Chapter 29 - Ella

I woke to warmth.

Heavy and comforting, like a blanket made of heartbeats.

Daryl's arm was draped over my waist, his face buried somewhere between my neck and shoulder, breath warm against my skin. His chest rose and fell slow, steady. His leg was tangled between mine, anchoring me to the couch like he wasn't going to let go even in sleep.

I didn't move.

Didn't want to.

The world was quiet. The fire had burned down to glowing coals. Light spilled in soft through the windows, morning just beginning to stretch its fingers across the floor.

Everything was still.

Safe.

Then—

Tiny fingers tapped my shoulder.

"Mom," Ian whispered. "Mommmmm."

I smiled against Daryl's hair, keeping my eyes closed.

Another tap. A little firmer.

"Mom, I have a very important question."

I cracked one eye open.

Ian stood beside the couch in his pajamas, curls sticking up at odd angles, holding his stuffed bear by the arm like it had seen things.

"Yes, my love?"

"Can I be the peanut butter in the sandwich?" he asked, eyes wide, hopeful. "Because you and Dad are the bread."

I snorted. Daryl grumbled against my neck but didn't wake.

"I don't know if Dad's ready to wake up yet, baby," I whispered, brushing a hand through Ian's curls.

Ian immediately launched himself onto the couch.

Daryl jolted as a five-year-old cannonball landed on his ribs. "What the—"

"Sandwich time!" Ian shouted, crawling right between us.

I couldn't stop laughing.

Daryl blinked blearily, looking at me like he hadn't fully come back to earth yet. "Is it too late to return him?"

Ian grinned, all teeth and trouble. "You love me."

"Unfortunately," Daryl muttered, already pulling him in closer, one arm looping around our son like it was second nature.

And it was.

I tucked my head back into the crook of Daryl's shoulder as Ian settled in between us, warm and wiggly and already full of questions he hadn't asked yet.

The cuddle didn't last long.

Of course it didn't.

Ian, our sweet little peanut butter, had exactly four minutes of patience before his stomach reminded him that he was, in fact, dying.

"Mom."

I cracked an eye open. Daryl's hand was still draped lazily across my hip. Ian was already sitting up between us, dramatically clutching his belly like he was auditioning for a soap opera.

"Mom, I think my guts are gone."

"Hmm," I murmured. "That's rough, bud."

"I think they ate my brain."

"That would explain a lot," Daryl muttered into the couch cushion, still half asleep.

"DAD!"

Daryl grunted as Ian flopped on top of him with all the grace of a baby elephant. There was a solid thump followed by a muffled wheeze and a very soft "ow."

"Sorry," Ian whispered, not sounding sorry at all. "But also I'm starving. Like, I could eat two cows. Maybe three."

I sat up with a groan, stretching my arms overhead. "Alright, alright. Let me make breakfast."

Ian gasped. "I'll help!"

Daryl peeled himself off the cushions, rubbing his face. "God help the kitchen."

"You love us," I reminded him with a smirk, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"I'm rethinking it," he muttered, but his arm was already reaching out to ruffle Ian's curls.

I was halfway to the kitchen when I heard it.

The softest little squeak.

Then a babble.

Then—

"RUBY!" Ian yelled. "I GOT HER!"

Daryl and I both froze.

My heart shot up into my throat.

"Ian, no!" I shouted, already moving. "Do not—"

Too late.

There was the scrape of the chair being dragged across the floor.

Then the unmistakable sound of little feet climbing.

Then—

CRASH.

WAIL.

"I GOT HER LEGS!"

I bolted.

Daryl was already in motion, thudding past me into the nursery, shirtless, half-dazed, definitely swearing under his breath.

We skidded into the doorway at the same time.

Ian was hanging off the side of the crib, one leg hooked over the railing, both arms wrapped under Ruby's thighs like he was hauling a sack of potatoes.

Ruby, to her credit, looked mildly alarmed—but not crying.

Yet.

Then she spotted me, and that was it.

