I’ll be sure to check the fucking apocalypse calendar before getting railed, how’s that sound to you?”

Negan recoiled slightly, eyebrows shooting up. “Jesus, okay—note taken, goddamn.”

You were completely out of breath, doubled over as if it would help you get better access to the air supply. Negan cursed under his breath but didn’t budge.

“Hang on, sis,” he muttered. “Just hang on.”

And then came the warmth.

A sudden, unmistakable gush that soaked through your pants and straight onto his jeans.

You blinked. He blinked.

“…The fuck was that?” he asked slowly, voice climbing an octave.

You didn’t answer right away—still bent, panting through the pain—but then you heard him sniff dramatically.

“Oh hell no—did you just piss on me?”

Your head snapped up like something out of The Exorcist. Eyes wild, lip curled. “It’s my fucking water breaking, you glorified beanstalk. Wanna stand there bitching or do you plan on being useful for once in your fucking life?!”

Negan flinched back like you’d smacked him with a frying pan. “Jesus H.Christ,” he muttered, staring at the spreading stain on his jeans like he could will it to disappear. “That’s never coming out.”

“Neither did he,” you snapped, nodding toward Daryl up ahead. “Hence the fucking situation.”

He huffed a breath that was half-laugh, half-trauma. “Unbelievable. Fuckin’ unbelievable. First time I ever get pissed on and it’s still somehow your fault.”

“IT’S NOT FUCKING PISS.” You screamed, another contraction coming over you like kick to the gut, your hand flying to squeeze the life out of his arm.

“AAARGH” Negan yelled out in pain, as if he was the one about to push a human out of his vagedy tragey.

Ahead, Daryl and Siddiq cleared the last straggler, panting. Daryl’s eyes snapped back to you instantly, not particularly caring for the screaming Negan, and the moment he saw you mid-contraction, his face went bone-white.

He was back at your side in seconds.

“What happened?” he barked, eyes darting over your face, your belly, your soaked pants, like he was trying to triage a car crash.

“She exploded on me!” Negan shouted, stumbling out of the way, arms up like he’d been hit by a goddamn truck. “Right on my goddamn leg— I’m traumatised.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry—next time I’ll cross my legs and hold it in like a lady!” you snapped, practically snarling through the pain. “You think you’re traumatised? I’m being split in two by a bowling ball trying to exit via my crotch, and you're over here crying about your jeans. It’s not my fault you were in the splash zone; grow the fuck up!”

Daryl didn’t even look at Negan, crouching beside you with one hand on your lower back. “Woah, ok, just calm down, alright?”

“This is me calm, babe! How bout I kick you in the nuts and tell you to calm down, and then we can compare notes. Cause that would be justice right there.”

“I’d like to see that actually-“ Negan cut off.

You and Daryl both yelled ’shut up,’ simultaneously. Siddiq caught up, slinging his bag off his shoulder, already reaching for gloves. “How far apart are they?” he asked, dropping into doctor mode. You didn’t answer—you couldn’t. You were too busy trying to decide whether to pass out or murder your brother.

“Uh every few minutes.” Negan answered for you, gesturing wildly. “She’s leaking and screamin’ over here, doc, she can’t be out here.”

Daryl looked like he was about to rip his own flannel in half from stress. “How far’s the safehouse?”

“Half a mile, if we cut through the creek bed,” Siddiq replied. “But if she’s in active labor—”

“I can walk,” you snapped, already trying to shove off the tree. “Don’t coddle me. Not unless you’re carrying me and a cheeseburger.”

“You’re not walking,” Daryl growled. “You’re barely standing.”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“I’ll carry her,” Negan said suddenly, stepping forward, voice weirdly serious now. “I mean, if Daddy here can unclench long enough to let someone else help.”

Daryl opened his mouth—probably to argue—but you cut him off, voice sharp as glass.

“I do not care who carries me. Someone just do it before this kid crawls out and dropkicks me from the inside.”

Dog barked once, like he agreed with the plan.

Daryl and Negan locked eyes over your hunched, heaving form—two men tense with instinct, barely restrained by the sheer absurdity of their shared task: not killing each other while an eight-months-pregnant, battle-worn woman tried to give birth in the middle of a goddamn forest.

“…Fine,” Daryl ground out, his jaw so tight it looked like it might shatter. “But if you drop her—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Negan muttered, already crouching down, voice lower now, steadier. “You get to gut me like a fish. crystal clear.”

His movements were surprisingly gentle. Big hands braced beneath your thighs and back, testing your weight before he committed. You weren’t light—not with the baby, not with your body sagging like a broken marionette—but he adjusted with a grunt, muscles flexing as he hauled you upright. Your head lolled against his shoulder, hot breath ghosting his collarbone.

You whimpered involuntarily, caught between a contraction and pure exhaustion.

“Not a word,” you croaked, voice raspy and barely there against his neck.

“I didn’t say nothin’,” he murmured, shifting your weight higher in his arms. His knees creaked as he stood fully. “But for the record… you are a hell of a lot heavier than you look—and you look very pregnant.”

Your hand twitched, half-raising in protest. “I will stab you.”

“Love you too, kid,” he muttered, ducking his chin to avoid your hair as it fell across your face. His arms cinched just a little tighter around you.

——

The trees finally broke, thinning just enough to spill the group into a clearing that didn’t feel as empty as it looked. The farmhouse hunched in the center like it was trying to disappear—two stories of weather-beaten siding, half-rotted porch steps, and windows boarded in a hurry. One shutter dangled loose, creaking with the breeze. It looked like a place people used to live. Which, in their world, only made it more dangerous.

There was no smoke from the chimney. No movement behind the windows. No corpses on the porch. All in all, it was a pretty good safe house.

Daryl didn’t wait for permission.

His crossbow was already lifted as he approached the house, each step deliberate, coiled with tension. Dog padded close behind him, silent and alert, muscles taut beneath his coat. A silent sentinel with fangs.

Siddiq paused beside you just long enough to glance at the structure. “That’s the place,” he murmured, eyes scanning the windows. “If we’re lucky, it’s been untouched since the last patrol.”

“Yeah, well,” Negan muttered from beneath you, his arms adjusting around your weight as your head slumped against his shoulder, “luck ain’t exactly our fuckin’ theme song. If someone’s holed up in there, they better be a midwife or suicidal.”

You didn’t bother lifting your head, but your voice rasped out, dry and spent: “I don’t give a shit. Long as there’s a floor I can bleed on, I’ll take it.”

Daryl reappeared in the frame of the open doorway, already inside, his voice low but resolute. “Front room’s clear,” he called. “We’re not settlin’ yet.”

Siddiq stepped forward, hand drifting toward his pistol. “We sweeping it together?”

A sharp nod was all the answer Daryl gave, already slipping deeper into the house like a shadow. “Faster that way,” he muttered as he disappeared into the hall. “I’ll take the back. Sid, basement. Negan—upstairs.”

Negan let out a short huff as he adjusted his grip. “Cool. And if there’s a Leatherface upstairs?”

Daryl didn’t even slow. “Then stab first, bitch later.”

And with that, the four of you and Dog crossed the threshold.

The front door groaned open wider, hinges whining like they hadn’t been touched in months. The air inside was stale and heavy, thick with dust and disuse. It clung to the back of your throat, made your eyes water as you stumbled inside, half-dragged, half-guided.

The floor creaked beneath every step, the boards warped with moisture and time. A toppled coat rack lay in one corner, half-buried under a film of debris. Faded curtains hung limp at the windows, filtering the gray light into long, slanted shadows.

The room was cold. Not just from the stone hearth that hadn’t seen fire in god knows how long, but from the stillness—the kind that said no one had lived here in a while, but something had passed through. Something that didn’t belong.

Dog sniffed once, low to the floor, then circled and parked himself in the center of the room, ears twitching. His tail was stiff. Not a full-blown threat response—but close.

Daryl moved like he always did in places like this: eyes everywhere, shoulders tight, already peeling away toward the hallway with his crossbow raised. Siddiq took the far end of the room, checking shadows and doorframes with quick, clinical precision. Negan, still acting as your crutch, guided you toward what looked like an old couch, muttering under his breath about tetanus and bad luck as he maneuvered your weight carefully over the floorboards.

The house stood quiet around you, too quiet—thick with the kind of stillness that doesn’t feel empty, but waiting. The kind that made your skin crawl and your teeth itch.

But as Daryl turned to sweep the next doorway, his eyes caught on you again—slack in Negan’s arms, your body limp and listing with the weight of exhaustion, your skin pale and slicked with sweat that clung to your hairline like morning dew. You weren’t fully conscious, not really; your breaths came shallow and staggered, your fingers twitching only slightly where they’d curled against the front of Negan’s jacket, like your body wasn’t quite sure whether to keep fighting or finally give in.

For a moment, something in Daryl’s face shifted—something small, but unmissable. That constant tightness he wore, the strain in his jaw, in the way his shoulders hunched like he was always braced for another blow, flared like a muscle pulled too tight. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the silence around him thickened, his entire frame drawn like a bowstring held just short of snapping. Beneath the urgency, beneath the instinct to clear rooms and push forward, something else cracked through—the quiet kind of grief that only surfaces when someone you love is hurting and you can’t do a goddamn thing but watch it happen.

It was gone just as fast as it surfaced, swallowed by the moment, replaced by that steady focus he always fell back on when emotion got too loud to carry.

Still, he hesitated—just a breath, just long enough to let his eyes meet yours again, and in that space between the chaos and the next command, he asked, gently, “You gonna be alright?”

You peeled your eyes open, slow and glassy, your mouth dry but tugging toward a smile with all the sass you could summon. “’Course,” you croaked, the syllable catching on a jagged breath as you reached blindly toward the familiar weight pressed against your hip. “I got my Dog.”

The tiniest flicker passed over his face—something caught between a smirk and a wince, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or apologise, but either way, he heard you. His gaze flicked to the hound at your side, who stood statue-still, watching you with eyes full of animal knowing.

Daryl gave a single nod—not curt, not sharp, but heavy with meaning—then moved forward just as Negan crouched low, his arms wrapping around you with a carefulness that would’ve seemed impossible from a man like him, lowering you inch by inch onto the sagging couch like even gravity couldn’t be trusted not to take you too hard.

Daryl didn’t speak. He just walked over to you and leaned down, pressing a rough, fleeting kiss to your forehead. It wasn’t tender, not really. But it landed like a promise, like something real and anchoring when everything else was slipping sideways.

Then he looked to Dog.

“Stay.”

The word rang with quiet command, and Dog didn’t hesitate—settling beside you like he understood the assignment perfectly. His head rested against your thigh, muscles coiled, eyefixed on the door.

Daryl straightened, gaze lingering for a final moment. It felt like the last piece of armor locking into place.

Then he was gone, disappearing into the house with Siddiq close behind and Negan trudging after them like a man already planning to complain the whole way. And just like that, the silence came crawling back.

It wasn't peaceful, but anticipatory, as if the walls themselves were waiting for something to return. You stayed slouched on the couch, one arm curled around your belly, the other splayed uselessly across the cushions. Dog lay flush against your leg, warm and still, but his ears kept twitching at intervals, catching whispers in the wood you couldn’t quite hear. You watched the front door like it might breathe, trying but failing not to think about everything that was going on in your body. The tightening, stretching of your abdomen and the hammering of your heart.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before you heard it.

