Archive of Our Own

The scorching heat of the day created mirages all around I-85. It roasted the graveyard of abandoned cars mercilessly, making the metal frames groan under their own weight. 

Sweat dripped down Shane’s temple as he crouched beside the open hood of an old pickup, his fingers slick with black oil as he yanked at a stubborn battery cable, trying to salvage the mechanism underneath. 

His shirt clung to his back and every sound around him put his teeth on edge—the group’s nervous whispers, Rick’s firm orders, the goddamn cicadas screaming like the world hadn’t ended. 

Shane’s body hummed with anger ever since Lori snapped at him at the quarry. Looked at him like he was a piece of shit she’d scraped off her shoe. So he wasn’t exactly in a great place. Didn’t have the patience. And wasn’t exactly as focused as he should have been.

Until he heard that crunch of gravel. Then, a shadow in his peripheral—someone moving where they shouldn’t be. 

Shane wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving black streaks of car oil, then took a quick look around, gun already in hand.

Another flicker of movement at the edge of his vision had Shane’s fingers tightening around the wrench in his other hand. It was too quick to be a walker. Too deliberate. Which meant something even worse. 

“You best step out where I can see you!” The words rolled out thick with that Georgia drawl.  

He stepped closer towards the sound, ready to swing or shoot. That recent, neverending fury reared its ugly head. He was almost glad for a fight.

Shane crept alongside the rusted corpse of an SUV, until he heard another scrunch of the gravel. Lighter. Smaller. A kid? He turned that way.

And that’s when he saw the dog—hulking, scarred, the kind of animal that could rip a man apart. Some type of pitbull, no doubt, at least ninety pounds of pure spite and muscle. 

For a moment Shane considered the distance and how sure he was of his aim. If he missed, that thing would charge. Hell, it probably would even if he shot it.

The dog’s growl sounded like it was already picturing tearing out Shane’s throat. It occurred to him that maybe it was infected—until a sharp command sounded somewhere nearby:

“Rocky. To me!”

The dog let out a quiet whrrf , as if annoyed he got called away from tearing the man to shreds. It slowly retreated behind the toppled rusted SUV.

But that voice. 

Shane hesitated, just for a second, before the suspicion kicked in. He was hearing things. That could be any damn girl out there. Ain’t no such thing as coincidence anymore, not when every shadow hid teeth or a bullet to the head. 

“Y’wanna come out nice and easy, sweetheart!” Shane called.

“Or what?!”

Someone must have noticed Shane’s stance, because he heard heavy boots nearby, then the telltale creak of a crossbow being shouldered. Daryl.

Not the worst person to watch his back, if he was being honest. Shane didn’t turn, didn’t take his eyes off that SUV. 

“Well, way I see it, y’got two choices, darlin’. Either holster whatever you’re hidin’ and talk civil-like, or my buddy back there starts askin’ questions with arrows.”

Then— 

The damn woman laughed. And it was a bright sort of laugh, one he was positive he…

No. Didn’t mean shit. 

The heat made the air waver, he was probably dehydrated. Could’ve been anyone. But Shane’s gut already twisted with something he didn’t have a name for anymore. Nostalgia. Or something equally stupid.

His grip on the pistol didn’t loosen, but his finger eased off the trigger. He dropped that wrench and held out his hand to Daryl to stand down. Daryl shot him a look like he was crazy—rightfully so.

Shane said your name. The word came out gruff, like he was testing it. He squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out the shape behind the SUV.

The dog—Rocky—let out another warning growl, but Shane didn’t give a shit. His focus was locked on the shadow moving between the cars. Seeing someone familiar didn’t necessarily mean great things these days. The reunion with Rick hadn’t exactly been happy.

Boots shuffled, a gun’s safety clicked, and a familiar figure emerged from behind that SUV. You. Shane’s gaze dragged over you—thinner than he remembered, but still standing. Still breathing. 

“I’ll be damned,” he said, still in disbelief. But he put the gun away.

“We good?” Daryl asked and Shane just nodded. Daryl lowered his crossbow.

Shane noted the collection of knives you had, which… Figures. You were always great with sharp objects—the only one who never let him get out of her chair without a proper fade, and who always gave him shit for never tipping enough. Not to mention all those jokes you let him tell over the years, Jesus Christ.

For a second, Shane just stared, his pulse kicking up. The world had a sick sense of humor, reuniting you here, now, when he was already wound tight enough to snap. 

“The hell you doin’ out here alone, sweetheart?" he called. The endearment just slipped out. “Ain’t exactly sightseein’ weather.”

You looked equally shocked to see him, if not more. And then you spoke, with that same shit-eating grin on your face:

“Shane fuckin’ Walsh!” You tilted your head to the side. “You still owe me a tip for that last appointment.”

Daryl let out a chuckle, before Shane shot him a look. “She was my barber.”

“Uh-huh.” Daryl raised both hands in capitulation, then stepped aside. Still smirking, though.

“Always were a smartass,” Shane muttered, looking at you. 

The sight of you should've been a goddamn relief, but relief was for people who still trusted things to work out.

“Well, goddamn.” You walked up even closer, that monstrosity of a dog still glaring at Shane. “Your hair looks like shit. ”

Shane let out a laugh, a very short-lived one, but he just couldn’t help it. You were always the one who listened to him bitch about meaningless stuff he couldn’t even remember by now. But no matter what kind of day it was, you could always make him laugh. He couldn’t say that about many.

“Ain’t exactly the kinda world where a haircut’s high on the priority list, sweetheart.”

“It damn well should be!” you deadpanned, shaking your head, but then you grinned and that… That made him feel even worse for never checking if you got out of that town alive.

The fact you were still breathing when so many weren’t made him think back to that day—Rick, people gunning down nurses and doctors at the hospital… For a moment it was like he was reliving that flashback. But then Lori’s voice hissed in the back of his skull and that brought him back to now.

Daryl shifted his weight a few steps away, crossbow loose but ready. Shane caught the sideways glance the other man shot between the two of you. 

“She legit?” Daryl grunted.

Shane’s jaw worked before he gave a short nod. “Yeah.” 

The admission felt strange—like digging up something he made sure stayed buried.

Your dog’s ears flicked forward at the movement of someone approaching from the main group. Shane didn’t need to turn to know it was Rick. He could tell by the measured footsteps. 

Time to make the call.

Shane holstered his sidearm with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving you. “You stayin’ or goin’?”

Either answer would complicate things, but suddenly the idea of you just walking away sat all wrong in his gut.

“Goddamn,” you shook your head, “you sendin’ me away, Shane Walsh?” You clicked your tongue, but also never stopped with that same little grin. 

Shane hesitated.

“Ain’t my group anymore to be sendin’ anyone anywhere,” he said.

“Sit. Good boy,” you said to Rocky, because the dog looked like it was very much getting ideas about chomping on Rick’s calf. 

The dog obediently settling at your command didn’t make him relax—just made him reassess the threat. That was a well-trained animal, and the way you gripped that shotgun was not incompetent either. That meant you’d survived this long for a reason. 

Finally, you shook your head and flicked your wrist in the general direction of his head. “I ain’t leavin’ you with that there on your head.”

Shane barked a laugh that sounded more surprised than amused, shaking his head as he scraped a hand over his sweat-slicked unruly curls. “Christ, woman. You haven’t changed a bit.”

That answer, the familiarity and the fact Shane didn’t bristle—he laughed —didn’t make Rick any less curious about who the hell you were.

Rick’s voice was measured, the way it always was when he was trying to play peacekeeper. “You two know each other?”

The unspoken question underneath— How much trouble is this?

“Uh, this here is Rick Grimes,” he said without turning around, jerking his thumb backward like he was pointing at a car accident. “Rick, this…” He hesitated. “Remember the times I actually looked presentable? Yeah, that was her doing.”

Daryl snorted from where he leaned against a busted-up Toyota, arms crossed.

“You’re Rick?” Your eyebrows rose and you extended your hand to introduce yourself. “ The Rick?”

Shane clenched his jaw. The way you said “the” made Shane even more tense. Too much history in that simple word.

“Well, shit,” you drawled. “Shane told me so much about you I feel like I already know you.”

Rick’s grip was firm, polite, but his eyes flicked to Shane like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Good things, I hope,” Rick said, that folksy charm oozing out like syrup.

Shane scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t flatter yourself. Mostly just bitchin’ about your taste in ties.” 

You didn’t seem to notice the tension—or maybe just didn’t care. 

“The way Shane talked about you, figured you’d be ten feet tall.”

That didn’t ease the fifty-pound weight in Shane’s gut. Rick looked even more drained.

Seems that the other shoe just dropped.

Daryl had the good sense to stay quiet for once, just chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette, but still smirking like this was the best damn soap opera he’d ever seen. 

“Christ,” Shane muttered, mostly to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t exactly the time for walkin’ down memory lane, sweetheart. You stayin’ or goin’?”