The wail that erupted could have shattered glass.

I scooped her up before she could actually hit the floor, and Daryl snagged Ian off the crib like he was plucking a kitten off a fence post.

"I was helpin'!" Ian cried.

"You were about to launch your sister into orbit," Daryl said, hauling him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"She was cryin'! I was bein' the bestest big brother!"

Ruby was now sobbing into my neck, face squished against my collarbone, hands grabbing fistfuls of my shirt like the world had wronged her personally.

"Okay, okay, it's alright," I murmured, bouncing her gently. "Your brother meant well, but he is absolutely not cleared for crib extractions."

"I had a system!" Ian insisted as Daryl carried him back down the stairs.

"Yeah," Daryl grumbled. "System involved a head injury and a lawsuit."

I followed, Ruby slowly settling against me with a few hiccupy gasps and a very serious baby glare.

We regrouped in the living room, a little breathless, very rumpled, and completely surrounded by chaos.

Daryl looked over at me as I sank back onto the couch beside him, Ruby now calm and suckling her thumb, Ian sitting cross-legged in his lap.

He raised an eyebrow. "Breakfast?"

I nodded. "Coffee first."

We both sat there for a second, heads back, kids on us like extra limbs, and I laughed.

Just a little.

Breakfast was, by some miracle, edible.

Daryl scraped a plate in front of me with a little grunt like he was presenting a gourmet meal, despite the fact that the eggs were... aggressively scrambled, the beans slightly charred, and there was a single canned carrot plopped in the middle like it was garnish.

Ian was already elbow-deep in his food, chewing with his mouth open and humming a song he was clearly making up on the spot.

Ruby sat in my lap, watching all of it with her usual quiet intensity, like she was observing a species she hadn't decided whether to trust yet.

I took a bite. The eggs were... warm. And not ashes. I smiled.

"It's perfect."

Daryl raised an eyebrow. "You're lyin'."

"Obviously. But I love you."

He grinned and leaned over to press a kiss to my temple.

Ian smeared peach juice down the front of his shirt. "I helped!"

"You sure did, buddy."

After breakfast, Daryl stood and stretched, his shirt riding up just enough for me to consider locking the door and keeping him inside all day.

Ian tugged on his dad's hand. "Can we fix the bike now? Pleeease?"

"Yeah," Daryl said. "Let's go see what kind of damage the Saviors did to her."

They grabbed their tools and headed out, Ian still babbling about how he was gonna fix the engine and maybe add rocket boosters "like in the cartoons."

The door closed behind them, and the house fell into a hush.

Just me and Ruby.

She was sprawled out on the quilt in the living room, tummy down, cheeks puffed, grunting with frustration every time she kicked her legs.

"Come on," I whispered, lying down beside her. "You've got this, baby girl."

She kicked again, harder this time. Her arms wobbled beneath her, and for a second I thought she might cry.

But then—movement.

One shaky inch forward.

My heart exploded.

"You did it!" I gasped. "Come on, do it again!"

She looked at me like I was being dramatic (I was), then gave one more solid push and crawled.

Wobbly. Crooked. Slow.

But she did it.

"Daryl!!" I shouted toward the window, voice high with excitement. "She crawled!"

Nothing.

I frowned and turned toward the door.

That's when I heard it.

The motorcycle.

The engine sputtered to life out front—low, rough, familiar.

My stomach dropped.

I turned toward the window, expecting to see Daryl straddling the bike.

But it was empty.

No Daryl.

Just Ian, running back into the house, cheeks flushed, carrying a wrench like it was a trophy.

"Mom!" he yelled. "Ruby crawled, I saw her! Also, Dad said to come inside and you'd get him later—"

The bike roared.

My chest tightened. "What?"

Ian blinked up at me. "He said not to worry. Just needed to check something real fast. That's all."

But I was already moving to the door.

Something wasn't right.

Not at all.

"C'mon, baby," I muttered, stooping to scoop Ruby up and settle her on my hip. The roar of Daryl's bike was already fading—too far, too fast.