Voices. Two of them. Male. Unknown. Not inside. Not yet.

Somewhere outside —close enough. Close enough to catch fragments through the broken glass and warped wood.

Your mind had slowed, calculating all your options with the information you could muster in these few seconds.

“—told you she’d cross the ridge by dusk. Easy shot. That bitch dropped like a sack.”

Then laughter. Harsh and sharp, bouncing off the trees like something thrown.

“You think it’ll feed the others?” the second voice asked, slower, heavier—drawl soaked in grease and smoke. He sounded bigger. Meaner. The kind of man who didn’t bother whispering because he liked when people flinched.

“Oh, hell yeah,” the first replied. “That plus them rabbits from yesterday? We’re sittin’ real pretty. Tell the boys to hold off on raiding ’til we burn through this batch.”

Your heart hit the floor.

The others. Not just two. Not even just a few.

This house wasn’t abandoned. It wasn’t overlooked. It was claimed—and you had walked right into it.

Dog’s head lifted off your thigh like it had been yanked. His ears went stiff, then flat, a low growl starting deep in his chest.

You didn’t have time to think.

The moment your body let you move, you were dragging yourself upright, weight lurching sideways as your legs almost gave out beneath you. One hand caught the wall, the other clutched your belly, as if holding it would somehow protect what was inside. Your steps were swift yet as light as possible to minimise noise, with each stride causing you to squeeze your eyes shut, dreading the sound of floorboards creaking beneath your weight, but the noise never came. Dog stayed close, practically underfoot as you staggered toward the hallway, biting down a cry when another hot flicker of pain twisted through your gut.

You could hear them better now.

Boots on soft grass. The creak of porch wood under weight.

“Leave the meat on the porch,” one said. “We’ll gut it after. I wanna grab the last bottle before the others drink it all.”

Another laugh. Louder this time.

You reached the bathroom and closed the door behind you with care, twisting the flimsy lock with fingers that didn’t want to work. It clicked into place with a sound so small it made your stomach flip - it’s not like the lock would do much, but it was something.

Back pressed to the door, you slid to the floor slowly, knees already trembling, vision dotted with static. You took a slow, shaky breath, closing your eyes. Oh god, this couldn't be happening, not now. The dog pressed himself in front of you, a silent shadow, ears forward, eyes glued to the door behind you. You could hear your heartbeat in your throat.

The bathroom window was barely more than a slit—fogged at the corners, its frame swollen and warped from years of water damage—but it was all you had, the only possible exit in a house that felt like it was shrinking by the second.

You stared at it like it might change shape beneath your gaze, like the frame would somehow shift just enough to let you slip through it and vanish into the gray beyond, as though escape could be willed into existence by sheer desperation. Your heartbeat thundered against your eardrums, loud and unsteady, drowning out every other sound until all that remained was the ragged rhythm of your pulse and the distant shuffle of boots against the floorboards, too close and growing closer.

Dog was crouched low beside the door, his entire body wound tight, muscles rigid beneath his fur like he was carved from stone. He wasn’t growling anymore, not even a low rumble to signal warning—he was simply still, listening so intently it looked like even breathing was a risk. His ears were pinned flat, his nose twitching in rapid bursts, chest rising and falling in shallow, silent pulls as if he, too, could feel the walls creeping inward.

You couldn’t move. Your legs didn’t feel like yours; they felt distant, disconnected, slow to obey and heavy with panic. But still, something deep inside told you that if you didn’t try—if you didn’t at least make the effort—then this room would be your coffin.

So you reached out your hands, clammy and trembling, grasped for the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening as you hauled yourself upright, spine sparking with protest, thighs buckling beneath the weight of your own body, every muscle shivering like you’d been soaking in cold dread for days. Your skin felt tight, stretched too thin, and every breath you took caught somewhere behind your ribs.

But still, you moved. Slowly. Determined.

You shuffled forward, dragging one foot after the other, teeth grit against the pull of gravity, until you reached the window. One hand rose to meet it, fingertips grazing the cold, warped frame. Your nails scraped against the peeling paint as you fumbled for the latch, which held firm with the kind of stubborn resistance only found in old things that had forgotten how to give.

Then—

A pain shot through your back so violently it knocked the breath clean out of you. Not a cramp. Not a twinge. A tearing, screaming bolt of pressure that carved its way through your spine and into your pelvis.

You yelped—sharp and sudden, breaking the silence like glass.

Dog’s head snapped toward you, ears pricked, tail lowered, body frozen like he already knew what was coming.

Beyond the bathroom door, the house went still. Even the air felt tighter.

Then—voices. Muffled but close. Too close.

“…Did you hear that?”

The footsteps outside stopped mid-step, replaced by silence thick enough to choke on.

“Sounded like a chick.”

Another pause followed—longer this time, heavier, like someone making a decision they already knew was bad. Then the slow drag of boots across floorboards. Closer.

“No fuckin’ way. You think one of them Alexandria bitches snuck in?”

A low whistle cut through the air, shrill and smug, slicing straight through your spine like a blade drawn slow.

“Well, hell. We’re always happy to share the space,” one of them drawled, slow and syrupy, now speaking like he had an audience to perform to. which, thanks to you, he now knew of. “We’re real friendly fellas. Don’t need to hide, sweetheart.”

Dog let out a soft growl that vibrated against the tile like thunder swallowed whole.

You were frozen. Still hunched half-upright, one hand on the wall, the other gripping the rim of the sink so hard your knuckles had gone white. But you couldn’t stay like that. Something was wrong.

Or right. Or inevitable.

You moved without thinking, stumbling toward the tub—the only place that felt remotely enclosed, like it might hold you together if everything else gave out. Your legs gave halfway there, and you dropped to your hands, dragging yourself the rest of the way, breath coming in ragged bursts, vision swimming at the edges. The insides of your thighs were wet—you hadn’t even noticed when it started. It hadn’t come as a dramatic gush like earlier, but rather something quieter, insidious, a slow, creeping warmth that spread beneath you like a bloom—terrible and sacred all at once.

You collapsed into the tub just as the next contraction slammed through you—deep and merciless, a wave of pressure that seized your spine and pulled you inward like your body was trying to fold in on itself. Every muscle locked, every nerve lit up like wire under flame.

The pain didn’t spike and fade—it lingered, low and grinding, wrapping around your spine and hips like a vice. It burned deep in your lower back, radiating forward in waves that made it hard to breathe, like your body was trying to turn itself inside out just to make room.

You clamped your teeth around your wrist, biting down until your eyes watered, until you tasted copper. It was the only thing that kept the scream buried in your throat, trembling just beneath the surface. Tears brimmed in your eyes as the sheer panic settled over you - it felt like everything was imminent, horrifying and yet inevitable. You had no way of managing this insurmountable pain; they were going to find you.

Your legs kicked against the porcelain, your back arched, your body writhing as if movement might outrun the pain—but it only chased you faster, lit every inch of you on fire from the inside out.

There was no room to breathe. No place to hide from it. Only the echo of your own heartbeat, hammering in your ears like war drums, and the unrelenting pressure building, building, building.

The voices outside kept going.

“We won’t bite, promise. Unless you ask nice.”

Laughter. Footsteps closer. Slower now. Teasing.

“You injured, honey? You alright in there? Why don’t you come out and we can help each other out, how does that sound?”

You were shaking, half-curled in the tub, the ache in your spine pulsing in waves. Something inside you was moving down, pushing, wanting out. And there was no stopping it. You squeezed your thighs shut as if it would prevent anything, but it was useless.

Dog readied himself in front of the door, silent but alert. If they opened it, he’d rip a throat out. But he couldn’t stop what was coming.

Another contraction crept in slow, like a tide swelling beneath the surface—relentless, inescapable, tightening every inch of you before you could brace against it. You tried to breathe through it, tried to ground yourself in anything solid: the icy drag of enamel beneath your back, the copper-sting of blood or sweat in the air, the heavy swell of your belly as something deep inside twisted and pushed like it was fighting to get out.

Tears slid from your eyes without force, without drama—silent and hot, cutting tracks through your temples and pooling into your hairline. They weren’t just from the pain, though there was enough of it to split you open. It was the fear.

Because you were alone. Pathetically, terrifyingly alone. No hands to hold you steady, no familiar voice grounding you with quiet reassurances—just the echo of your breath in that cold, peeling bathroom and the hollow stillness pressing in from all sides. The baby was coming, with or without your permission, in its own slow, merciless way. There was no stalling, no bargaining. Your body had already made the call—and now it was dragging you along for the ride.

You clenched your jaw until it felt like something might crack, teeth grinding so hard your molars buzzed. You pressed your head back against the tub, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle shaking with the effort not to lose control. You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t. They were still out there, and the only thing between you and them was silence.

Your fingers dug into the curve of your stomach like you could hold everything inside by force alone, like you could stop the pressure bearing down through your hips, steady and rising and unstoppable. Your breath came in shallow bursts—more like gasps—trying to keep ahead of the pain that crawled up your spine and bloomed behind your eyes like lightning.

Dog whimpered once, barely audible. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your whole body arched with the next wave. It was too much—too fast. Like a fist closing around your lungs. Like something inside you was tearing loose.

You swallowed the scream. Once. Twice. A third time.

—But like a cork, the pressure was too much to bear. An ungodly scream ripped from your throat like glass shattering under force. Not a cry. Not a call. A full-bodied, gut-wrenched scream that shook the house, fractured the stillness, and said everything words couldn’t.

Ragged. Guttural. Torn straight from your soul and projected out into the walls around you.

The scream hadn’t even finished echoing before the door shattered.

The door didn’t open—it detonated, shattering inward with a shriek of metal and a spray of splinters that caught the light like shrapnel. You flinched back instinctively, arms up—but Dog moved faster.

Dog lunged with no warning, his snarl slicing through the silence just before he collided with the man. Then came the sound—wet, tearing, brutal. Flesh giving way beneath teeth. The man screamed, high and ragged, but Dog didn’t stop. He was all muscle and fury, jaws locked, dragging him down with the full weight of an animal defending what was his. Blood hit the tile. Fast. Loud. The kind of sound that didn’t stop echoing.

The second man didn’t even hesitate. He stepped over his friend like dead weight, boots tracking blood, eyes already locked on the tub. You saw the grin twist his mouth before he even raised the blade in his hand—rusty, curved, already slick with something that wasn’t his.

“Well hey there, mama,” he rasped, taking another step. “Ain’t this a damn miracle—”

Thwick.

The bolt hit him square between the eyes with a dull, meaty thunk—a sound like bone splitting under pressure.

His body jerked mid-step, arms twitching as if confused, like his limbs hadn’t caught up to what just happened. He blinked once. Twice. Then his knees buckled. He collapsed in a heap, dead before he hit the ground, the bolt still jutting from his skull like a final, silent warning.

Daryl stepped into the room before the body hit the floor, moving through the dust and splinters like something carved from the wreckage—face set in stone, crossbow already lowered, eyes scanning like he didn’t trust it was over. His jaw was tight, locked down around something sharp and silent.

But then his gaze landed on you.