Rick cleared his throat, that quiet, deliberate sound he always made when he was trying to steer a conversation away from an oncoming trainwreck.

“We could use another pair of hands,” he offered, diplomatic as ever. “And if Shane vouches for you, that is good enough for me.”

Shane’s head snapped up. The casual trust in that statement— if Shane vouches for you —hit him like a sucker punch. He wasn’t used to Rick giving him that kind of slack anymore. Not since…

“Yeah, well,” Shane muttered, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw, “just ‘cause I ain’t shot you yet, darlin’, don’t mean no five-star review.”

That damned grin of yours hadn’t faded one bit.

Rick watched Shane with that unreadable cop look, but Shane could tell there was something underneath it. Probably the question of how much of the man Rick’d known was still left under all that bile.

Daryl finally broke the silence by spitting out the mangled end of his cigarette with a flourish. “Reckon we got us a regular Barbie Beauty Parlor now,” he drawled, nodding toward you. “Should be fun.”

It seems that was that then. Shane took you back towards the main group, but he quickly realised that even if the others were curious about the newcomer, they sure as hell weren’t particularly thrilled about Rocky.

“Don’t have no collar for ‘im,” you said to Shane, quietly. “But he’s trained sharper than an army sergeant, you got my word on that, Shane.”

Shane shot another look down at Rocky. Jesus, that was one hell of a dog.  Rocky matched your stride with eerie precision, and even if Shane wouldn’t just take your word for it, it showed with how obediently Rocky walked by your side.

“Hope your word’s worth more than your jokes, darlin’”, he muttered, but he didn’t argue. 

“Shut the hell up, Shane, you loved my jokes ‘n’ you know it.”

The way the pitbull’s ears flicked toward every rustle in the underbrush told him enough—this wasn’t some pampered house pet. 

Still, most in camp instinctively took a half-step back when they saw that hulking thing. Until Shane spoke up:

“Everyone relax,” his voice was sharp, used to giving orders. “Dog’s with her. Ain’t gonna bite unless she tells it to.”

Lori stood near the fire, arms crossed. Shane didn’t miss the way her gaze darted between you and him, like she was mentally calculating the variables of yet another complication. Just then and there Shane decided he wasn’t in the mood for her silent interrogations and he ignored her. 

“We need to set up watch rotations. Everybody get organized,” he said to the group at large, deliberately avoiding Lori. “It’ll be dark soon. Ain’t takin’ chances.”

He went back to the southern edge of the camp to make sure the perimeter was secured. When he came back, you were sitting down on an overturned crate, rubbing on your left shoulder with a grimace of pain. Rocky settled beside you like a quiet sentinel. 

Shane studied the dynamic just for a moment—how the dog’s hackles stayed smooth under your idle scratches, how his tail gave a couple slow thumps against the dirt when you muttered something under your breath. 

“Keep him close,” Shane finally said. “Don’t exactly know this area all that well yet. We’re still on the go.”

“Always do,” you answered, but now your voice was softer, that smirk a little less sharp. “You should see him take down a walker. Rocky smells them out fast. I taught him a signal. These jaws, look here,” you gently touched the scarred muzzle. “One time saw him take a walker’s leg, clean off.”

Shane exhaled through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face. Now he was a little more convinced that your reunion could just be something good, for once.

He crouched down on his haunches beside the crate, elbows resting on his knees as he studied Rocky with fresh eyes. The dog’s muscles tensed slightly under his scrutiny, but a quiet noise from you had him settling again.

“Guess he’s one hell of an early warnin’ system,” Shane admitted grudgingly.

The thought of not having to rely solely on human watch rotations was damn appealing, especially with Rocky’s canine sense of smell. Shane could only imagine how much a walking pile of rotten meat could stink for a dog.

He glanced over the scattered remains of their makeshift camp, the way Carol nervously eyed Rocky from a safe distance, while Carl watched with open fascination. “Kid’s gonna pester you ‘bout that dog ‘fore sundown,” Shane warned, nodding toward Carl. 

From Shane’s stories, you remembered him mentioning Carl and Lori. This must have been them. But you noted something sad in the way Shane said it, so you changed the subject:

“Got any free tarp?”

“Help yourself,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the half-organized mess of bedrolls and tarps. “Unless you’re plannin’ to sleep in one of these rust buckets, I ain’t gonna stop ya.”

You laughed, because even with his gruffness you still could sense when he wasn’t entirely serious. Something stirred inside him upon hearing that laugh. Because it really was exactly the same. Even after all that happened, it seems you didn’t let that part of you die and Shane was damn glad for it.

Standing up, Shane jerked his head toward the cluster of vehicles. “Got my car over there with most of the seats still intact. Better than sleepin’ on dirt.” 

The offer slipped out before he could stop it, you could tell. But you didn’t leave him hanging:

“That sounds great, to be honest.” You got up and grabbed your stuff, your biceps bulging slightly from hauling all that shit around. Shane moved like he wanted to help you with it, then decided not to. You could manage. 

In the meantime, your easy rapport with Shane didn’t go unnoticed around camp. You could feel eyes on you, but you didn’t particularly want to imagine why that was.

“Tarp’s old but ain’t got no holes,” Shane said, falling into step beside you. His boots kicked up little clouds of dust that clung to his sweat-damp jeans. “Might wanna shake it out first—probably got a family of spiders livin’ in it by now.” 

The words came out rough, but underneath them you almost heard the ghost of the man who used to bitch about the barbershop’s cheap magazines while you trimmed his fade.

“Christ, Shane, no…” You paused and covered your mouth with both hands, horrified. “You’re joking. Right?”

Yes, in the middle of the zombie apocalypse you were still squeamish about spiders. But instead of annoying, Shane somehow found that fascinating . There was that glint in his eye… Yep. He would not let it go.

Shane’s grin was slow and sharp. “Oh, I ain't jokin’, darlin’. Big ol’ wolf spiders,” he drawled, watching your reaction with dark amusement. “Nasty fuckers too—legs like twigs breakin’ when you squish ‘em.”

“Jesus!” You physically recoiled, covering your mouth again, then gave his arm a heavy slap. With how burly he got since you last saw him, it barely even registered. 

Shane just laughed, like he was having the time of his life. 

The way your nose scrunched up at the thought of spiders was absurdly out of place in this reality, and damn if that didn’t make it even funnier for him.

“Bet you’d rather face down a pack of walkers than one daddy longlegs, huh?” The teasing came easy, slipping back into an old rhythm he hadn’t realized he’d missed. He missed not being looked at like he was a live grenade about to kill everyone in a ten-mile radius. 

But then, his inner drill sergeant protested. It was stupid, pointless—just like joking about haircuts and tips had been stupid and pointless before the world went to shit. 

When Shane pushed off the truck, he was suddenly all business.

“Alright. Gonna leave you to it.”

But before he could just turn around and leave, you decided to serve him a suckerpunch right in the ribs:

“It’s damn good to see you again, Shane Walsh.”

All he managed was a nod. “Yeah.” Jesus Christ, you goddamn poet.

The sun was barely up when Shane finished securing the last of the gear into the bed of his pickup. The camp had been broken down with military efficiency—him and Rick actually worked together for once. Seemed like they were the only ones to understand what “ready to move at a moment’s notice” actually meant these days.

Dale was up front talking strategy with Rick, their low voices carrying just enough for Shane to catch snippets about potential water sources and something about that damn RV. He ignored them, focusing instead on checking his sidearm’s magazine for the third time.

That’s when he heard the rhythmic crunch of boots approaching from behind—light but deliberate. Didn’t even have to turn to know it was you. 

“Mornin’,” you chirped, as if this was a social gathering and not the middle of a goddamn apocalypse. 

Then your gear landed with a thud in his truck bed and Shane’s head snapped up. “The hell you think you’re doin’, sweetheart?”

“Hitchin’ a ride, darlin’.”

Meanwhile, Rocky circled the truck twice before planting himself at your side, those dark eyes locked on Shane like he was waiting for an excuse to bite. 

“Yeah?” Shane scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “Your bodyguard done checkin’ if the ride’s up to par?”

You looked down at Rocky like you were actually going to ask him that question. 

Shane gave you that slow, measuring glare he used to reserve for drunk-and-disorderlies back in King County. “Ain’t recall extendin’ an invitation,” he drawled, voice rough from last night’s whiskey and lack of sleep. 

“Alrighty,” you replied, tone still breezy. Shane watched you reach for your backpack and suddenly his hand snapped to grab yours. 

“That hellhound pukes in my car, you’re cleanin’ it,” he grunted, though the threat lacked any real heat. Truth was, having someone—anyone—who still treated him like the man he used to be was… complicated.

You just grinned, swallowing down whatever smartass remark you might’ve made. He could still see it in your face, though.

You jumped in on the passenger’s seat and Rocky settled in front of you in the leg space. 