I shoved my feet into my boots like the floor had personally offended me.

Ian chased after me as I flung the door open, storming down the street in rage and mother instinct. I spotted Daryl up ahead, gunning it toward the gate like I wouldn't notice.

"DARYL DIXON!" I shouted, my voice cracking like a whip. Ruby flinched in my arms.

"Dad! You better stop!" Ian yelled after him, voice shrill and giggly. "Mom's mad!"

Daryl glanced back—just a flicker—but shook his head and kept going.

He dropped the kickstand like punctuation and stormed the gate.

"I swear to every goddamn star in the sky, if you walk out that gate, I will hunt you down and drag your sorry ass back by your hair!" I shrieked.

He didn't stop.

Didn't even flinch.

I watched the rusted van rumble to life. Glenn and Michonne were already climbing inside. Abraham moved to block the path, arms up.

"DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE!" I screamed at them. "I swear to God—"

I jogged faster, rage buzzing in my blood. Maggie stepped forward and I passed Ruby into her arms, pressing a quick kiss to her head.

"Watch her," I said, breathless. "And Ian."

Ian tugged at my hand, eyes wide.

"You goin' after Dad?" he asked.

"I am," I said, crouching to kiss his forehead, brushing the curls back from his face. "I'll bring him home, baby. I promise."

He nodded, serious, like he was sending me to war.

I turned, grabbed the nearest gun, and shoved it into my belt without hesitation.

Glenn opened his mouth to speak as I stalked past him.

"Don't," I snapped, voice low and shaking. "He's my husband. And I'm gonna drag his dumbass back here if I have to tie him to the bike."

Glenn blinked. And nodded.

Rosita fell in step beside me, silent, loaded with fire of her own.

We climbed into the back of the van.

I sat stiffly, leg bouncing hard enough to rattle the metal.

Daryl thought he could just walk out?

Not today.

Not on my watch.

We pulled up beside the train tracks, the van barely stopped before I threw the door open and jumped out.

A walker hunched over a body—Denise.

I saw the boots first. Then the blood.

My stomach twisted.

Rosita stepped forward, blade swinging.

"This is her," she said, voice hollow. Her machete sliced through the walker's skull. "We should've brought her back."

I couldn't look at Denise. Couldn't stop. I moved straight for the woods behind her, eyes sharp, scanning like he'd taught me. A flash of metal caught my eye.

Branches cracked as I shoved through the brush—and there it was.

Daryl's bike.

"His bike's here," I snapped, yanking my knife free and gesturing toward it.

"So he started from here?" Glenn asked, glancing around.

"Looks that way," I muttered.

"Which way did Dwight run?" Glenn asked Rosita.

She didn't answer.

"Rosita," he pressed.

Still nothing.

Then, finally—quiet. "We should let him do this."

I turned so fast it rattled my bones.

"Fuck you," I hissed. "He's not doing this on his own."

"Ella—"

"No! He doesn't know what he's doing!" I shouted, hands shaking. "He's in pain, he's spiraling, and he's gonna get himself killed! We have two kids at home. If you think I'm leaving here without him, then fuck you again. Now which way did he go?"

Rosita nodded toward the trees.

And we moved.

I dropped to the ground, eyes locked on every track, every bent blade of grass. Every sign of him. My heart thudded harder with every step.

"He's close," I whispered.

Then we broke through the tree line—

Thwip!

An arrow slammed into the tree beside Rosita's head.

"Daryl!" I screamed, rage flaring white-hot.

He turned. Angry. On edge.

I didn't stop.

I stormed over to him and yanked the bolt from the tree, holding it like a weapon.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" I shouted.

He stormed up to me, just as pissed. "You shouldn't have come."

He snatched the bolt from my hand, turned to walk away.

"No!" I grabbed the back of his vest, yanked him hard. "You are going to tell me what the hell happened between breakfast and the goddamn porch! You left Ian sitting there alone, Daryl! Our son! After I told you not to go!"