You were crumpled in the tub, soaked in sweat and fear, body curled tight around the swell of your belly like you could shield it from what just happened—what almost happened. Your fingers clung to your abdomen, as if keeping everything in might keep the rest of you from falling apart.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a shuddering breath and a half-swallowed sob. The pressure finally cracked. The fear, the pain, the sheer terror of being alone in those final seconds—it all surged up at once and spilled out, uncontrollable, silent tears cutting clean down your cheeks. You broke down before you even meant to.

But Daryl was already there.

He crossed the room in two long strides and dropped to his knees beside you, crossbow discarded without a second thought. His arms wrapped around you—not gentle, not soft, but sure, anchoring you like he could hold the entire storm at bay if he just held tight enough. One hand found the back of your heavy head, cradling it to his shoulder, while the other curled protectively around your back, pulling you in, grounding you.

You clung to him like he was the last real thing left in the world. And in that moment, he was.

“I—” The word caught in your throat, torn and half-formed, barely more than a gasp. “I couldn’t hold it in I—”

The rest crumbled in your mouth before it could become anything solid, collapsing under the weight of your breath and everything you’d just endured.

You felt him shift back to look at you, cupping your face—warm, steady, heavier than you remembered, like it had been carved from something meant to hold you up. The contact startled something deep in you, and for the briefest second, you recoiled, body twitching from the leftover shock—but then you sank into his hold, shoulders loosening like a dam finally giving way.

“It’s alright m’ here,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, the words shaped more by instinct than language—not soft, not sweet, but absolute.

Behind him, Negan’s boots thundered into the hallway, Siddiq not far behind, his voice rising in pure disbelief as he took in the mess—blood, Dog still tearing at what remained of the first guy, the half-shattered bathroom door barely hanging from one hinge.

“Jesus Christ,” Negan muttered. “We were gone for 5 minutes.”

You barely registered his arms at first—just warmth, pressure, the steadiness of him wrapping around you like a barrier between you and everything else. But it didn’t hold long.

The quiet was too loud. The what-ifs hit all at once. Oh god - the others

“They said there were others,” you choked, voice rising, pulling away all of a sudden, eyes wide as saucers. “Daryl, they said there were others. What if they’re still here—what if they’re hiding—what if you—”

Your breath hitched, chest tightening as panic surged up like bile. The weight of everything—the noise, the silence, the blood—crushed in all at once. Your fingers curled into Daryl’s shirt, knuckles white.

He caught your face in both hands, voice low and steady like a tether. “Hey. It’s alright. We handled it.”

You blinked up at him, vision smudged and stuttering, searching his face for anything false. But there was nothing there except the truth and the unshakable calm he wore like armor.

“We handled it,” he repeated, firmer now. “Like we always do. Don’t you worry about that.”

Your heart stumbled, skipping uneven beats, still wound too tight to trust the quiet. Still bracing for the next blow.

Your eyes darted to Negan, more specifically, his bloodied hands. Ah. They handled it, handled it. But it was Daryl you clung to—his hand splayed strong across your spine, his breath steady against your cheek. The world was still reeling, spinning—but his voice stayed with you, cutting through the noise, anchoring you to the only thing that hadn’t fallen apart. The storm hadn’t passed, not really, but in his hold, it felt like you could almost pretend. Like the world had narrowed down to the sound of his voice and the steady press of his chest against yours.

Your lips parted. You meant to speak. To say thank you, maybe. Or I love you. Or don’t let go.

But then it hit.

A contraction tore through your lower back like a blade dragged slow across bone—deep, hot, and merciless. Your legs kicked out instinctively against the sides of the tub, heel slamming porcelain with a sharp clack as your spine arched clear off the surface. Fingernails scraped along the edge, scrabbling for purchase, for anything to hold onto as your body seized and bucked under the pressure.

Your mouth fell open, lips trembling—and then the scream came.

It wasn’t words. It wasn’t even a sound you recognized. It ripped out of you like a lightning crack, guttural and full of every ounce of pain you couldn’t contain. The kind of scream that emptied you, tore your throat raw, and left no air behind.

Daryl flinched beside the tub like he’d taken the blow himself. One hand shot to your shoulder, the other bracing at your waist as if to keep you from flying apart under the force of it.

Siddiq was already moving, crossing the room in a blur—but you barely registered him. Not over the ringing in your ears. Not over the quake still trembling down your limbs, your chest hitching in broken sobs as the contraction ebbed, slow and cruel.

“Get her out of the tub,” he barked, pushing forward, his medical instincts snapping into gear. “Now.”

Daryl moved without thinking, sliding an arm behind your shoulders and another beneath your knees, hoisting you up with a grunt. You cried out again—not from the movement, but from the pressure building like a scream under your skin.

The dog moved close beside him, tail low, eyes locked to your face like he could smell the terror.

Daryl laid you gently on the tattered bathmat. You barely noticed the cold or the floor or the splintered wood where the door used to be. Your world had narrowed to the fire in your belly, the unbearable squeeze of your muscles betraying you, the rising panic that something was wrong.

“Just breathe, baby,” Daryl said, kneeling beside you. One of his hands gripped yours; the other hovered near your temple, as if he didn’t know whether to brush your hair back or just hold you still. “C’mon now. In and out. Just like that.”

You tried to stay still. To stay grounded. But your body had other plans. Another contraction slammed into you like a freight train, sharp and sudden, wrenching a sob from your throat as your back arched clean off the floor. The pain clawed its way through you in waves, leaving your limbs trembling and your breath shattered.

Siddiq was already at your side, moving with calm precision. His fingers found your wrist, checking your pulse as his other hand pressed gently against your belly, gauging the position of the baby. He murmured instructions under his breath—some for Daryl, others more like grounding reminders to himself.

In the doorway, Negan hadn’t moved. He stood frozen in place, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they were searching for something to do—anything to stop watching this unfold.

“She’s in active labor,” Siddiq said, voice low and grim. “Too fast. Way too fast.”

Daryl let out a curse under his breath, his hand steady on your waist. “What do we do?”

“We keep her breathing. We monitor the baby’s position and pray Alexandria makes it here before she has to push.” Siddiq shifted down toward your feet, already rolling up his sleeves. “I need to check how far along she is. If this baby’s coming now, we have to be ready.”

You didn’t answer—not out of resistance, but because every part of you felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. But even through the haze, your voice found a crack to slip through.

“What, no dinner first?” you rasped, lashes fluttering as you forced yourself to breathe.

Siddiq exhaled a quiet laugh without missing a beat. “We’re skipping foreplay, I’m afraid.”

A broken grin tugged at your lips, thin and shaky. “Figures. Story of my life.”

“She always like this?” Siddiq asked, his focus never leaving the task at hand.

Daryl, crouched beside you with one steady hand on your hip, gave the faintest shake of his head—half amusement, half awe. “You get used to it.”

It was meant as reassurance, you thought. But your laugh twisted into a wince as another contraction clawed up your spine. You turned your face toward Daryl’s chest, seeking the weight of him—his presence, his steadiness, the quiet way he always made the world shrink down to something survivable.

Siddiq awkwardly waited for you to move to take our pants off, but when you tried to sit up you instantlyt knew that wasnt going to happen.,

Your face flushed hot—part fatigue, part mortification. You shifted just enough to glance down at your jeans, still clinging damply to your hips, and then over to Daryl.

“Uh… honey,” you rasped, weak but trying for levity, “can you, uh—ya know… help me out here? Since you’re so good at it and all.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, half-laugh, half-exhale, and Daryl didn’t so much as blink. Just gave a faint snort that might’ve been a laugh and reached for your waistband.

Behind him, Negan turned around with a scoff, muttering, ‘Guess that’s my cue to look the other way.’”

But Daryl wasn’t fazed. His hands were steady, his voice quieter still.

Siddiq leaned forward, fingers already moving to the laces of your boots. You felt the tug as he loosened them, his hands steady even as yours trembled against your belly.

You swallowed hard. “Least buy me a drink before you undress me, doc.”

“Add it to your tab,” he said, slipping the boots free, followed by your sweat-soaked socks. Each movement felt like it came from miles away. Detached. Surreal.

Daryl shifted closer, movements smooth and unthinking, like muscle memory. His fingers were already hooked at the waistband of your jeans with quiet ease—not a pause, not a question—like it was just another part of patching you up, like he’d done it a million times before. Because, well, he had.

“Don’t get too excited,” he muttered, tugging the denim gently down your hips, “We got an audience.”

You managed a huff of air that almost passed for a laugh, even as your eyes brimmed. He didn’t look up—didn’t need to. His voice dropped low, that dry rasp with just enough warmth to keep you tethered.

“Well this isn’t humiliating in the slightest,” you breathed out, staring up at the ceiling as to not analyse their faces. Maybe if you focused on the mild on the ceiling then you could forget all about the fact your vagina was about to be completely exposed- and not in the good way.

“Pfff get over yourself,” Daryl muttered. “Seen ya naked a thousands times.”

Yeah well poor Siddiq hasnt. Daryl didn’t pause or ask because he didn’t need to; his hands moved on instinct, steady and precise as he worked the sodden denim down your hips, every motion careful but unflinching. There was no fumbling, no hesitation—just the quiet ease of someone who’d done this more times than either of you cared to count, not out of routine, but out of necessity, out of knowing your pain before you even said a word. He’d done it after long runs gone sideways, after busted knees and bloodied days, when the only thing holding either of you together was the way his hands moved—efficient, unshaken, and always with that same steady care. It was never about show, just about making sure you got through it, and no matter how bad things got, he never lost that gentleness.

When he reached your underwear, he didn’t hesitate or look away, just hooked his fingers beneath the waistband and eased them down with the same quiet focus as everything else—no nerves, no awkwardness, only that steady, practical care he always carried when it came to you, like it was second nature by now and there wasn’t time for anything but getting it done right.

“You better be turned around Negan or you’ll be scarred for life,” you called out.

From the splintered doorway, Negan had the good sense to look completely and utterly mortified. He cleared his throat, straightened his spine, and stared a hole into the wall like it might save him. “Yeah, nah. I’m good right here. Y’all got it handled.”

“If we need help, I’ll yell,” Siddiq said without glancing up, already focused, already working.

“Y’do that,” Negan muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he wished it could erase the last thirty seconds from memory.

Daryl stayed close, and without a word, shrugged off his jacket and draped it carefully over your legs, shielding you from the worst of the exposure without making a show of it—just muscle memory, the kind of quiet respect you didn’t have to ask for. Then he crouched lower, one hand brushing damp strands of hair from your face, his touch warm and steady despite the chaos still clinging to the air. Your eyes met his, wide and glassy, filled with something far sharper than pain—terror, yes, but threaded through with love, disbelief, and that shaky relief that came with almost losing everything.

Siddiq moved with quiet urgency, fingers pressing to the inside of your wrist as he counted under his breath. Then your neck. Then the hollow of your temple. Each spot told him something, and whatever it told, it wasn’t good—his brow furrowed deeper with every second.

“Her pulse is too fast,” he murmured, mostly to himself, but the weight in his voice made it land like a warning.

Then, louder—sharper—he turned toward the hallway, already moving. “Negan. Med bag. Now.”

But Negan didn’t budge.

He stood frozen in the ruined doorway, chest heaving, hands still smeared in someone else’s blood. His eyes were locked on you like his brain couldn’t process what he was seeing—like something primal had kicked him into shock.