From across the camp, Lori’s gaze burned into Shane’s back. Shane opted to ignore it. Instead he focused on the way your fingers tapped on the dashboard. It kind of told him everything. You were waiting to see if he’d changed.

The engine roared to life. “You better hope these boots of yours ain’t as muddy as they look,” Shane muttered as he threw the truck into gear. The lie sat heavy between you—you knew he’d never been particular about cleanliness. Not really. Not even before.

The other vehicles rolled out on the road, Shane’s Jeep somewhere in between. They formed a convoy and for a moment this felt almost normal—Shane couldn’t even remember how many times he had given you a ride back home. Too many to count. 

You looked outside the window, watching the world pass you by. That monstrous dog of yours panted happily, letting you pet him like it was nothing. Shane almost smiled at the sight—almost. 

The silence in the car stretched for miles, punctuated only by the growl of the engine and Rocky’s occasional huff. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. To be perfectly honest, for the first time in months Shane considered the possibility of loosening up.

His eyes cut sideways to you from time to time. There was less of you than he remembered—not like you were starving, but sharp-edged in a way that said the last few months hadn’t been kind. 

All of a sudden he remembered how you used to give him hell for letting his hair get too long between cuts, how you’d flick his ear if he flinched. Yeah, he let you do a lot of things he’d normally snap at people for. Now his hand strayed to the back of his neck, self-conscious, before he caught himself and dropped it back to the gearshift.

Then, the radio on the dashboard crackled with static and Rick’s voice cut through, all business. “Shane, take point at the next junction.” 

Shane grabbed it and grumbled, “Yeah.”

He didn’t miss the way your fingers stilled on Rocky’s head at the sound of Rick’s voice and Shane’s snappy reply. Knew you were putting pieces together—Shane’s frayed edges, the way he didn’t meet Rick’s eyes half the time. You were a smart girl. He could practically hear the questions going through your head. And yet… You didn’t ask. He couldn’t say if that made it better or worse.

A rusted sign for a gas station loomed ahead, swaying on its post. Shane slowed the truck, squinting at the shattered windows. “Might be slim pickings,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

To your credit, he saw you reload your shotgun, capable even in that tight space of the car cab. “Hold,” you said to Rocky and Shane watched as the dog carefully grabbed the hilt of a huge knife between his teeth. 

“Well, goddamn,” Shane chuckled, looking at the trick. Then he noticed you were looking straight at him, smirking like you’d won something. And he realised that trick was for him. To take his mind off of things, probably. You were the kind of person to do that.

Something unspoken passed between you, but it died quickly as soon as the others started to come out of their vehicles. 

“Come on,” Shane said.

The gas station’s shattered windows gaped like broken teeth. It looked abandoned, but Shane didn’t trust appearances anymore.

“Stay sharp, darlin’,” he muttered, though the warning was unnecessary—you were already checking all the angles like you were expecting to be jumped any second.

Rocky trotted after you, the knife still clamped between his jaws like some bizarre fetch game from hell.

Daryl and T-Dog were already fanning out to clear the perimeter, crossbow and rifle at the ready. Shane caught Rick watching you from beside the lead car, that assessing look he used to reserve for suspects. Shane’s jaw flexed. He used to know exactly what Rick was thinking. Nowadays he was not so sure.

Shane watched as you adjusted your grip on the shotgun, your face unsure for a second before you schooled your expression. Something about the way you carried yourself—no bravado, just readiness—made the tension in his shoulders ease.

“Alright,” Shane said, louder now for the group’s benefit. “Standard sweep. Food, meds, ammo. Five minutes—this ain’t a tea party.”

He didn’t wait for any acknowledgments, just strode straight to the busted entrance. All of a sudden you followed, covering his six without him having to ask, that damn dog of yours silent as death at your heel. 

Part of Shane wanted to ask how the hell have you survived this long out here alone. The other part already knew the answer wouldn’t be pretty.

The gas station’s dim interior stunk like spoiled milk and old blood. Shane heard a faint buzz of flies somewhere close. Shane risked a glance at you—you were clearing the dark corners just like he would. 

“Check the back,” he muttered over his shoulder, jerking his chin toward the employee door hanging off its hinges. “I’ll clear the coolers.” The words came out rougher than he intended, laced with the same tension that had been coiling in his gut since the quarry. 

But you didn’t call him on it, just gave a sharp nod and moved toward the hallway, Rocky’s nails clicking against the tile as he followed.

The coolers were picked clean, nothing of value there. 

Then, Shane heard shuffling somewhere out the back. Slow, uneven. And then—you. Not a scream or a holler, something like a battle cry.

He burst through the “Personnel Only” door just in time to see you stab the second walker straight through the eye socket, twisting the hilt with a murderous expression on your face. What was left of the other walker’s skull looked like a rotten watermelon crushed in half. 

“Clear?” Shane rasped, scanning the blood-smeared storeroom. Boxes of rat-chewed snacks littered the floor, but no more movement. 

“Clear.” You wiped the knife clean, then slung the shotgun over your shoulder. “Found jack-shit, though.”

Rocky trotted back to your side, muzzle dark with gore, but his tail gave a single wag when you murmured something too low for Shane to catch. 

Then, the dog’s ears swiveled toward the ceiling—somewhere above, pipes groaned.

“Back exit’s jammed,” Shane muttered, looking up. “Could be more out there. Ain’t worth riskin’ for fuckin’ Twinkies.”

You let out a nervous laugh and you walked out together to join the rest of the group.

“Shane?” Rick approached you, looking worried. “We had a couple walkers by the treeline. You good?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, not quite meeting Rick’s eyes. “Just a couple stragglers in back, but she cleared ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ left worth scavengin’.”

Rocky padded over to sniff at Rick’s boots, making the man tense for half a second.

“Don’t worry,” you said to Rick, your tone friendly if a little amused. “He likes you.”

“Really?” Rick huffed. He obviously didn’t believe you.

“If he didn’t, you’d know.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. Jesus Christ, that smirk of yours again. There was nothing out there to be smirking about. Two minutes ago your face looked like you’d skin a man alive, now you were all smiles. 

Then again, that was still very you. 

Daryl emerged from the treeline, crossbow slung over his shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ out here but old deer shit.” He spat off to the other side.

Lori hovered near the lead car, arms crossed tight over her chest. Shane deliberately turned his back to her. The weight of all those unspoken things—Lori’s accusations, Rick’s cautious trust, now your apparent… semblance of friendship. It was all messing with his head already.

Shane slapped the mag back into his pistol with more force than necessary. “We’re movin’ out,” he barked to the group, already striding towards his Jeep. “Three minutes!”

Rick stepped in your path before you could follow Shane, his hand coming up in that easy, diplomatic way of his. 

“Hey, didn’t get a chance to ask earlier—how long you been out here on your own?” 

His voice was casual, but his eyes did that cop thing—noting the way your fingers twitched toward your knife.

“Since the army came to King County to shoot us all,” you replied. 

The difference in your tone was striking. Before, Rick noticed how you were with Shane—you almost brought his old friend back with a smile and a banter. Just like old times. Rick’s been with him to your shop a couple times. He remembered how you two were together.

But now… Your eyes were cold. Assessing. And all of a sudden Rick knew exactly how you managed to survive this long.

“Must’ve been rough,” Rick said, and it wasn’t pity—just the kind of observation that came from a man who understood. After all, he woke up to a world that has already ended.

“Shane’s not exactly… easy company these days. Surprised he recognized you at all.”

And there it was. The unspoken question— Which version of him are you dealing with? The one I knew, or the one I’m starting to fear?

Shane watched you two from the driver’s seat of the Jeep and you could tell he didn’t like it.

Then you looked at Rick for the longest time, squinting a little from the glaring sun. 

“Y’know... The way he used to talk about you two, your grand adventures an’ all that. That shit don’t just disappear ‘cause times got hard.”

Rick stayed silent. Partly because he really wanted to believe you. But mostly because if he spoke now, his voice would no longer be that calm and level. 

“Y’ wanna know how I made it out?” You gave him a sad, lopsided sort of smile. “I had my Daddy’s shotgun an’ a dog I somehow found along the way. I mean, yeah, I stole ‘im from a real bad motherfucker who abused him an’ I did shoot that man in the dick…”

That actually made Rick laugh a little. “That a confession I hear, miss?”

Your smile got wider. “Now, I ain’t seen nothin’, Deputy Grimes.”

He nodded. Then he looked at you and nodded again. “I can see what Shane meant now. ‘bout you.”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t even wanna know what he said.” You chuckled. “But point is… It ain’t over ‘til it’s over, Rick. An’ I mean over like when one of you’s dead.”

“Yeah, no, I got that.”

His gaze flicked past you to where Shane sat drumming impatient fingers on the Jeep’s steering wheel. “Used to be we’d ride together—him and me. Whole damn county knew we were partners before we even hit the academy.” Rick cleared his throat, suddenly aware he said too much. But still, he added more—

“Man I knew wouldn’t let pride burn every bridge he’s got.”