"Ella, I love you, but stop!" he growled, backing away. "I gotta do this."

I grabbed his sleeve, yanked again. "Don't you dare pull that shit on me."

He shook me off, spun away again.

"You don't get to do this!" I screamed. "We said no more shutting each other out! You don't get to disappear and not tell me why!"

He stopped. Turned. "STOP! I have to do this!"

I stomped up and slugged him in the shoulder.

He flinched—but kept walking.

"Oh, hell no."

I stormed after him, grabbed him by the collar and yanked hard until he was forced to look at me.

"You think Denise would want this?! You think she'd want you to throw yourself into the fire just to feel something?! You're not a goddamn idiot, Daryl—you're gonna get yourself killed!"

He ripped my hands off his shirt.

Turned away again.

And I snapped.

I kicked the back of his knee—hard.

He went down fast, face-first into the dirt.

Before he could react, I straddled his back and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up just enough.

"You are not leaving me to pick up the pieces," I snarled in his ear. "You want to wallow in guilt? Fine. But you're gonna do it at home. With me. With our kids. You do not get to do this alone!"

He grunted and rolled, flipping me beneath him, pinning my wrists to the earth. His face was inches from mine, eyes blazing, chest heaving.

"Ella," he growled, voice trembling, "you don't get to manhandle me like you do everyone else."

I stared up at him, chest aching.

"I'm doin' this. Whether you like it or not."

I blinked, tears springing unbidden.

"You're not my mama," he muttered. "You don't get to tell me I can't do this."

His forehead dropped to mine. The words shook as they came out.

"It's my fault she's dead. It's my fault he's still breathin'. I have to do this. And you... you can't stop me."

My breath hitched.

And I whispered, "I'm not your mama, Daryl. I'm your wife. And I won't stop trying to save you."

Daryl's weight held me to the forest floor, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to mine, his hands tight around my wrists like if he let go, he'd fall apart.

But then he pulled back.

And started to get up.

"No," I said, struggling beneath him. "We're not done."

"I am," he said, voice like gravel.

He moved to stand.

I grabbed his vest.

"Don't you walk away from me!"

He yanked free. "I told you, Ella—I gotta do this! You don't get it, you never—you didn't see it."

"I see you!" I screamed, scrambling up. "And I see the way you're drowning in guilt that doesn't fucking belong to you!"

He turned. "It does! I let that piece of shit take my bike, take my bow, and now he's takin' people's lives! And I just let it happen—"

"You didn't let anything happen! He had a gun to our heads, Daryl!"

"I shoulda done something!"

"You could've gotten us both killed!"

"Maybe I should've!"

My breath caught.

The woods went dead quiet.

Even Glenn and Michonne, halfway through pushing past a few walkers, froze.

"No," I whispered. "You don't get to say that. Not when our kids are back home. Not when I'm right here fighting for you."

Daryl turned away.

That did it.

I lunged after him, grabbed the strap of his crossbow.

He whipped around, trying to throw me off—and shoved me.

Not a little brush-off, not a stumble.

A full, two-handed shove that knocked the air out of my lungs and sent me hard into the dirt.

It wasn't enough to hurt me.

But it was enough to break me.

Everything stopped.

The forest, the wind, the sound of my own heart.

I blinked up at him—at my husband, the man who once shook just from the thought of touching me too rough—standing there with murder in his eyes and grief crawling under his skin.

He realized what he did the second I hit the ground.

His face changed. His hands dropped limp at his sides.

"Ella," he breathed, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean—"

I got up slow.

Wiped the dirt from my palms.

Then I slapped him.

Hard.

His head snapped to the side.

The sound echoed like thunder.

And for a second, neither of us moved.

Neither of us breathed.

"You shoved me," I whispered.

His throat bobbed. "I know."

"You've never touched me like that in your life."

"I know."

My hands trembled. My voice shook.

"I have walked through fire for you," I said. "I've bled for you, killed for you, built a life with you—and today, you shoved me. And for what? So you could die for someone who's already gone?"