Siddiq snapped again, this time with fire. “Negan, go. Now.”

That broke the spell.

Negan blinked, swore under his breath, and spun around so fast his boots skidded on the warped floorboards. He bolted down the hall at a dead sprint, the sound of his retreat echoing off the walls.

Back at your side, Siddiq unzipped his coat and shoved it aside to make room. His hands moved fast but precise, checking the shape of your belly, the tension of your muscles, the position of your hips. You flinched beneath his fingers. The pain bloomed raw and low like something clawing deep inside, pressing outward.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even hesitate as he reached into the bag Negan dropped a moment later, pulling out a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it snug around your upper arm.

The rubber hissed as he pumped.

Daryl moved in closer, his hand resting heavy on your knee, thumb brushing slow circles like he could draw the tension out of you by touch alone. “You’re alright,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you. “You’re alright. Just focus on me.”

You tried. God, you tried. But the edges of the room were starting to blur again, your vision hazing like fog creeping over glass.

Beside you, the cuff around your arm deflated with a soft hiss. Siddiq exhaled sharply through his nose and reached for the penlight, his focus already shifting. The beam cut through the dim air, straight to your pupils.

“Headache?” he asked, voice clipped but not unkind as he studied your reaction.

You managed a tight nod. “Feels like my skull’s about two sizes too small.”

“Vision?”

You blinked against the brightness, then glanced—mostly blindly—toward him. “Yeah, I mean, not to be rude, but you’re kind of just a fuzzy blob right now, Siddiq.”

That earned the ghost of a smirk, but he didn’t pause. His hand moved to your abdomen again, fingers pressing with gentle intent. You flinched, the tension rippling through you like an aftershock.

He felt it. Knew what it meant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “That tracks.”

Negan had gone still again, eyes bouncing between the blood on the floor and the expression on Siddiq’s face. “Wait—what the hell’s goin’ on?” he asked, louder now, like he wasn’t sure if he was more worried or pissed off.

Siddiq didn’t look up. “We’re past the warning signs,” he said tightly, more to himself than to anyone else. “This isn’t just preeclampsia anymore—this is the kind that spirals fast.”

His hand hovered at your belly, feeling for the next contraction like a time bomb ticking under skin. “If that pressure climbs any higher before help gets here, she won’t just be delivering early. She’ll be delivering in crisis.”

That shut everyone up.

You exhaled, shaky and shallow, your whole body trembling with the effort of just existing. God, you’d take the forest—spiders, walkers, all of it—over this. Over the heat pressing behind your eyes, the burn low in your spine, the way the walls felt like they were leaning in.

Siddiq reached for his med kit with the calm precision of someone whose hands had done this too many times to flinch now. The gloves snapped on like punctuation, his voice low and steady, pared down to just what mattered.

You gave the smallest nod at his motion, knowing what comes next, your breath catching as another wave of pressure twisted through your lower back, hot and wrong and far too strong to ignore.

Daryl stayed close, his arm braced against your side, eyes locked to yours like an anchor, squeezing your hand. “I’m right here,” he murmured—firm, quiet, absolute.

Siddiq crouched lower, voice still measured, speaking more to keep you grounded than to narrate. “You’re gonna feel some pressure. Just hold as still as you can.”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth and gripped Daryl’s wrist like a lifeline. Siddiq’s hand moved between your legs, careful and clinical, but the intrusion still made your muscles tense, a gasp slipping between clenched teeth as the discomfort bloomed deep and immediate. Every subtle shift in Siddiq’s brow felt like a verdict you weren’t ready to hear.

He withdrew at last, peeling off the gloves with a practiced snap.

“I’m not an expert in midwifery, but I’m pretty sure that’s 10 centimetres”, he confirmed grimly. “She’s uh- you’re fully dilated.”

Daryl exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. His grip on your knee tightened just slightly, the weight of those words hitting hard.

Negan looked between them like he hadn’t heard right. “Wait—ten? What the hell does that mean?”

Siddiq looked him square in the face. “It means the baby’s coming. Now.”

haha. That’s funny. Really funny joke Sid.

Negan, who’d been hovering near the door, stiffened. “Hold the fuck on—what? So what—you’re just gonna deliver the kid right here? On the goddamn bathroom floor?”

Siddiq didn’t look at him. He was too busy unpacking towels, gauze, and the closest thing to sterile tools he had. “We don’t have a choice. She’s too far along. Contractions are close and strong—if we try to move her now, we’ll make it worse. Way worse.”

“What does that mean?” Negan snapped, eyes darting between your face and the dark stain beneath you. “You just said her blood pressure’s through the roof.”

“And if I had magnesium sulfate, an IV drip, and a hospital bed, that would mean we had time,” Siddiq said, voice sharp but calm. “But I don’t. And if we try to haul her out of here, she could seize, stroke, or bleed out before we’re halfway down the road. You want odds? Those are your odds.”

The silence was unbearable. Thick, suffocating. Like even the house was holding its breath.

Siddiq leaned back on his heels, peeling off the gloves with a snap. His voice was calm—too calm. Like someone trying not to spook a wild animal. “It’s happening. Not ideal. But it’s happening. Right here. Right now.”

You stared at Siddiq like you’d misheard him. Like maybe the ringing in your ears had warped his words into something absurd.

“No,” you croaked. “No, that’s not—no, you’re wrong.”

Another contraction hit before anyone could respond, slamming into you with a force that bowed your spine and stole the breath from your lungs. You clenched Daryl’s shirt in your fist like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“I’m not—this isn’t—I can’t be giving birth right now, okay? That’s not what’s happening.” Your voice cracked, high and breathless. “I was supposed to make it to Hilltop. I was supposed to have a bed, supplies, and a plan. This was not the plan. Giving birth in a dingy bathroom in an abandoned farmhouse was not the plan!”

You curled forward, arms wrapped tight around your belly, trying to breathe through it—through the panic, the pain, the spiraling sense that everything was slipping past the point of control. Your body didn’t feel like yours anymore. It was all shaking heat and pressure, wet against your skin—you couldn’t even tell if it was sweat or tears anymore.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” you choked, voice barely audible at first. Then louder—cracking under the weight of it—“I can’t do this. Not here. Not like this.”

Daryl was already holding you, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other grounding your thigh, steady as stone. His voice stayed low, close to your ear, a lifeline. “You can. You’re doin’ it right now. We’re here, baby. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

But you weren’t hearing him. Not really. The panic had you by the throat now. You shook your head hard, desperate, the words spilling too fast, too raw.

“One in two, Daryl—one in two women died from childbirth before modern medicine—and that’s not even countin’ high blood pressure and seizures and god knows what else—”

You broke off, the breath knocked from your chest like a punch. A sob rose and stuck fast in your throat, refusing to move.

Daryl didn’t say anything. He turned slightly, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—like he could take the fear from you by force alone if it meant keeping you safe.

And still the pressure mounted, sharp and rising and merciless. It felt like something inside you was tearing its way out, like your whole body was folding inward, grinding bone and nerve and breath into one unbearable point.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shuddering. “I’m scared shitless,” you whispered, barely there.

Daryl leaned in until his forehead touched yours, his hand never leaving your skin. “I know, baby,” he murmured, voice rough but steady. “I know.”

You were unraveling fast. Breath shallow. Hands trembling. Every inch of your body on fire or frozen or both at once, screaming in pain and panic. “I can’t do this,” you choked out, half sob, half gasp. “I can’t—”

“Bullshit.”

The word cracked through the air, flat and sharp and impossible to ignore.

Your eyes jerked to Negan.

He hadn’t moved from the doorway, hadn’t softened a bit. Just stood there with that same unreadable look—the one he wore when everything was about to go sideways, and he knew it, and he didn’t blink anyway.

“You’ve crawled through worse,” he said, voice low and grim and iron-edged. “Fought your way through shit no one else walked away from. And now you wanna fold? In a fuckin’ toilet?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between fury and shock.

He didn’t give you room to speak. “You’re scared. Yeah. No shit. So be scared. But do it anyway. That’s what we do.”

There was nothing soft in his voice. No warmth. Just steel and fire and something that might’ve passed for pride, if you squinted.

“You don’t get to quit now,” he said. “You get that kid out, and you live. That’s the job. You hear me?”

You did. And for a beat, you hated him for it—hated that it worked, hated that something in you flickered back on at the sound of his voice, like a stubborn engine catching a spark.

Daryl’s hold never faltered. He didn’t speak, just kept grounding you with the steady pressure of his touch. But Negan’s words had done something different. They’d snapped you clean out of the spiral, cold water to the face.

The next contraction hit like a sledgehammer.

You barely had time to brace before it tore through your lower back and twisted deep in your gut, pressure building behind your pelvis like something inside you was about to crack wide open. Your eyes squeezed shut, breath stuttering into a sound that didn’t quite reach a scream—not yet. Just a ragged gasp, half-choked on terror.

“She needs to change position,” Siddiq said, already moving. “Daryl, behind her. Now. Support her back. She’s not gonna make it through like this.”

Daryl didn’t hesitate. He shifted behind you, legs on either side of yours, arms curling around your middle. You sank into him automatically, forehead falling back to rest against his shoulder as his hands settled on your belly and hip. He held you like scaffolding, like a foundation—solid and steady as the pain curled your spine.

“Ya got anything for the pain?” Daryl asked sideways, shouting over you.

“No,” he replied bluntly. “Besides, it wouldn’t kick in fast enough.”

Dog was whining by the doorway, tail thudding once, twice, ears pinned flat and eyes locked on you like he didn’t know who to protect. Negan crouched nearby, one hand wrapped awkwardly in yours, his jaw tight, mouth slack, like he was watching something happen that his brain refused to process. You couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

Your hands scrambled for something to hold, fingers clawing into Daryl’s arm until your nails bit skin. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmured into your hair, voice tight but unwavering. “I got you, baby. Just breathe.”

“Pressure’s gonna keep building,” Siddiq said, voice low and clipped. “Daryl, keep her propped up. Negan, keep her grounded. If she pushes too soon, it’ll tear her up from the inside.”

The next wave rolled in with no warning.

You screamed this time, a full-bodied, guttural sound that echoed off the cracked tile and made Dog bark loud enough to shake the walls. Your spine arched, legs kicking out instinctively before Daryl anchored them gently, whispering something you couldn’t hear over your own howling.

Siddiq moved fast, wiping the sweat from your brow with the edge of his sleeve before checking between your legs with a calm, terrifying kind of focus. His gloved hand pressed firmly to your inner thigh to keep you steady.

“She’s crowning,” he said, voice tight. “Head’s engaged. It’s happening now.”

Your whole body jolted with panic. “Oh God,” you sobbed. “Oh God, I’m gonna die.”

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Your mouth was open, your face slick with sweat and tears, your chest heaving in frantic, shallow bursts. Your hands scrambled for purchase—on Daryl’s knee, the edge of the tub, your own thigh—until Negan shoved his arm in reach and you latched on like a lifeline.

He winced but didn’t pull away, crouching lower beside you. “You’re not dying, for fuck’s sake.” he muttered, his voice rough but steady. “Quit saying that.”

His free hand hovered, useless and twitchy, like he wanted to help but didn’t know where to put it. For once, his mouth wasn’t running—it was just there, grounding you in the moment, in the panic, in the fact that someone else was still breathing through it with you.