The admission came out heavier than that Georgia humidity. 

You frowned. “All due respect, ‘cause he’s your friend ‘n’ all… But Shane’s insanely proud, Rick. You hurt his pride, it’s like…” You sighed. “Listen, we ain’t got time for a full story, so I’ll give ya the Sparknotes version. My job wasn’t just ‘bout cuttin’ hair. It was… Reading people. Makin’ sure they feel comfortable in that chair. I clocked that damn pride immediately, first appointment. I knew exactly which line not to cross. ‘Cause… He told me that story once. Angela, was her name, I think.”

“Oh God…” Rick ran his hand down his face. “No… Yes. Yeah.”

“Exactly.” You gave him a pointed look. “You go too far, hurt his pride, make him feel like he ain’t shit—he will hate you. An’ I do mean hate. So… Yeah, that’s my take.”

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders dropping an inch like he’d been holding that breath for months. “Angela Clark,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “She damn near got him fired over that mess. Should’ve known that shit still mattered to him.”

From the Jeep, Shane’s voice cracked like a whip. “You ladies plan on standin’ there gossipin’ all day?” The engine revved unnecessarily hard, a blatant warning.

You didn’t flinch at the outburst, just tilted your head toward Rick. “See what I mean? He thinks we’re talkin’ behind his back, I guarantee you.” The words weren’t smug—you’ve seen this dance before.

“Appreciate the insight,” Rick said, quieter now. There was something haunted in the way he looked at Shane—regret and frustration tangled up with old loyalty.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” You paused, meeting Rick’s gaze squarely. “But fix it. ‘Cause that friendship of yours, that shit’s what’s left of the old world. Loyalty, romance, all that’s gone, ‘cause we’re all killin’ each other regardless of the walkers.”

“Yeah, I… I think it’s the right way to look at things.” Rick let out a long sigh. “He used to trust me with his life. Now he won’t even trust me with the truth.” 

The confession landed heavy between you before Rick straightened, becoming Deputy Grimes again. “Best get moving.”

The look Shane shot you when you got back in the car wasn’t quite anger, but also not quite not. The engine roared to life as you settled in, Rocky wedging himself between your knees with a contented sigh. Shane didn’t speak, just threw the car into gear.

Shane drove the last tent stake into the hard-packed earth with unnecessary force. Sweat trickled down his temple despite the cooling evening air, his muscles taut with the kind of restless energy that was the only thing that kept him going nowadays.

The brief exchange back at the gas station played on the loop in his head—you talking to Rick like you’d known him forever. Two minutes, that’s all it took you to do what you’ve always done. The way Shane saw it, you could downright charm people, an’ not in a cheap way either. It was like you opened them up and took a peek inside.

He heard footsteps, but he already knew they weren’t yours. Carol approached him cautiously, her arms laden with kindling. “We could use more wood if you’re—”

“On it,” Shane cut her off, already striding toward the tree line. 

He didn’t miss the way her shoulders hunched slightly at his tone, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Meanwhile, you sat by the fire with Dale, the rhythmic snip-snip-snip of your scissors mixing with the quiet talks around the camp.

Dale sat in front of you on an upturned crate, hands folded in his lap, that perpetual thoughtful crease between his brows softening a little. 

“Can’t remember the last time I bothered with this,” he admitted, chuckling as a gray strand fluttered to the ground. “Seemed frivolous, given… everything.” His voice trailed off, gaze drifting toward where Shane had disappeared into the trees.

“Might be frivolous,” you agreed, tilting Dale’s head gently to the side. “But it’s the little things that stop makin’ us go feral, y’know?” The words came out easy, practiced—the same tone you probably used on nervous clients back in King County.

Dale hummed in acknowledgment, his usual sharpness tempered by something almost paternal. “You’ve got a knack for reading people,” he observed, not unkindly. “Surprised Shane let you within ten feet of him with scissors.” 

You snorted, pausing to flick a stray bit of hair off his shoulder. “Oh, he ain’t that scary. An’ it didn’t hurt I got him lookin’ handsome every third Wednesday.” A memory tugged at you, half-amusing, half-something else. “Once Shane got to know me, he was rarely serious. Y’know, those days… He used to laugh. A lot. And once he threatened to arrest me, ‘cause he moved an’ I nicked his ear. ‘That’s assaultin’ a police officer, darlin’’ .”

Dale’s laughter was quiet but real, the sound carrying just far enough that a few heads turned toward the fire. 

Carl peered over from where he’d been poking at the embers, his earlier wariness around Rocky fading into curiosity. “You really used to cut hair before?” he piped up, sidling closer. 

You grinned, flicking the scissors open and shut with a theatrical snick-snick. “Sure did, kid.”

You ran your fingers through Dale’s hair, assessing the length with a critical eye. Dale watched you in the fragment of a mirror propped against the tree stump. 

“You’re surprisingly calm for someone who survived out here alone,” he remarked, the observation light but probing. “Most folks we’ve met either cracked or turned mean.”

You hesitated for just a second before resuming your work. “I did,” you admitted. “I turned… very mean.  Almost couldn’t recognise me. An’ then… I was scavengin’ around that car graveyard an’ I heard the voice I thought I’d never hear again.”

Rocky’s head lifted at the shift in your tone. Carl still eyed the dog with unbridled curiosity, but he wasn’t dumb enough to just reach out and poke him. You smiled a little to yourself and looked at Carl.

“You shouldn’t pet ‘im right away,” you said, “but I see you’re a smart kid. He can tell that too.” 

The compliment made Carl straighten in his seat. 

“Rocky,” you said quietly and the dog’s focus was on you in a second. You leaned down. “Sit.”

He sat down and you placed your hand on his neck. “You can reach out an’ let ‘im sniff your hand.”

Carl nodded with perfect seriousness and did exactly as instructed. Rocky sniffed, slow and curious, then nudged Carl’s hand with his cold, wet nose. The boy giggled.

Then—

“Carl!” Lori’s voice cut through the quiet. She marched over, grabbed her son by the arm, and yanked him back with a force that made Rocky jolt.

You held him firm, hand steady on his neck. He let out a quiet, surprised sort of huff, but not a bark. 

You and Lori locked eyes—hers wide, furious, but not just at the dog.

“What is wrong with you?!” she snapped.

You didn’t rise to it. Didn’t flinch. She’d have to do better than that.

“He wouldn’t hurt your boy. I swear. I was right here.”

“That thing could tear his face off!”

“ That thing has a name,” you said evenly. “He saved my life more times than I can count. An’ he’s more obedient than half the men in this camp.”

Lori’s mouth opened like she was about to snap back, but Dale stepped in with a hand raised—diplomatic, like always.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Let’s all just… take a breath, huh? Nothing happened, we’re all good.”

Carl tugged his arm free. “Mom, I was fine. He let me.”

That earned him a look from Lori—but Carl wasn’t a baby anymore, and he didn’t shrink under it.

“He’s a trained dog, Lori,” Dale interjected. “And he didn’t make a move. I’ve seen it all. He’s not aggressive.”

Lori’s eyes still burned, but she didn’t argue with Dale. You gave her one last look—calm, unwavering.

“I’d never risk a kid’s life. Least of all his. I’m sorry I scared you—”

She walked off stiffly, Carl following with a sideways glance at Rocky like he wished he could say goodbye.

Once she was gone, Dale leaned in with a dry smile.

“You have a real gift for making friends.”

“She’ll live,” you muttered. “Good boy, Rocky,” you kissed the dog’s scarred head and when you came back to cutting, Dale sent you another unreadable look.

Across the camp, Shane emerged from the treeline with an armful of firewood, his brisk walk towards camp clearly showing he was still pissed.

Dale followed your gaze, his expression turning thoughtful. “He’s different with you,” he murmured. “Noticed it immediately. And not just me .” The words hung between you, not quite a question. “ That’s what I think was the catalyst.”

You didn’t say anything for the longest time. But finally you decided to speak your mind:

“He’s a good person. Was. Is. I was a good person, then I had to do awful things to survive.” You paused. “An’ I don’t mean like… casual looting. No. But then I asked myself, Dale,” you paused and Dale looked up at you. “Would I do these things if not for the damn zombies? No. A hard no. I’d never. So I stopped worrying about my character.”

The implications of what you just said sat heavy between you, before you got back to cutting again. This time just finishing touches. You were being slow about it on purpose. Dale was easy to talk to.

“Well,” Dale said, then hesitated. “That is certainly the practical look at it. But… To me, there are certain limits. Certain lines I won’t cross.” 

You nodded, combing through his hair one last time. Grey hair tended to be brittle, so you were gentle with it. “But you have a group. All I had was a dog and common sense.”