Tears blurred my vision. "Denise is dead. And you think the only way to make that right is to die too. But what about me? What about Ian? What about Ruby?"

"I told you—"

"No!" I screamed, my voice ripping from my chest. "You don't get to treat me like this! You don't get to shut me out, shove me to the ground, and pretend like I don't fucking matter!"

Daryl's hands went to his head, fists pressing to his skull like he could beat the thoughts out of it.

"I'm not okay!" he shouted. "I can't breathe! I see her—I see her everywhere. That arrow, her eye—my arrow!"

He turned away. Shoulders shaking.

"I let him live," he whispered. "And she died because of it."

He didn't look at me.

Just turned.

And walked.

Again.

My hand stung.

My chest burned.

But I wasn't done.

I followed.

"Go ahead," I snapped, trailing him. "Keep running. I'll still be behind you. You can break my heart, Daryl, but I will not let you break yourself."

Rosita moved to follow, but Glenn touched her arm.

"Let them go," he said quietly. "They'll either kill each other or come out stronger."

"They're a team," Michonne murmured. "Even now."

And so we walked.

Daryl ahead, shoulders tight.

Me behind him, steps matching his, refusing to fall back.

Because no matter how far he went...

I'd follow.

The forest went still.

Not quiet—still.

Like the trees were holding their breath.

Daryl stopped so suddenly I nearly bumped into him.

He lifted a hand—just one—and I froze.

Something ahead. I could feel it too.

We ducked low, crept to the edge of a slight ridge.

And then I saw them.

Glenn. Michonne. Rosita.

All tied up.

Hands behind their backs. Knees in the dirt. One of Michonne's eyes already swelling shut. Glenn's lip split. Rosita's cheek bleeding.

And standing in front of them—

Dwight.

My stomach twisted.

Not because he had a gun.

Not because he was here.

But because of what he looked like now.

His face.

The skin along one side was scorched, shiny and red and melted like wax. His ear was half-missing, twisted and puckered with scar tissue.

It was horrifying.

It was personal.

He was the same son of a bitch who pointed a gun at me, stole my bow, and made me watch him walk away with the man I loved. And now?

He had our family.

I turned to Daryl, eyes wide.

"You didn't tell me," I whispered. "You didn't tell me what happened to his face."

Daryl didn't look at me.

Didn't blink.

His eyes were locked on Dwight.

"No time," he muttered.

But I saw the twitch in his jaw.

The way his knuckles tightened around the grip of his crossbow.

And I understood.

This wasn't just vengeance.

It was personal.

"What's the play?" I whispered.

He glanced at me.

And for the first time since the fight, we saw each other.

Really saw each other.

And the fire shifted.

Not gone.

Just focused.

We moved like shadows.

Low. Silent.

The snap and crackle of fire ahead masked our steps—just enough. One of Dwight's men had built it lazy, letting the flame spit and hiss through damp wood. It bought us time.

But not enough.

Daryl crouched behind two trees, just ahead of me. He peeked through the gap—and froze.

Glenn saw him.

Daryl lifted one finger to his lips, slow. Don't.

But Glenn didn't stop.

His head jerked to the side, frantic. Desperate.

Daryl didn't move.

Neither did I.

And then—

"Hi, Daryl."

Dwight's voice cut through the trees like a razor.

I didn't breathe.

A click followed—the unmistakable sound of a round sliding into place.

My gun lowered instinctively as something cold pressed to the back of my head.

Shit.

Another one of Dwight's.

I could feel his breath behind me.

Could feel the tremble in my fingers.

Time stilled.

And then—

BANG.

The world went white.

And then red.

Fire ripped through my side. My legs gave out.

I hit the ground in a blur, blood already soaking through my shirt, spreading fast and hot.

My fingers twitched.

The trees blurred overhead.

I blinked once.

Daryl's face—twisted, screaming—his mouth moved but I heard nothing.

Only the ringing.

Only the pain.

And then—

Darkness.