However ou barely heard him. Your body was no longer listening to reason—just roaring with instinct, hijacked by some ancient code etched into your DNA. The pressure tore through you like a freight train. You wanted to run. You wanted to disappear. You wanted an epidural and an exorcist and a goddamn time machine.

Instead, all you had was Daryl. He held you tighter from behind, arms locked around your body like scaffolding holding up a crumbling wall. You felt his mouth press against your ear, his stubble scraping your skin, his breath steady even if nothing else was. His chest rose and fell against your back, grounding you, anchoring you.

“Ya doing great baby,” he whispered. “Won’t be long now.”

Until what? I meet my maker?

The urge to push was thunderous, rattling your ribs and flooding your spine, and oh God—something was happening. Something big.

You squeezed your eyes shut, head lolling back to rest on Daryl's shoulder, and whimpered into Daryl’s neck, your voice unrecognisable, cracking on the edge of a scream. This is it, you thought, somewhere between terror and disbelief. This is where I shit myself in front of two people and a dog.

“Push on the next one,” Siddiq said. “Only when I say. Understand?”

You nodded, barely, teeth clenched so hard you tasted blood.

And when the next contraction came, you bore down with everything you had, screaming bloody murder because walker’s were the least of your problems right now, the world shrinking to the tile, the pressure, the pain, the wet heat between your legs—and the sound of Siddiq saying, again and again, “You’re doing good. Just a little more. Almost there.”

Negan gripped your hand, eyes locked on your face in a way that made your chest twist. And Dog barked again, frantic and loud, before Negan finally had to grab his collar to pull him aside.

The air was thick with heat and blood and breathless terror.

And the baby was coming.

Your scream tore through the walls like a wounded animal, echoing off tile and cracked porcelain, raw and guttural, not even recognisable as your voice. Your hips felt like they were being split apart at the seam—bones straining, muscles locking, nerves blazing white-hot.

Siddiq’s voice cut through the haze like a scalpel. “Alright, now—push. You need to push. With the next contraction, I want everything you’ve got.”

Daryl tightened his hold behind you, arms locked firm under your shoulders, steadying you like a vice. His breath was hot against the crown of your head, his voice low and fierce in your ear. “They’re almost here, baby. Come on. Just a little more. I got you.”

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Your mouth was open, your face slick with sweat and tears, your chest heaving in frantic, shallow bursts. You squeezed Negan’s hand with all you could, as if it were an industrial stress ball. He winced but didn’t pull away, crouching lower beside you. “Alright, alright, crush my damn fingers if it helps,” he muttered, his voice rough but steady. “Whatever works”

Another contraction hit—this one longer, meaner. God, they were all blurring together; it felt like they were constant now. Your body clenched, spine bowing as you bore down with a strength that felt borrowed. The pressure shifted—lower, sharper—and you screamed again, this time with something feral behind it.

Siddiq was all business, his voice clipped. “The head’s coming. Keep going, that’s it, that’s good—just one more push—!”

It didn’t just hurt—it tore, from the inside out, a full-body rupture that felt like something blooming where nothing should, wild and violent and unstoppable. The pressure was unbearable, white-hot and deep-rooted, like being cracked open at the centre of yourself. Your legs jolted with the force of it, muscles seizing and trembling, your thighs burning with strain as your body heaved forward, desperate to be done, desperate to be whole again, even as it broke you apart piece by piece.

And then it happened.

A sudden release—wet, visceral, too real to mistake. The pressure gave with a slick, splitting jolt, like something essential had torn free, and in its place came a weight, warm and slippery and terrifying in its finality. Your breath caught mid-sob and turned into a broken cry, torn from your throat with the same violence as everything else—half-hysterical, half-relief, every nerve in your body still screaming.

And then… another sound. Higher. Smaller. Fierce in its own fragile way.

It was the best noise you and Daryl had ever heard.

Your baby.

Siddiq exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for both of you. His hands, slick with blood, held her aloft like something sacred. “It’s a girl,” he said, voice low, awed, choked with something he didn’t have time to name. “She’s breathing. She’s okay.”

You couldn’t see her. Couldn’t speak. Your head was slumped against Daryl’s chest, breath hitching in broken gasps as your body folded in on itself. A sob tore loose from somewhere deep—so deep it felt like it had been carved from your spine. Every inch of you trembled, legs spasming uncontrollably as the adrenaline fought to leave your system. You were spent. Hollowed out. Shaking like something still caught in the storm.

Daryl didn’t move—just held you tighter like you might fall apart if he let go. “You did it,” he whispered. “You did it, baby.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. The shaking had taken over now—your arms, your legs, your breath. Everything trembled with the aftershock of it. But then—

Negan moved first—quick, wordless, like he’d already been waiting. He stripped off his flannel and passed it over with uncharacteristic urgency, barely making eye contact.

“Ain’t hospital-grade, but it’ll do,” he muttered, voice raspier than usual. His eyes dropped to the squirming newborn in Siddiq’s hands, and after a long beat, he added, “She’s got your ears.”

The baby was a slick, squirming tangle of limbs and noise, her tiny body flushed with effort and fury as Siddiq cradled her with practiced hands. She was quickly bundled into the flannel Negan had offered, the faded fabric swallowing her up in mismatched colors and old bloodstains, somehow managing to look both ridiculous and heartbreakingly perfect all at once. Siddiq’s fingers moved with a kind of reverent precision as he wiped her down, clearing her nose and mouth, checking for breath and color and muscle tone, his expression pulled taut with quiet focus.

And then—he turned toward you.

Your arms lifted before you even realized what you were doing, and when he laid her in your hold, your entire body recoiled—not from fear or pain, but from the sheer, unthinkable reality of her.

She was heavier than you’d imagined. Not in weight, she was as light as a feather, but in presence, solid and undeniable, an anchor against your chest that stole the last breath from your lungs and replaced it with something sharp and bright and overwhelming.

Her skin was warm against yours, slick with sweat and the strain of what she’d just come through. Her face, scrunched in a perpetual scowl, was almost comically small, and yet it contained more life than you felt capable of holding. Her fingers curled and uncurled in twitchy little motions, fists opening like she wasn’t quite sure she trusted the air around her, like she was still debating whether this world was worth staying for.

And still, she moved; one tiny inhale at a time.

And you could do nothing but hold her, stunned and trembling, as the enormity of it—all of it—crashed over you like a tide that would never recede.

You looked down at her—at her impossible, wrinkled little face, at the hint of soft fuzz on her head, at the way she blinked like she was pissed off to be here—and your throat closed up. A sob caught somewhere behind your ribs and just stayed, too big to move.

Daryl’s arms came around you tighter, steadying yours, one calloused hand cupping your wrist as he stared over your shoulder.

“She’s here,” you whispered. “I can’t believe she’s here.”

He didn’t say anything. Just pressed his face to your hair and nodded. You felt the shake in his shoulders, the stuttered breath he was trying not to make a sound with.

“She’s got your scowl,” you mumbled, dazed.

That finally pulled a half-laugh from him—barely a puff of air. But when he looked at her, it was like the whole world got quiet around the edges.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured, the words barely making it past his throat, worn and raw like they’d been scraped up from somewhere deep inside. There was something cracked in the way he said it, like it hurt just to let the truth out, like the beauty of it was too much to hold all at once. His eyes never left her—your daughter, wrapped in flannel and wonder—and still, his voice was for you alone.

“Just like her mama,” he added after a long moment, and then bent to press a kiss into your hair, his lips lingering there as if anchoring himself to the moment, to the fact that you were still breathing, still holding the miracle he hadn’t known how badly he needed.

Your body felt like it might fold in on itself, every muscle trembling, your head thick with exhaustion and light from blood loss and adrenaline. You were wrecked—utterly, completely—but in that fragile, golden second, none of it mattered. The world had narrowed to the weight in your arms. The warmth of her. The slow, twitching movements of her impossibly small fingers.

You were holding your daughter. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the rest of the world simply… stopped.

Beside you, Negan stood slack-jawed, one blood-smeared hand covering his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His eyes were wet, though he’d never admit it. “Well,” he said eventually, voice rough around the edges, “looks like we’ve got ourselves a new mouth to feed.”

“Give her ten minutes,” you muttered, eyes never leaving her scrunched-up face. “She’ll be bossing all of you around.”

Daryl let out a low, rasping laugh, the kind that warmed through your bones. “She already looks like someone told her no,” he said, brushing his knuckle across her downy cheek. “That little face…”

You tilted your head to get a better look, squinting like she might reveal some secret. “Yeah,” you said slowly, voice trembling with awe and amusement. “She’s definitely your kid.”

He looked at you like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

And for a few stretched-out, sacred seconds, it was just the three of you—no walkers, no fear, no past. Just new breath. New blood. New life.

“Hi Georgie,” you said quietly, gazing down at your daughter. Negan’s eyes shot up to your face, as if he had misheard you. “Georgie? Like Georgette? As in-“

“As in Ma, you idiot,” you replied weakly. Your daughter's eyes flickered between her mother's and father’s faces and eventually landed on your necklace. You let out a chuckle when her small hand went to fiddle with it, as if she were magnetised to it.

And for a minute—just a minute—it felt like everything was going to be okay.

Dog padded closer, nails ticking softly on the tile. His head tilted as he sniffed the air, something like a question in his eyes. The baby let out a quiet hiccup, and that was all it took—his tail thumped once, then twice, a low wag sweeping across the floor like he already understood she was pack.

Daryl let out a breathy laugh through his nose, shifting behind you just enough to glance down at the scene—the mess of it, the miracle of it. “Guess he just figured out what was in your belly all those months,” he muttered, one hand brushing tenderly along your arm.

He waited for the comeback. A snort. A sarcastic jab. A smirk.

Nothing.

His smile flickered. His eyes tracked the side of your face—too still, too pale, your lashes unmoving where they should’ve fluttered. The baby stirred in your arms, letting out a soft squeak, but you didn’t look down.

“Hey,” he said, voice lowering. “You with me, mama?”

Still nothing.

Daryl shifted, leaning in to get a better look at your face, his arm tightening instinctively around your back as a pulse of dread curled up his spine. Your body had gone slack, like something essential had unspooled inside you.

“Hey,” he said again, low and sharp this time, the word catching in his throat. “C’mon, baby. Look at me.”

But your eyes didn’t move. They were still open, staring off into nowhere, glazed at the edges like frost creeping over glass.

His heart kicked hard against his ribs.

Dog stopped wagging. Stilled completely.

The stillness broke all at once.

Your daughter let out a sharp, hiccuping cry—small lungs straining, voice piercing the thick quiet like a flare. The sound jolted through Daryl’s chest, but not in the way it should have.

He tore his eyes from yours, looked down at the baby swaddled against your chest—her fists waving, her mouth scrunched and pink and furious—and then back at you.

Nothing. No blink. No flinch. You weren’t there.

His blood turned to ice.

“Shit—” he breathed, already moving. One arm cradled beneath the baby’s fragile weight, the other fumbling to shift your upper body into his lap. “Siddiq—!”

Siddiq was there before he could finish, eyes snapping to your face, already registering what Daryl was just beginning to understand.

“Give her to me.” The voice came from behind. Low, calm, gritted through teeth. Negan.