Just then, out of all the fire pits around, Shane dumped the firewood near yours; with a deliberate clatter. At the same time, he made sure to keep his distance. 

He was still watching Lori stalk away from you with Carl in tow. His jaw clenched as he caught the tail end of whatever the hell that confrontation had been. The way Lori had yanked Carl back—like the kid was some damn doll—irked him more than it should’ve. 

Dusting his hands off on his jeans, Shane angled himself toward you and Dale, though still not too close. The old man was saying something now and you listened and snipped methodically at his hair. The sight was almost normal—in a way that felt alien now. 

Shane’s fingers twitched toward the back of his own neck, the overgrown curls there suddenly itching.

Dale caught Shane’s gaze and offered a small nod, the kind that said— We handled it . Shane grunted in response. His eyes flicked to you, half-expecting some smartass remark about his hair or his attitude, but you were focused on your work. 

Rocky lounged on the ground, panting and leaning against your leg. You laughed and tried to step away a couple times, but the dog was stubborn and would inch closer every time.

Shane exhaled through his nose, torn between walking over and pretending he hadn’t noticed anything. The camp had enough tension without him adding to it, but the way Lori’d looked at you—like you were some kind of threat—it gave him pause. 

Before he could decide, Daryl materialized beside him, tossing a dead rabbit onto the pile of firewood. “Ain’t much, but it’s somethin’,” he drawled, then looked up at Dale. “Y’ gonna take a number next or what?”

“Reckon we all could use a trim ‘fore we start lookin’ like walkers ourselves,” Shane muttered, noncommittal. 

The joke fell flat, but Daryl looked like he knew exactly what Shane wanted to say. The man really was leagues smarter than people in camp gave him credit for. 

Up there by the RV, you shook out the towel that had been around Dale’s shoulders. “All done. It looks very smart,” you said. “If I do say so myself.”

Dale thanked you profusely, saying something about a promise of coffee. Shane walked up to you then, his face unreadable. But it looked like you sure did know how to read him anyway.

“Thank you for the kindling,” you said, looking him straight in the eye. You wanted to make sure he knew he was appreciated for it.

“Yeah,” he said, not really paying attention. “Listen, I’m gonna take the first watch… Ain’t plannin’ on gettin’ much shut-eye today, anyway.”

Your eyes flickered to him as you packed your tools. Shane looked at your barber kit, the scissors and manual clippers. “Christ, woman, that’s the essentials you packed for the apocalypse?” He chuckled.

“You’re sure gonn’ sing a different tune when I’m done with you,” you replied. Then you straightened up and suddenly you were running your fingers through his hair. And he let you.

“Yeah,” you nodded like you agreed with someone who wasn’t there. “I’m gonna make it my masterpiece.”

Shane scoffed, then swatted your hand away—very lightly. 

You picked up your bag and looked at him, still that same bright smile.

“I’ll come join you,” you said, just like that.

Shane frowned, evidently prepared for a whole different outcome to this conversation.

“Gimme ten minutes to piss and grab my rifle,” he muttered, already scanning the perimeter. “Then we’ll see if that mutt of yours can smell a biter before it smells us.”

You sighed and walked with him, then stashed your things in his car without even asking. Like it was a given. “ Yes, thank you for that mental image, Shane, I’m sure real glad to know that.” But you still couldn’t help a smirk creeping in.

Shane huffed a short, humorless laugh as he turned away. It gave you a moment to notice how much the camp had quieted down around you. Maybe everyone was settling in for the night. Or maybe just eavesdropping. They sure as hell noticed Dale’s new hair, but nobody said a bad word. So far.

When Shane returned, you were still shaking out that tarp from his car, with the caution of someone defusing bombs. The exaggerated way you held it at arm’s length almost made him smirk again. 

“Relax, darlin’. I was actually jokin’ about the spiders,” he said, slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder. 

You glared at Shane, then shook the tarp one more time until you deemed it ready. “Shane Walsh, when I tell you payback will be brutal , you best believe it. Two nights I felt them crawlin’ all over me.”

You snatched your shotgun and made sure the knives were in place at your belt. Then you stalked towards the southern end of the camp together, and if you and Shane weren’t a spectacle before, now you certainly were.

Rocky paced ahead of you now, nostrils flaring as it scented the wind. Shane noted the way its ears twitched at sounds he couldn’t yet hear. “That dog’s got better ears than our last three lookouts combined,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Some time passed. Neither of you felt much like talking, but sitting down together was fine, too. From time to time, your eyes flickered to Rocky, checking his reactions. So far so good.

Months of this shit had wired Shane’s nerves to scream at every flicker of movement, but now at least the dog’s calm demeanor kept him from raising his rifle prematurely. “Gotta say,” he admitted grudgingly, “your ugly-ass hellhound might actually be useful.”

Your head whipped around and you looked like he just slapped you. “You take that back,” you hissed, apparently not standing for any Rocky slander. 

The corner of Shane's mouth twitched at your reaction, that old stubborn streak of yours rearing up the same way it had every time he needled you back at the barbershop. 

“Easy there, killer,” he drawled. “Just sayin’ he ain’t winnin’ no beauty contests.” His gaze flicked to Rocky’s battle scars, the way the dog’s muscles tensed at the sudden shift in your tone. 

Smart animal. Shane could respect that. Just not out loud.

“You don’t listen to him,” you said to the dog, but didn’t risk touching him. This wasn’t the time to distract him. “You’re beautiful and I love you,” you said quickly, then shut up.

Shane adjusted his posture, the weight of his rifle a familiar comfort as he scanned the darkened tree line.

Then, Rocky’s sudden low growl snapped both your attentions southward. Shane’s finger slid to the trigger guard as the pitbull’s hackles rose.

“Someone’s comin’,” you said quietly, then picked up your shotgun. “No vision,” you shook your head. “Ain’t a walker.”

Shane muttered something, shifting to cover your six without thinking. “He give you a signal for this, or we just guessin’?” 

The tension in his shoulders wasn’t just from potential walkers, though—it was the way your presence in camp had somehow made him feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.

“That’s not a guess,” you confirmed. “Someone’s out there, just most likely a person. I can tell.” You checked the scope again, but got nothing. “You haven’t sent anyone out?”

“Ain’t sent nobody out that way,” he said, voice low, adjusting his grip on the rifle.

Then, just as his breathing shallowed—

A voice. Human. Muffled, but clear enough to carry. Shane’s eyes flicked to you, reading your reaction. You didn’t lower the gun. Not yet. The fact that it wasn’t walkers didn’t mean they were friendly. 

“Hey!” Someone called, closer. Too confident for scavengers, not the practiced cadence of hunters either. 

But you had no qualms about it. Didn't survive on your own this long just to get jumped by some amateur in the bushes.

“Get ‘im, boy!”

The command resounded loud and clear and before whoever that was could do anything, Rocky jumped down and rushed at him, snarling viciously. Only the man’s screams followed. 

Shane’s pulse hammered against his ribs as Rocky’s snarling and the stranger’s panicked shouts cut through the night. Then, an arrow whooshed just near your shoulder, grazing you. 

“Mother fucker, ” Shane spat, swinging his rifle toward the direction of the shot before you even returned fire. 

You weren’t freezing up, though. You grunted and readied your gun, then finally spotted whoever that archer was and fired at will.

“Two more at your three!” you barked, the adrenaline sharpening your senses.

The rifle’s kickback stung his shoulder as he returned fire toward the archer’s last position. “Got eyes on more than one?!”

Then, Daryl’s crossbow bolt whizzed past, followed by a choked scream from the trees. “Four movin’ left!” he said.

Someone else from the camp shot twice from the far perimeter, the shots crisp and measured. Rick, probably. Shane risked a glance toward you, but evidently you could hold your own.

Rocky’s snarling and the wet sounds of struggle told him at least one more threat was being handled—brutally. Shane didn’t need to see it.

You whistled, sharp and loud, and Rocky came running—covered in blood. None of it his own.

Carol’s voice cut through the chaos, shrill with warning. “They’re coming from the trucks!”

Rick and T-Dog bolted in that direction, and soon more gunshots resounded from behind.

Shane swore, pivoting just as a scrawny kid in a leather vest lunged at him with a tire iron. He sidestepped and drove the rifle butt into the kid’s temple, feeling cartilage crunch.

Then, as sudden as it started, the woods fell silent—except for ragged breathing. Daryl emerged from the forest, holding a writhing archer by the collar. “We got one alive,” he called, his grin bloodthirsty.

“What’s the play here?” Shane asked Rick, though he really didn’t know why.

Meanwhile, Daryl kicked the archer’s kneecap, sending him crumpling with a shriek. “This one’s got a hell of a lot to say ‘bout why they thought jumpin’ us was smart.” The crossbow's tip pressed under the man’s chin, tilting his head back.

“Why?” You felt entitled to know, since it was most likely his arrow that grazed you.

The archer’s breath became more ragged as Daryl’s crossbow dug deeper into his throat. His eyes darted between all of you, like a cornered animal. 

You watched the way his fingers twitched toward a knife sheath that wasn’t there anymore—Daryl had stripped him clean. 

“They told us yous had s-supplies,” the man choked out, spittle flying. “Said you was soft. Easy pickings.”

“Well, damn,” you drawled, wrapping a bandana around your arm to stop the bleeding. “Looks like your intel was shit.”

“Please—” the man started, but Shane cut him off.

“Save it.” He finally turned to face Rick, shoulders squared. “You really wanna waste time interrogating this dumbass?”

“Yes,” Rick replied. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Daryl jammed the crossbow harder under the archer’s jaw, drawing another whimper. “Answer the man,” he growled.

“There’s—there’s a group holed up near the old water tower. They’ve been watching your convoy since yesterday.” His voice came down to a hush. “They said yous had kids. Said that meant you ain’t gonna shoot first.”

You laughed at that, sharply, then looked at Rocky. “We didn’t.” 

At the mention of the children, Rick and Shane exchanged pointed looks. Then, slowly, Rick nodded. That was the first time you saw them actually communicate, not just avoid each other.

The archer’s body hit the dirt with a dull thud, the hole between his eyes still smoking. Rick lowered his pistol without looking.

“Water tower group,” Rick muttered. “That’s half a mile west. Close enough to hit us again before dawn.” The implications hung heavy—kids in camp, exhausted fighters, no real fortifications.

Silence fell for a long moment.

“Hey, uh… Look guys, I ain’t a cop or a soldier or anythin’, I only did that shit when I played ‘Dragon Quest Builders’, but you got a lot of cars ‘round here.” You looked at Shane. “Choke points, I mean. Make them have to navigate predictable paths.”

“Plus we’re uphill,” Shane added. “Rick?” What are you thinking?

“Barbie’s got claws…” Daryl’s ears perked up at your suggestion. “Then we make ‘em trip over somethin’.” 

Daryl exchanged a look with Rick. Finally, Rick exhaled and nodded, though it was clear he wasn’t exactly thrilled at your guerilla warfare ideas.

“Take Glenn with you, ask Dale for his fishin’ rods,” Rick said, solemn as a grave. Then he grabbed Daryl’s arm, “Broken glass. Make it nasty.”

Shane’s lips quirked at the makeshift war council forming around a barber, a redneck, and a deputy sheriff. The absurdity almost cut through the tension coiling in his gut. 

“Ain’t gonna lie, darlin’,” Shane said, scratching at the dried blood on his knuckles, “prefer your haircuts to your battle tactics. But right now, I’ll take crazy over nothin’.”

“I mean,” you paused dramatically. “If you wanna go crazy, Shane, we got lotsa broken cars up the road ‘ere with half-full gas tanks. An’ on ‘Game of Thrones’ the best castle defense was always lightin’ the other guys on fire.”

This time Rick couldn’t take it. He actually laughed, though it sounded more like a cough.

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched at Rick’s unexpected laugh, the sound so foreign these days it might as well have come from another universe. 

“Never took you for a fantasy nerd,” he muttered toward you, though the usual bite in his words had dulled to something almost teasing. 

“Shane, I literally have ‘Dracarys!’ tattooed on my ribs.”

His gaze dragged down to your ribs, though the tattoos were hidden under layers of grime and fabric. “That so?”

Meanwhile, Daryl returned with Glenn in tow, the younger man’s arms laden with fishing lines and tools. They were already bickering about the placement, but by the general look of it Daryl sure as hell was not half-assing these traps. 

He hefted a coil of fishing line, already unfurling it with the quickness of a man used to catching difficult prey. “Gonna string this shit knee-high ‘round the perimeter,” he muttered to Glenn, already moving toward the tree line. “Any fucker tries runnin’ through it’ll be crawlin’ the rest of the way.”

Rick clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder, his voice low. “Just in case… Check these broken cars there for anything flammable—oil, gas, hell, even windshield fluid.” He gave you a look. “But fire is the last resort. We got no way to contain it.”

Shane nodded at Rick’s suggestion and for a moment it felt like the old times, like exchanging dark jokes over terrible station coffee and not… Whatever their life even was at this point.

You and Shane headed back towards the road, Rocky happily trotting beside you.

“Gas tanks,” you said to Shane. “Got anythin’ to drill a hole with?”

“Screwdrivers?”

“That’ll do.”

Then it hit you—you were speaking to a cop. About fuel theft methods.

“I ain’t never—” you stammered, because the way Shane looked at you was full of that dark amusement again; that satisfaction of seeing you dig your own grave.

“Sure ya haven’t, darlin’.”

“We should find an old car,” you sighed. “Vintage-like. They’re all gas guzzlers.”

“Gas guzzlers.”

“Shane, I swear, either arrest me or shut the hell up.”

He did shut up, eventually, but it didn’t mean he was done with that smug smirk of his.

Finally, you found a busted-up Camaro. Shane crouched beside it and yanked the gas cap loose. “Got at least three gallons here, darlin’.”

You slid under the car smoothly, holding an old plastic milk container. You outstretched your hand like this was some twisted form of surgery. Shane handed you the screwdriver and you stabbed the gas tank as hard as you could. The whole process didn’t take long.

“Ugh. Hold it, would ya?” You emerged from there and handed Shane the two containers you managed to fill. Most of the fuel went into them, but some got onto your clothes and it was… pungent.

“Don’t throw any matches my way,” you sighed, then you moved on to another car that looked promising.

When you and Shane came back, the camp buzzed with something Shane had not seen in a long time. Some people were rattled, yes, but most were building the various types of traps almost excitingly. They were moving the cars to form choke points and from the initial glance, it was working.

“Think we gave them some hope,” Shane muttered, his voice a little more serious. “Like they won’t die any minute or somethin’.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know these people after all, but it was clear Shane cared.

“Ain’t much, but it’ll slow ‘em down,” he muttered finally, to no one in particular. 

Rick’s silhouette cut across the makeshift barricade, marching back and forth and giving orders or pointers.

“You good?” The question slipped out before Shane could stop it.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” you shook your head. “But thanks.”

His eyes flickered to that bandana on your arm. “That need stitches?”

You made a grimace. “Probably.”

Shane exhaled through his nose, that stubborn set to his jaw coming back. “You wanna die of some bullshit infection?”

“Well, if you put it like that—”

He jerked his chin toward an overturned pickup with its door still intact. “Sit.”

He watched you hesitate, but then you finally did as he asked. Shane went back to the camp, then came back and crouched beside you, so close you could see he hadn’t had time to shave in two days at least.

The bandana peeled away with a sticky sound. The graze wasn’t deep, but the edges were ragged. “Won’t heal too pretty,” he muttered. 

“It’s… not a priority.” You chuckled.

Shane’s hands were steady, he knew exactly what to do and was quick about it.

“You do realize,” you said through gritted teeth as he disinfected the wound, “this means I gotta return the favor next time you’re dumb enough to get shot.”

That startled a dry chuckle out of him. “Rather eat my own boot than let you near me with a needle, sweetheart.” 

The first stitch pulled taut with a practiced twist. You looked down and noticed Shane’s hands didn’t shake. At this point, they probably never did. But the crease between his eyebrows deepened with each pass of the needle. 

He secured the bandage and the contact lasted half a second too long before he stood up.

“Thank you,” you said, quiet.

“Keep it clean,” he replied, suddenly all cop. Or, maybe rather a soldier. At this point, he and Rick could easily lead an army. Just… they got survivors instead. 

“You ever think about it?” Shane asked suddenly, the words rough like he just dragged them through that gravel right there. 

“About what?”

“All those hours spent making people look pretty.” Shane didn’t look at you as he said it, just gestured vaguely toward the scattered remains of civilization.

Your gaze followed, taking in all that shattered window glass, the whole road of rusted husks of cars; all of them abandoned in what must have been sheer panic.

“I thought the other way around,” you finally replied. “Each head is different. The skull, I mean.” You touched your own scalp. “See, the slope at the back, the shape of the forehead. Every face is different, especially with men. Hair falls different. So I was kinda… Imaginin’. And carving off the unnecessary bits.”

Shane looked at you while you spoke, studying you with that same intensity he did most things. 

“Unnecessary bits,” he repeated slowly, smiling slightly. His chuckle was dry, but it was there. “So what you’re sayin’ is, all that time you were playin’ sculptor with my damn skull?”

Another voice carried from across camp just then, sharp with urgency. You both looked that way, but it didn’t seem like you were needed.

“Always figured you were just good with your hands,” Shane admitted, rubbing at the back of his head. He tended to do that, now he realised.

There was an old scar there, long-healed, but jagged. You knew it well, but never asked him about it.

“Well, I kinda miss it,” you admitted. “Much better than hacking into zombie guts.”