Daryl hesitated a half-second. But then the baby cried again, sharp and urgent, and he didn’t have time to second guess.

He turned and passed her—his daughter—into Negan’s outstretched arms.

The flannel cradled her easily. Hands that once crushed skulls now held something too delicate to even breathe wrong around. But Daryl’s attention was already back on you.

Siddiq pressed his fingers to your neck, then your wrist. “Pulse is thready,” he snapped. “Her pressure’s crashing. We’re losing her.”

“What—what is it?” Daryl asked, panic twisting his voice into something hoarse and ragged. “What’s happenin’?”

“She’s hemorrhaging,” Siddiq said, already yanking open his bag, gloved fingers moving fast, chest rising and falling in a tight, controlled rhythm. “Probably uterine atony—her body’s not contracting down. She’s bleeding out.”

The world narrowed.

Daryl looked down and saw it—what his mind had refused to register. The dark, wet spread soaking your thighs, the towel underneath blooming with red like it had been dipped in ink. The blood poured from you in a deep, relentless flood, soaking everything beneath you until it felt like the room itself was bleeding.

“No—” he growled, pressing both palms to your cheeks, trying to draw your gaze back. “Hey. Stay with me, baby. You’re alright. I’m right here.”

But your head lolled slightly. Lips parted. Skin is losing heat each second.

“Cmon, don’t do this.”

Siddiq was already working below the waist, applying pressure, grabbing a syringe. “I need to give her oxytocin—stimulate the uterus, slow the bleeding. But it might not be enough. If we don’t replace what she’s losing…”

His voice trailed off. The unspoken then what didn’t need to be said.

Dog whimpered low beside them, tail between his legs.

And still your baby cried, tiny lungs fighting while yours began to give out.

Daryl’s throat worked around a breath he couldn’t quite catch, panic carved deep into every line of his face. His voice came out rough, low—like gravel under pressure.

“She’s bleedin’ out, right?” he rasped. “I’m O negative. Take it from me.”

He was already rolling up his sleeve, not waiting for approval, just moving—because if there was one thing in this world he knew how to do, it was bleed for someone he loved.

Siddiq didn’t waste time with questions. “You sure?” he asked anyway, already pulling out a transfusion kit from the emergency pouch—jerry-rigged tubing, saline, a needle the size of a nail.

Daryl didn’t flinch. “Do it.”

Siddiq tied off his upper arm with a rubber strip, worked quickly, fingers slick with sweat and blood. The needle slid in with a snap, and blood began to pool, dark and slow at first, then stronger.

“We don’t have the proper filters or a cross-match,” Siddiq muttered under his breath, threading the line toward you as he worked. “If there’s a reaction—”

“She ain’t got time for ifs,” Daryl bit out, eyes glued to your face. “She’s cold.”

“She’s in shock.”

The words landed like a punch. Daryl barely heard Siddiq at first—too busy watching the blood pool faster than it should, spreading under you like a crimson sea. His hands were slick with it, shaking as he cradled your head, your body still limp against him.

Then Siddiq moved in, and Daryl’s head snapped toward him—just in time to see the doctor brace both hands against your lower abdomen and press down, firm and unflinching. Daryl flinched for you, gut twisting at the way your body jerked under the pressure, like you were being forced back into the pain you’d barely clawed your way out of.

“What the hell are you doing?” Daryl barked, his voice raw. He tightened his grip instinctively, pulling you closer, shielding. “She just had a baby, you’re hurting her!”

Siddiq didn’t flinch. “I know. But if I don’t do this, she’s going to bleed out. I need to stimulate the uterus—get it to contract. It’s the only way to stop the hemorrhage.”

Daryl’s jaw clenched, torn between instinct and reason. Your skin was going grey beneath his hands.

Negan hovered a few feet back, his flannel still wrapped tight around the tiny, squirming bundle in his arms. Your daughter wailed like she knew her mother was fading away, and Negan was trying—really trying—to soothe her, but his eyes were locked on you. On the blood. On the sheer volume of it.

“She’s losin’ too much,” Daryl muttered. His voice cracked. “She’s not… she ain’t movin’.”

“I know,” Siddiq said again, calmer now, steadying himself through repetition and routine. “I’m not stopping. Not till I see a pulse.”

And then Daryl’s hands faltered, his touch going still where it had been steady, fingers trembling as he leaned in close, his forehead pressing against yours with a desperation that he didn’t have the breath to voice. He whispered your name again, softer this time, like maybe if he said it gently enough, you’d find your way back to him through sheer instinct, through some invisible thread that hadn’t quite snapped yet. But you didn’t answer, didn’t stir, didn’t even blink.

Your skin, once flushed with effort and heat, had begun to lose its warmth, growing pale beneath his hands, clammy in a way that made his chest tighten like a vice. He couldn’t feel your breath anymore—not against his lips, not against his cheek, not in the way he needed to feel it to believe you were still here—and as the seconds dragged, slow and merciless, it was harder to convince himself that you weren’t slipping.

For one agonising, suspended moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the stillness of your body beneath his, the silence between one heartbeat and the next, and the haunting possibility that he was too late. Your lips had lost their color, your chest barely moved, and your eyes—open, unmoving—had that terrible, unfocused glassiness that made the ground fall out from under him.

“No,” he rasped, voice thick with fear and fury, the word barely making it past the tight clench of his throat. “No, don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

His voice cracked. “You got a kid now. You don’t get to leave her.”

Behind him, the baby’s cries had quieted into small, uncertain hiccups in Negan’s arms—swaddled tight, little chest heaving with each breath like she was trying to understand the silence that had swallowed the room whole.

“Shit,” Siddiq muttered. “Her pressure’s still bottoming. Bleeding’s slowing, but it’s not stopping.”

“What else can we do?” Daryl’s voice was thick with helpless fury. “Do something!”

Siddiq adjusted the bag’s elevation, watching the flow. “We wait. Hope it’s enough. And pray her heart holds out.”

The moment stretched. A quiet warzone of heaving breaths, tense hands, flickering candles throwing long shadows across tile that was slick with blood and rainwater.

You were barely breathing.

Your body had gone limp in his arms—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, skin pale and waxy under the dim, flickering light. Daryl’s palm hovered near your mouth, waiting for something—anything—but there was nothing to feel.

His heart thudded once. Missed the next.

Time twisted. The edges of the room blurred. The blood in his veins felt too loud, too slow, like it was moving through mud.

You were gone.

The thought landed like a knife, cold and brutal, splitting him right down the middle. His jaw locked so tight it ached. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare move.

Gone.

The word echoed, empty and absolute, ringing in his ears louder than the baby’s distant crying, louder than Siddiq cursing under his breath, louder than the blood still trickling uselessly from his own arm. He couldn’t hear over it. Couldn’t think.

His world ended in your silence.

He saw it—clear as if it had already happened. Carrying your body through those woods. Digging with raw hands ‘cause he wouldn’t wait for a shovel. That tiny baby wrapped in his flannel, looking up at him with your eyes and never knowing the sound of your voice.

His throat closed around a sound he didn’t let out.

He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to yours one last time. “Don’t do this,” he whispered. It wasn’t a plea—it was a death sentence, spoken too late. “Not now. Not after all this.”

His voice sounded so far away…

The sun was warm. Not the angry kind of heat that scorched through cracked pavement and burned the air dry—but a slow, honeyed warmth that settled into your bones, weightless and golden. It wrapped around your limbs like a second skin, coaxing the tension from your shoulders and pulling your breath into something soft and steady. The kind of warmth that made everything slow down.

The beach stretched out around you in a crescent of pale sand, fine and powdered like sifted sugar. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Just your little family, tucked away from the world, like the ocean itself had carved this place just for you. The water rolled in slow ribbons of turquoise and white, breaking in soft hisses that almost sounded like lullabies.

You were lying flat on your back atop a towel that smelled like sun and detergent and a little bit like Daryl, your bikini top loosened just enough to let the rays kiss your collarbone. One leg bent lazily, toes wriggling with every new burst of wind off the sea. A half-melted plastic cup of juice sat beside you, already full of sand, but you didn’t care. The world didn’t ask anything of you here. You were just allowed to be.

And from the shore came the sound that made the sun inside your chest burn brighter—squealing. Wild, chaotic, belly-laughing squeals. Georgie.

Your daughter was in the shallows, arms flailing in her floaties, her mop of messy, sun-lightened curls bouncing every time Daryl splashed her. She was five, which meant everything was a game, and every game was a matter of life or death.

“Daddy!” she screeched, legs kicking wildly as she tried to lunge at him with all the force of a tiny, feral seal. “No more splashies! That’s cheating!”

Daryl, knee-deep in the water and drenched from the waist down, gave the laziest shrug imaginable. “Ain’t cheating - m’ winning!.”

She let out a dramatic gasp—genuine betrayal when he splashed her again.. “You’re not playin’ right!”

You couldn’t help it. A laugh slipped out, low and relaxed, like it had been waiting your whole life to exist. You pushed your sunglasses up onto your forehead, propping yourself on your elbows to watch the chaos unfold.

“Mommmmy,” Georgie whined, dragging out the syllables like they personally offended her. She spun toward you in the shallows, sun glinting off her soaked curls as she jabbed an accusatory finger in your direction. “Tell Daddy he’s cheatin’! He’s usin’ both hands!”

You didn’t even lift your head. Just smirked, eyes closed beneath your sunglasses as you let the heat of the sun bake into your skin. “Play fair, Daddy,” you called, lazily flicking your wrist in his general direction.

Behind your closed lids, you could almost hear his shrug.

“But you said you’d come in.”

Georgie’s voice piped up from the shallows, hands on her hips like a tiny lifeguard on duty. Water lapped around her knees, dark curls plastered to her cheeks, her little chin lifted in challenge.

You tilted your head toward the sound, peeking over your sunglasses with a lazy squint. “I said I might come in,” you replied, voice slow and syrupy, every inch of you stretched out across the towel like royalty. “Still weighin’ the risks.”

She huffed in dramatic protest, and Daryl’s low drawl followed right after, crackling with amusement. “Yeah, come on, mama, get over here.”

For a moment, peace returned. Nothing but the hush of waves curling against the shore and the distant screech of gulls wheeling high above. Dog let out a huff beside you, then flopped down into the fresh hole he’d proudly excavated. His chin landed squarely across your ankle, heavy and hot, his tail thumping once before going still. Perfect.

You barely had time to crack open an eye before the sunlight disappeared. A shadow fell across your face—long, familiar, and way too smug for your liking.

“Daryl,” you warned, voice low and dangerous in that don’t-you-fucking-dare way.

Too late.

His arms slid around your waist with practised ease, hands warm and solid as they curled beneath you. In one smooth, criminally casual motion, he lifted you clear off the towel like you weighed nothing at all.

“No—Daryl, no! Don’t you dare!”

Your shriek cut through the beach air as you flailed midair, legs kicking sand in every direction, your sunglasses slipping halfway down your nose. He tossed you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his grip annoyingly secure despite your dramatic struggle.

Behind you, Dog gave an unimpressed huff and barely lifted his head.

“Put me down!” you demanded, pounding lightly on his back as he carried you with zero remorse, striding barefoot across the sand like he hadn’t just ruined your tanning session and your dignity in one go.

Georgie was in hysterics, clapping and squealing, “Get her, Daddy! Dunk her! She deserves it!”