“Hell of a thing to miss now.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite. I bet there’s stuff you miss.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched. “Hell, maybe I do.”

The admission tasted strange, but he missed music. His whole CD collection. The rumble of a car stereo, the way the bass used to rattle his rearview mirror.

“Music,” he finally said. “Yeah. Miss my truck’s sound system. Had this one damn CD that used to piss Lori off somethin’ fierce—” 

The name slipped out before he could stop it. 

Then, quieter—

“What kinda crap were you always blastin’ in that shop, anyway?”

“ Shane Walsh, you take that back!” You pretended to be shocked. “Eric Clapton is not crap, it’s a classic.”

Shane snorted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  “Yeah, yeah… Classic. ”

“You’re jokin’, right? Everybody loves at least one Clapton song.” You mimicked the electric guitar intro to “Layla”. “Laaaaayla! Got me on my knees!” You sang the first verse. Badly.

That antic got you both some stares. Mostly because of the familiar tones Shane allowed you around him. And the terrible singing. You realised by now they knew one version of him. You, another.

Shane snorted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Jesus Christ… Shut up, woman.” But he said it so softly it was clear he didn’t mean it.

He watched you for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Layla’s a damn good track, though,” he grumbled, begrudgingly.

“Damn right it is.”

“Stop being so smug about it.”

You just grinned, goddamn, and he had to physically restrain himself from doing something stupid. 

Because your smile was just the same and it reminded him of the life he no longer had. You were the girl he knew. Maybe the world has worn you down too, just in different ways, but you sure as hell took it better than him.

“Missed ya, y’know.” 

You looked up at him, a little surprised. He looked away and pressed his lips into a thin line, the muscles rigid beneath. Like he was willing the words to retreat back in.

“I missed you, too.” 

His eyes narrowed, sharp. Like he expected you to be lying. At the same time, there were a hundred things he could say— Should’ve looked for you sooner. Should’ve made sure you made it out. After they sent the army in, it was chaos.

Silence stretched, broken only by distant murmurs from the others arranging their makeshift defenses. Shane exhaled through his nose, sharply, like an impatient dog would have. 

“King County got overrun first night the army pulled out.” His voice was lower, and you leaned in discreetly to listen. 

Shane didn’t look at you, he just talked like he had to get it out. “We barely evacuated. All these fuckin’ Joes geared up with that tactical shit. They weren’t there to help us. They were ordered to kill on sight.”

You looked at Shane and nodded. You knew. You were there. He looked at you and the weight of his gaze was almost a physical thing. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped, revealing the man beneath.

“We’re sittin’ ducks out here,” he said abruptly, shifting gears like the admission of missing anything—music, normalcy, you —was too dangerous to examine further. His gaze flicked toward the treeline, then back to your face. “You stick close tonight. That mutt of yours smells trouble before any of us do.”

You went back to the camp perimeter. You noticed Shane was rubbing the back of his head again. He touched that scar—the one you’d never asked about, the one your clippers had danced around every other Wednesday for more than five years. He thought about telling you how he got it. Thought about a lot of things, really.

That was all the quiet before the storm. You barely managed to walk up to the designated perimeter with Shane, when Rocky started barking. Seriously, viciously. 

“Not walkers. Get ready,” you said to Shane and he didn’t even question it.

Just a second later, the first crash of bodies hitting Daryl’s tripwires snapped the camp to attention. Shane didn’t need to look to know it had worked—the strangled shouts and subsequent thrashing in the dark said enough. 

Shane’s boots hit the ground hard as he moved, rifle already shouldered. Blood and broken glass strewn between the cars turned the kill zone into a jagged maze. The looters tried to flank the camp again, thinking they would catch everyone unawares. Shane wasn’t impressed. These idiots didn’t have the sense to retreat after the first warning.

“East side!” Rick’s voice cut through the chaos, followed by the familiar sound of his revolver. 

Shane caught movement between two wrecked SUVs. A figure lunged, tire iron raised, and Shane dropped to one knee just as Rocky barreled past him with a snarl. The sound of impact was wet, final. Shane didn’t even know if you were giving Rocky any commands or if the dog was just warming up to him.

The night was full of gunfire and screams, probably also drawing in every single walker from the area. Shane’s ears rang, his finger steady on the trigger. No discipline in these attackers. Just desperation and bad intel. 

Rick was yelling coordinates, Glenn and T-Dog flanking the kids toward the safest rig. Lori’s face flashed in the firelight, pale and furious, her own pistol drawn for once. Shane spared half a second to check your position—close, armed, Rocky a growling shadow at your side—before turning back to the fray.

The sounds of ricocheting metal filled the air as another bullet sparked off the nearby truck’s fender. 

Then—

Shane saw it in slow motion. Rick turned away too slow, some looter’s rifle pointing to his ribs. Christ, not again.

Shane’s body moved before his brain caught up, the old throbbing memory — officer down, officer down . The ground nearly scraped his forearms raw as he tackled Rick, the gunshot’s echo bouncing off . Heat seared across his leg where the round grazed him, but the pain barely registered. All he could see was Rick in that fucking hospital bed.

The looter tried to hit Shane with the butt of that rifle, but Shane rolled off of Rick and pointed his gun. He kept squeezing the trigger until the slide locked back. Empty. The looter already fell mid-reload.

Rick’s breath came in ragged bursts beside him, that fear and surprise in his eyes feeling way too familiar.

“You hit?” Rick asked, already reaching. Shane jerked out of reach, but that had more to do with the memories surging up. 

“No,” Shane lied, already getting up, thumbing fresh rounds into the mag with more force than necessary. 

“Get up,” he said to Rick. The words came out harsh, stripped down to something too close to heart. “You ain’t dyin’ twice.”

Rick’s jaw worked like he wanted to say a hundred things Shane didn’t want to hear. Couldn’t. If he did, he might have to admit why your laugh earlier had dug under his ribs. Why saving Rick felt like penance.

Soon enough, the fight was over. The stench of blood and gunpowder was overwhelming, but this ragtag group Shane reluctantly cared so much about somehow lived to see another day. Again.

Shane stood with his weight slightly shifted to his good side. The gunfire had stopped, but the ringing in Shane’s ears hadn’t. Blood seeped through his jeans where the bullet had grazed him—nothing serious, but enough to sting like a bitch. 

Daryl suddenly materialized out of the gloom, his crossbow slung carelessly over one shoulder. He looked very pleased with himself, but Shane was prepared to give him the win.

“Got two runners headin’ west,” Daryl said, jerking his chin toward the tree line. “Rest ain’t gettin’ up. Uh, maybe, but they still dead.” 

Shane gave a curt nod. “Great job with the… You know.”

Daryl gave him a look, like he wondered if maybe Shane got a concussion. Then he just nodded, muttering something about the bodies as he walked away.

Shane felt the exhaustion starting to kick in. Or maybe blood loss. He’d been shot before, but it’s not like it got any less painful. Rick stood a few feet away, wiping dirt from his face.

Finally, Rick looked like he decided something. He walked up to Shane.

“That was damn stupid,” he said, but both knew there were about a hundred words more underneath it.

Shane gave him a once over. Rick’s injuries were negligible so he exhaled.

Rick opened his mouth again, but Shane cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “Don’t,” he ground out. No anger. Just exhaustion. The words that should've been said— I thought you were dead once already.  

“You’re bleeding,” Rick said finally, and for some inexplicable stupid reason Shane laughed.

“Yeah… No shit.”

Rick laughed too. Just a little. Meanwhile, all around them people were checking injuries, reloading, dragging bodies away from the firelight. Shane focused on the pain in his leg.

Rick opened his mouth, then just gave Shane an exasperated look of pure fondness. It made Shane’s stomach twist.

“I owe you twice now.”

“You don’t.” Shane shook his head. “Rick. You don’t. ”

Rick looked at Shane after that like… Like he just confirmed some deep-rooted suspicion. Shane wondered. But only for a moment. It wasn’t possible—Lori wouldn’t tell him. Not out of love for any of them, Shane saw that now. Rick just wasn’t as disposable as he was.

“Should get that cleaned,” Rick muttered. 

“Yeah.”

“So you gonna do it?”

“Don’t start.”

The moment stretched between them. Shane wiped at the blood on his jeans with more force than necessary. Rick just looked at him with that same infuriating patience—like he could see right through all the bullshit, right to the rotting mess beneath. 

Shane heard footsteps and got even more annoyed, until he saw it was just you. Carrying a first-aid kit and a flashlight, with a stormy look on your face. 

At least your dog looked happy. Covered in blood—again—trotting after you, his lolling tongue making the gore almost cheerful. And if dogs could even be smug—Rocky absolutely was.

You popped open the kit with a snap, then pushed the flashlight into Rick’s hand. “Hold.”

Rick chuckled, surprised. “Yes, ma’am.”