Dog barked twice—encouragement, no doubt—and you slapped at Daryl’s back like a furious, sunbaked gremlin, your laughter tangled up in outrage.

“Dixon—put me down!”

Your voice cracked over the sound of crashing waves, but Daryl didn’t so much as flinch. If anything, the bastard grinned wider, already wading deeper into the surf with you still slung over his shoulder like a prize haul.

Georgie lost her mind, her delighted shriek echoing off the shoreline like a war cry. “YESSS! DUNK HER! DUNK HER!”

You groaned, equal parts exasperated and breathless with laughter, your sunglasses finally surrendering to gravity and flopping into the sand. “Unbelievable. You’re all monsters. Raising a tiny dictator.”

“She got it honest,” Daryl shot back without missing a beat, his boots sinking into the wet sand as the water lapped at his calves. “Apple don’t fall far.”

“Don’t you dare!” You squirmed, trying to keep some shred of dignity intact. “If you drop me—my boobs are out!”

“They ain’t.”

“They are!”

“They ain’t,” he muttered, completely unfazed by your flailing or the gleeful squeals of your child egging him on like this was trial by water.

“Daryl! I swear to God—”

He didn’t dump you—not immediately, anyway. Instead, he took his time, wading deeper into the surf with infuriating patience, like he had all the time in the world to savor your dread. The water crept higher with every step—cool and clean, curling around your calves, your thighs, your hips—until your entire body prickled with goosebumps beneath the sun.

You opened your mouth, half to protest, half to bargain—

And then—

A rush of motion. He chucked you into the air.

A flash of sky.

Splash.

The ocean swallowed you whole. Cold and bright and blinding—like the world had tipped sideways and gone blue.

When you surfaced, sputtering and gasping, Georgie was cackling so hard she nearly toppled over. Daryl just stood there with that little smug half-smile on his face, like he hadn’t just launched you into the sea like a goddamn sea cucumber. The sight of you clutching your bikini top to your chest also seemed to make him really proud of himself.

You lunged toward him, eyes narrowed against the sting of salt and vengeance. “You’re dead,” you growled, splashing through the shallows with purpose. “I hope you know that.”

Daryl immediately began backing up, hands half-raised like he was fending off a wild animal—but the smirk on his face betrayed him. “Aw, c’mon now,” he drawled, taking slow, deliberate steps away. “You love me.”

“Not right now I don’t.”

He tilted his head, still retreating. “Still married, though.”

“Unfortunately.”

Before you could deliver the finishing blow (probably a handful of seawater to the face), a high-pitched voice broke through the surf.

“Mommy and Daddy are FIGHTING!” Georgie shouted from afar. “Kiss and make up!” she demanded, smiling at the two of you with far too much satisfaction for a five-year-old.

It was a rule—one of those silly but sacred family rituals. Any time someone argued, even if it was pretend, there had to be a kiss and a make-up moment afterward. Usually, it was for her. But somewhere along the way, you and Daryl had started holding yourselves to it, too.

You stared at your daughter like she’d just betrayed the very foundation of your alliance, then turned your gaze toward Daryl—who, of course, was already grinning like the smug bastard he was. There was a gleam in his eye that spelled trouble, the kind that started in the pit of his chest and worked its way up to that crooked, shit-eating smile. You didn’t have to hear a word; you already knew what was coming.

You bolted.

Or tried to, anyway.

With a surge of determination, you turned and pushed through the water, aiming for the sanctuary of the shore—the sun-drenched sand, the warmth of your towel, the illusion of safety. But Daryl was faster. You barely made it three steps before you heard the heavy splash behind you, a sound that came with the distinct sense of doom. A moment later, strong arms wrapped around your waist and dragged you back into the surf like a hunter snatching prey.

You yelped as the two of you went under, the water crashing over your head and soaking straight through your bikini. When you surfaced, sputtering and flailing, your sunglasses were long gone, your hair a soaked mess across your cheeks, and your pride somewhere deep beneath the tide. Daryl held on like you were weightless, laughing into your ear as your limbs twisted in protest—his chest warm and solid against your back, his grip annoyingly gentle for someone who had just tackled you into the Atlantic like it was a sport.

Georgie howled with laughter from the shallows, her tiny hands thrown up in glee, her feet kicking at the foam as Dog barked from the beach behind her—caught somewhere between defending you and enjoying the chaos.

You were outnumbered. Outmatched. And soaking wet.

This was the end.

You stopped squirming with a groan, your breath heaving as you slumped in Daryl’s arms like a defeated prisoner of war.

He chuckled, low and raspy beside your ear, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “C’mon, mama,” he drawled, the smirk audible in his voice. “You know the rules.”

You sighed, the kind of dramatic exhale reserved for old married couples and stage actors on their last nerve. “Fine,” you muttered, lips curling into something between a grimace and a smile. “Let’s just get this over with.”With exaggerated reluctance, you tilted your head back and pressed your lips to his, expecting a quick peck, a formality to satisfy your tiny dictator.

But of course, Daryl had other plans. When you pulled back, he simply leaned in again, his mouth lingering against yours, slow and stubborn, and that heat in your chest sparked again, blooming through your ribs and sinking low into your belly. You smiled despite yourself, your arms slipping around his neck as your legs floated up to wrap lazily around his waist. His hands settled on the small of your back, rough palms gentle against your damp skin, holding you there like something precious. The water lapped around you both, cool and quiet, and for a moment, the world felt beautifully still.

Until—

“Ewww,’ Georgie whined from behind you.

Dog barked from the shore like he agreed.

“Your next bug,” Daryl called over his shoulder, his voice thick with laughter as he set you gently back on your feet. You barely had time to adjust your top before he took off after Georgie, who shrieked like a banshee and bolted down the shoreline, sand flying beneath her tiny feet.

You lingered there in the water, the waves brushing your calves in soft, rhythmic pulses as you watched them—your whole heart running just a few paces ahead of you. Daryl caught up to her in seconds, scooping her into his arms like she weighed nothing, spinning her once before pressing a series of dramatic, smacking kisses all over her squirming face. Georgie’s squeals echoed across the empty beach, that pure, hiccuping giggle only five-year-olds could manage, limbs flailing as she yelled, “Daddy, that tickles!”

But he didn’t stop, and she didnt want him to. They stayed there tangled in joy, the ocean swirling around their knees, Dog barking along from where he was pawing at a half-dug hole in the wet sand behind you, tail wagging like he understood exactly how precious this all was.

And just for a moment—just one long, golden second—everything held still. The breeze combed through your hair, warm and salty. The sky stretched above in a gentle, endless blue. Daryl’s laughter mixed with Georgie’s giggles, a soundtrack that felt more like home than anything you’d ever known. Just the 4 of you - Daryl, Goergie, you and Dog; Your perfect little family.

And somewhere far off, reality was waiting. But not yet.

The laughter rang on, but something in it shifted.

You couldn’t place it at first—just a tiny note off-pitch, like the hum of a string pulled too tight. Daryl’s shoulders were still shaking with laughter as he hoisted Georgie up onto his hip, but his smile looked… still. Painted on. Like it had been frozen in place.

You blinked. A breeze passed, cooler now. Sharper. The waves lapped against your thighs, and you suddenly felt them. Cold. Icy. Like the warmth had been sucked out between one heartbeat and the next.

Your smile faltered.

Georgie was calling something to you. Her mouth was moving. You could see her lips stretching wide, her hands waving frantically in your direction, but her voice didn’t come. Not at first. Not real.

Then—

“Mama?”

Just the one word, hollow as a canyon. Echoing. It didn’t match the shape of her mouth.

You stepped forward instinctively, but the water dragged at your legs. Thick now. Heavy like molasses. You looked down—

Blood.

The waves weren’t blue anymore. They were rust-red and rippling with something dark beneath the surface. Something that brushed your ankle like fingers.

You stumbled back with a gasp, but the sky didn’t care. The clouds were shifting, unnatural—stretching wide and low like someone had smeared charcoal across the horizon. The sun dimmed. The wind stopped.

The beach was silent.

Dog was gone.

Georgie was still waving, but her face was wrong—too still. Too smooth. Like porcelain painted with your daughter’s likeness. Her mouth opened again, her voice fractured:

“Mama—wake up.”

The water around you rose suddenly, dragging you with it. You flailed, heart hammering, salt in your throat—and in that flailing, for a single split second, your vision shattered.

And you saw it.

You saw the bathroom.

White tile. Blood. The tub. Your knees slick. Your belly bare.

Your breath caught.

You were dying.

No—

You had already died.

And still, Georgie’s voice echoed, distant and pleading, warped like it was coming through water:

“Mama, please—wake up…”

The bathroom returned in full. And you felt it—everything. The burn between your legs. The damp chill of tile against your spine. The raw ache where your body had emptied itself of life. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking your thighs, your back, your hair.

You were cold.

You were slipping.

But that voice. That tiny, stubborn voice—it clung to you.

Georgie. Your daughter.

You whimpered. “Baby…”

And then another sound broke through.

A gasp.

Not yours. Strong hands gripped your face—calloused, grounding, shaking with desperation. A forehead pressed to yours. A voice cracked open in the centre of your storm:

“C’mon, baby… c’mon…” Daryl.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. But you knew him. You knew the way he touched you, like he was anchoring himself to the wreckage. He was shaking. Not from fear. From the sheer force of his will to keep you here. “Don’t you leave me,” he rasped, voice low, barely holding. “You hear me? Don’t—don’t you dare.”

You weren’t strong enough. You wanted to tell him that - scream it. That your body had given everything. That you had tried.

But then—another voice. Softer. Unmistakable.

A cry. A baby’s cry.

And everything in you surged toward it. Because Georgie wasn’t just in your dream - She was real. And she was waiting.

Your lips parted. Air scraped in. Barely—but it was enough. You inhaled. Shallow. Rattling. But alive.

The world didn’t rush back. It crept. Light seeped in through your lashes. The touch of hands, the hum of voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic. Pain, yes—but also warmth.

You weren’t dead.

Your body was heavy, like it had been anchored to the bed by something deep and ancient, but your mind stirred first—drifting slowly up from darkness, scraping against dim flashes of light and sound. Somewhere in that fog, something warm moved nearby. Low and drawled, a voice was speaking to someone so gently it barely made sense.

“…ain’t gotta cry, sweetheart. You’re alright now. Daddy’s here.”

The words threaded through you like smoke, brushing against something in your chest that ached without reason. Your body didn’t feel right, didn’t feel like yours—but the voice was familiar, grounding, wrapped around your ribs like twine pulling you back together. You wanted to reach toward it, but even blinking felt like a war.

Still, your fingers twitched. The tiniest shift. A breath of motion. Just enough - and he noticed.

He must’ve been watching you even when he didn’t think he was, because the second your fingers moved, everything in him froze. And then he saw it—your eyes, half-lidded, flickering with the effort of opening—and whatever weight had been pressing down on him broke all at once.

“Hold on—” His voice cracked, sharp with disbelief, hoarse like it had been scraped raw. “Shit—wait—baby?”

He leaned forward so quickly the chair screeched beneath him, the movement jostling the bundle of blankets in his arms. But even then, he didn’t let go. He held onto her, even as his other hand found yours, gripping it gently like he thought you might vanish if he wasn’t careful. His thumb brushed your knuckles in slow, trembling circles.

“You—you’re awake? can you hear me?” His voice was breaking apart by the second, all rough edges and disbelief, like he hadn’t let himself hope until now. “Jesus, I didn’t—I didn’t think you were gonna—”

He cut himself off, jaw locking tight, breath hitched in his throat like he couldn’t quite believe he was breathing it.

You gave him a weak smile. God, you had this man wrapped around your little finger—and so did your daughter, apparently. You blinked, slower this time, and your gaze slipped to the little bundle cradled against his chest.

Your daughter.

Your daughter was alive.

And so were you.

Tears threatened behind your eyes, prickling hot and sharp, but none of them spilled—not yet. The shock of it all kept you suspended in stillness, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe, your voice stolen by the sheer weight of what you were seeing. But somehow, despite everything, your arms began to lift, trembling from exhaustion, heavy and unsure, reaching out with what little strength remained in your bones—reaching not for comfort, but for the truth that your heart had already accepted before your mind could catch up.

Daryl made a sound then—something raw and fractured, caught between a broken laugh and a choked sob—that split through the quiet like a seam tearing loose. He was already rising from the chair in a fluid, breathless motion, already leaning in, already sliding the tiny bundle into your waiting arms with a gentleness so aching it could have shattered you if you weren’t already broken open from within.

He lingered a moment longer than he had to, his hands resting over hers as if reluctant to let go, as if some part of him still needed to feel the weight of her even as he passed her into your care. But he did let go—because she needed you now more than anything, and because he did too, even if he couldn’t find the words to say it.

And when the warmth of her little body settled against your chest, when her tiny hand curled instinctively against your skin as though she had been waiting for this moment just as long as you had, something inside you loosened—and the tears finally came.

She was so small. Smaller than you’d imagined. Warm and perfect and already squirming in complaint like she had inherited every ounce of fight you’d ever poured into the world.

Tears welled hot in your eyes, slipping silently down your cheeks as you bent your head over hers; “I love you so much babygirl,” you whispered.

You held her close, breath hitching as the rise and fall of her tiny chest synced with yours. The room blurred at the edges, but the weight in your arms was real. Solid. Alive. You closed your eyes for a moment, just to feel her warmth settle deeper against you, just to remind yourself that this wasn’t some beautiful cruelty of the mind playinyg tricks in your final moments.

When you opened them again, Daryl was still there, still kneeling beside the bed, his hand resting lightly on the blanket near your hip as if anchoring both of you to this fragile, miraculous reality. He wasn’t speaking, just watching—his face raw in a way you’d never seen before. His eyes looked hollowed out and flooded at the same time, like he’d poured everything he had into keeping the world from falling apart while you’d been too far gone to hold it with him.

You turned your head toward him, slow and unsure, the movement tugging something deep in your abdomen. It didn’t matter. You had to ask. You had to know.

“What… happened?”

Your voice rasped out like sandpaper dragged over stone, brittle and worn, but it reached him. His eyes flicked up to yours, and he nodded once—not the kind of nod that meant things were fine, but the kind that meant he’d been waiting for you to be ready to hear it.

He shifted closer, folding his arms on the edge of the mattress as his eyes dropped briefly to the baby cradled against your chest. She made a quiet, breathy noise and curled tighter into you, blissfully unaware like all babies are.

“Wasn’t long after,” he said, voice thick, like he was chewing every word before letting it go. “After she came. You were out cold. Bleedin’ bad. Thought we were gonna lose you.”

Your grip around her instinctively tightened, though careful not to wake her, and Daryl saw it. His hand moved again, brushing your elbow gently. He kept going, like it hurt to speak but hurt more not to.

“Party from Hilltop showed up. Michonne, Aaron—rest of the riders. Said the herd we sent ‘em toward was bigger than we thought. Realised fast they weren’t gonna outrun it, so they rallied at Hilltop, circled back. Found us just in time.”

You blinked hard, a fresh sting behind your eyes. It was a lot to take in, each word dragging more weight behind it than your chest could hold.

Daryl hesitated again, rubbing his jaw. “Negan…” he started, and you braced instinctively, unsure what would follow, “…he didn’t let go of her. Not once. Had her in his arms from the second she was handed to him. Wouldn’t let nobody else take her. Not even Maggie, when she showed up.”

You stared, unsure if your brain had heard him right.

“She tried,” Daryl added, voice a shade quieter now. “Didn’t trust him. Can’t blame her. But he wouldn’t let her go. Said if you didn’t make it, he wasn’t gonna trusting anyone with your kid. Took some talkin’, but they let him stay. Got him locked up in one of the pens, but…”

His voice trailed off, his thumb dragging absently over a thread in the blanket. “He did good.”

You looked down at the little girl resting against you, her breath steady, her presence impossibly real. Everything inside you ached—with exhaustion, with relief, with love so large it barely fit in your body.

And still, somewhere inside, the echo of that other place lingered—saltwater, sunlight, laughter that wasn’t real. You swallowed, eyes darting toward the window before returning to Daryl’s.

“I thought I was gone,” you whispered, your voice little more than a thread, shaking under the weight of everything still trying to settle in your chest. Your gaze flicked down to your daughter again—warm and heavy against you, her little hand curled into the blanket like she belonged there, like she’d always been there. “I really did. Thought that was it.”

Daryl didn’t interrupt. His thumb brushed slow circles over the back of your hand, grounding you without pressure. Waiting.

You blinked hard, trying to focus on the weight of her in your arms and not the cold your body still remembered.

“When was out, I had a dream… I mean it felt so real,” you continued, breath hitching on the edge of memory. “With you. And her. But she was older— five. She looked like both of us somehow. Blue eyes, dimples, smart mouth. We were married, I think, and we were so happy.”

He let out a low sound at that, barely audible, like you’d just said something sacred or stupid or both.

You laughed, just a little—soft and wet and bitter around the edges. “We were on a beach. Just us. No walkers, no fences, no walls. Just blue sky and the ocean and Dog diggin’ holes like his life depended on it.”

Your eyes drifted closed for a second, letting yourself feel it again: the sun on your skin, the breeze lifting your hair, Georgie’s little-girl laughter echoing through the salt-kissed air like a song you never wanted to stop hearing.

“You were playin’ with her in the water,” you murmured. “She was screamin’ with joy, and you picked her up like she weighed nothin’, just held her like she was your whole world. She kept yellin’ at me to come join you guys, and I just… I remember thinkin’, this is it. This is the life I never thought I’d get. And I realised that.. I wouldnt get to see it if -”

Your throat constructed without warning at the thought. Staring down at her now, you couldnt bare the thought of being away from her.

Daryl hadn’t moved. He was still staring at you, eyes wide, unreadable—but shining now, glassy and rimmed with red, like your words had carved through whatever wall he’d been holding between himself and the fear of losing you.

His voice, when it came, was low and steady. “That ain’t no dream,” he said, one hand moving instinctively to rest against the tiny back of your daughter who was curled against your chest; the other going behind your head, needing you to hear his words, to believe them. “That’s where we’re headed. That’s where we’re goin’, alrigh’?”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You only nodded, slowly, the tears slipping free in silent streaks as you cradled your daughter closer to your chest like she was the only thing tethering you to the earth. Well, one of two.

Daryl’s voice came low, warm against your hair as he leaned in, the words sinking deeper than skin. “You’ll get your beach day,” he murmured, and the kiss he pressed to your head was more than affection—it was a vow, one sealed in the space between then and now, in the place where grief had nearly taken root. He lingered there for a moment, his lips resting against your temple like he was afraid to let go, like he wasn’t entirely convinced any of this was real either.

Then he pulled back, just enough to whisper, “I’m gonna get Sid, have him check you out real quick. Be right back.”

He turned—but not fast, not like he wanted to leave—and as he started to rise, you reached for him.

Your fingers curled around his wrist, soft but certain, and when he looked back, your eyes found his with a desperation that hadn’t yet been spoken aloud. You didn’t want words. You wanted weight. You wanted the grounding pull of his skin, the familiar roughness of his hands, the steady heartbeat you knew lived just beneath the scarred, calloused exterior of the man you loved. His touch made you feel real. It reminded you, over and over, that you were alive. That this wasn’t a dream. That you had made it back to him.

Your gaze dropped to his mouth before you even realised it, and that was all he needed.

He leaned down slowly, so slowly, like giving you a chance to change your mind—but you didn’t. Your lips met his with a tenderness that trembled at the edges, fragile and aching and deeply certain. You pressed forward without thinking, needing more, needing to feel him, to taste the salt of your tears on his mouth. His hand rose to your cheek, cradling your face like it was something holy, like you were something holy.

In that kiss, he said everything—You’re here. You made it. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, glancing back at you and his daughter before he disappeared through the doorway.

It took effort to move—more than you expected. Every muscle in your body felt like it had been rung out and stitched back together wrong. There was a deep ache in your core, a pressure behind your ribs, a slow pull in your lower belly that reminded you you were stitched to this world by more than breath alone. But the pain meant you were alive. It was sharp, and it was real, and you welcomed it.

Carefully, cradling your daughter against your chest, you shifted your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet touched the cool floor and you exhaled slowly, steadying yourself with one hand on the nightstand while the other held tightly to the tiny warmth against your heart. Georgie stirred but didn’t fuss—just nuzzled into the curve of your neck like she knew you needed her just as much as she needed you.

The window called to you. Step by step, you crossed the room, each movement slow and cautious, like testing the edges of a dream you weren’t sure had ended. The sun had dipped behind the clouds outside, casting the Hilltop courtyard in that silver-blue light that made everything look softer than it really was.

You reached the window. Pressed your free hand to the glass.

Leering down you saw Negan stood inside the pen, half-shadowed, his broad frame leaned back against the wooden post like he hadn’t moved in hours. He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t smirking. Just… looking.

At you.

His eyes lifted the moment you appeared in the window, locking on like some invisible thread had tugged him forward. For a moment, he didn’t blink. His gaze drifted to the bundle in your arms—saw her there, whole, safe, breathing—and something shifted in his face. It wasn’t joy, not quite. Not grief either. But it was something old and raw and quiet. Something almost like peace.

He looked at you like he’d kept his promise.

You looked back like you knew he had.

For everything he’d done—for everything you’d screamed at him, lost because of him, carried because of him—there were no words strong enough now, no apology big enough to hold it all. And still, here he was. Rooted to the dirt, hollow-eyed and waiting, because when you couldn’t be there for your daughter in the first few moments of her life, he was. He’d held your daughter like she was the last good thing left. He’d kept her breathing, protected her so that you could be standing here safe and sound cradling her like you were always meant to.

And maybe you weren’t ready to forgive him. Maybe you never fully would. He was your brother - but so was Glenn.

In that moment, with your daughter alive and safe in your arms and the man who’d once broken you staring up like he didn’t expect to be seen, you gave him the only thing you could.

Recognition.

Not approval. Not absolution. But something quieter. Something that said: I know what you did. I know why. And I’m still here.

His shoulders sank the smallest inch, as if he’d been holding that breath for years. And you just stood there, aching and alive, clutching your daughter to your chest as the weight of everything unspoken passed between you like a storm finally breaking.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was something close. And it was the best deal Negan was gonna get from you.

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