You cut through the hole in Shane’s jeans for access. He didn’t flinch when you dabbed at the wound with alcohol, but he was surprised when Rocky flopped right beside him, with a contented sigh like he hadn’t just torn seven men apart. 

Rick held the light. Shane watched you work, the careful press of gauze and that familiar half-scowl. It brought back some long-buried memories again. Those that smelled like aftershave.

“I saw,” you said finally, then pressed more gauze to the wound and squeezed firmly. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

Shane grunted slightly, noncommittal. 

“Whatever you say, tough guy,” you murmured, an infuriating smirk on your face. “But I remember your stories.” You unpacked the suture with one hand, then got to work.

“Stories?”

“Mm. Shane and Rick. Rick and Shane.” You grinned. “Hell, when we met at that car graveyard, I thought—”

“Thought what?” His eyes flickered to you. Sharp. Assessing. But there was only so much he would notice in the dark. 

“Dunno. Seemed cold between you. But you literally took a bullet for the man, so what do I know?” You looked up at Rick and smiled. He didn’t.

Shane watched as your fingers worked the needle through his skin, the pull of each suture sharp and quick. Little by little, the camp quieted down. The bodies were moved, the wounded tended to. Now that the adrenaline rush passed, all everyone wanted to do was get some shut-eye.

“How’s he doin’, doc?” Rick asked you with that same measured calm that was starting to piss Shane off. 

“He’ll live, don’t worry,” you replied, tying the suture sharply. 

“Jesus, woman!” Shane snapped.

“Sorry.” You placed a medical plaster, this time without sudden movements.

“Sure you are,” he grumbled, and Rick let out a sound that almost, almost resembled his old laugh.

“Gonna need to scout that water tower come first light,” Shane said immediately.

“Let’s… just take it easy for a moment,” Rick suggested, though you suspected what he really wanted to say was something along the lines of— Shane, if you die I swear I’ll kill you.

“You really are like brothers,” you chuckled, shaking your head. 

Again, that heavy pause fell between them. You felt it was your cue to stop talking. “I’m gonna give y’all a minute.”

Rick waited until you and Rocky were out of earshot, but then him and Shane started talking at the same time:

“I didn’t—”

“You shouldn’t—”

A moment paused and both looked like they’d rather chew glass than open their mouth again.

Finally, Shane exhaled and said what needed to be said:

“Before Lori ‘n’ I evacuated, I went to the hospital.”

Rick looked at him sharply. Not because he didn’t believe it, because he did. And he didn’t expect that topic to resurface.

“Army was there, I saw them start shootin’ at people,” Shane continued. “Nurses, doctors—not walkers, either. An’ I pleaded with you, man, I stood over that fuckin’ hospital bed. Tellin’ you, ‘Hey! Now or never, man, if you’re gonna wake up now’s the time, ‘cause we gotta go!’.” 

Rick let out a nervous sort of laugh and Shane smiled too. If only a little.

“Then, uh… They brought the big guns in, y’know. M249’s, real cool, man, except if they’re pointin’ it right at ya. It was chaos, loud, then walkers came in an’ you… The power was out, the machines turned off an’ I tried to listen for the heartbeat.” Shane shook his head. “I tried. Couldn’t hear a damn thing. Thought you’d—”

Rick exhaled, hard. “Shane. It wasn’t your fault. You… you went back for me, you could’ve died because of it . And Lori an’ Carl, they would’ve too.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane scoffed. “Would be some way for you to wake up later, I guess… I’d probably be a walker.”

“Don’t… even say that shit. Don’t even say it.”

Both went silent, but Shane felt like the floodgates had opened. He wouldn’t stop now:

“Later, uh… I had to tell Lori. I told her you were dead, man, believe me, I really believed that—”

“I know.” Rick nodded quickly. “Shane, nobody blames you—”

“Nah, Rick, that ain’t it, ‘cause… Trust me, you’re gonna blame me.”

“What?”

“She hates me for it. Said I lied to her, to stay away from her family, from Carl.”

“Wait, you… Lori said that?”

“Yeah, she had cause, I guess… I dunno.”

“What?”

“I just… All this time, Rick. All this time I kept thinkin’—if I just protected you an’ yours… maybe that’d mean somethin’. Somehow. It’d bring you back, just a little.”

Rick ran his hands down his face, shaking his head in disbelief. Suddenly, the memories of the past few days clicked into place.

“I should’ve seen how bad it got for you out here, Shane. I didn’t.”

“Nah, that… That ain’t all this is.”

“What, there’s more?”

Shane let out a humorless chuckle. “Oh yeah.”

The camp tried to settle down, after all was said and done some went to sleep, some just hovered over campfires lit down low. You hovered over one such with Dale, Daryl and Carol, neither of you actually talking, but sitting together helped. It wasn’t really late anymore. The sky changed from darkest black to bluish, the stars faded.

“It’ll be light soon,” Dale said quietly and nodded to himself.

Suddenly, a distant shout rang out across camp—Rick’s voice, sharp, hurt, loud enough to wake the dead.

Then Shane’s.

Then… nothing. Just the crunch of boots, someone storming off. You all saw Rick approaching, his chest heaving as he passed. 

“Well, shit,” Daryl drawled, spitting on the ground beside him.

“What happened?” you asked, your hand reaching for Rocky to calm him down, because he was already alert.

Nobody spoke. Dale passed a water canteen to Carol without a word. Daryl turned away and watched the woods—but not really. His eyes kept drifting toward the path Rick had stormed down minutes ago, then he exchanged looks with Dale and Carol like they all knew exactly what that was about.

Then the silence broke. Rick’s voice, harsh and furious, shouting just loud enough to carry. Then—

Lori. Shrill, sharp. 

You looked at everyone around the fire. Dale’s face betrayed his thoughts—he’s been waiting for this exact reckoning since day one.

“What was that?” you asked.

No one spoke. Not right away.

“I guess someone finally done told the truth,” Daryl grunted.

You blinked and glanced at Carol, who suddenly found the canteen very interesting. Dale just sighed like a man who’d been holding his breath for too many weeks.

You suddenly remembered that weird tension between Shane and Rick. The odd looks you got from Lori. And now Rick’s face, walking past the fire, eyes slightly glassy.

“O-oh. Shit. ”

“Yeah.” Daryl agreed with you, then shuffled closer and offered you a cigarette. 

You shook your head. “No, thanks. I’m… I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Thanks for… for letting me sit with y’all.”

Dale just nodded, looking at you like he knew exactly what was going through your head. You wished he didn’t.

“Rocky, come.” You walked down the path to Shane’s Jeep where you left your stuff. You still shook out the tarp one more time, but as soon as you laid down, the exhaustion of that day hit you like a trainwreck. 

Except, then you heard voices. Somewhere behind the car barricade. You grabbed your knife and got up to take a look, but then you immediately laid back down. 

It was Lori and Rick, apparently unaware that the pile of tarp in Shane’s car there was you.

“How long?” Rick spat out, and you really tried not to listen. But it was hard not to.

“What?” Lori asked, the tension in her voice so raw that you almost felt sorry for her. But then you reminded yourself you didn’t know the situation at all. 

“Fuckin’... Days of Our Lives, And Zombies, ” you muttered to yourself.

But then Rick spoke louder: “How long after I was gone?”

“Rick—”

“Was it a week? Two?”

“Rick. Don’t do this here—”

“Where then? You wanna schedule this conversation for a safer apocalypse?”

“Oh, great, now you’re makin’ jokes! You know exactly what I mean. Does everybody suddenly need to hear my business?”

“Lori, there’s no one in this camp that doesn’t know about you and Shane! God dammit! ”

That sure as hell disarmed her for a good minute.

“And you know what else?” Rick continued, and you were pretty sure at this point there was no human nor walker not invested in this drama. 

“He went back for me. He told me. Told me about the hospital. The army, killing innocent people. He risked his life, twice . And you… you looked him in the face and told him he lied. Told him to stay away from us, from Carl! ”

Lori sounded defensive now, close to tears. “ Rick. You have not seen what I’ve seen. He is unstable—”

“Is he? Is he really? Or did it start when I came back?” 

“He’s broken, Rick. He—”

“‘Cause you fuckin’ broke him! My best friend! ” Rick was panting now, you could hear it from all the way over there. 

“I’m not stupid, Lori. I knew something happened. But I didn’t want to know the details, not when I was trying to hold us all together. And now? Now I wish he’d told me sooner.”

“Rick…”

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

The silence was heavy . Two hundred tons at least.

“I didn’t know how,” Lori said, voice breaking. “I kept hoping I’d never have to.”

A pause. Then—

“Right. Just as I thought.”

“What are you saying?” Lori asked finally.

“I’m saying I finally see who did what.”

“Do you? Because all I did, I did to survive! For Carl!”

“No, stop talkin’. Don’t bring Carl into this or I swear to God.” A pause. “Did he force you?”

“What? N-no, but—” 

“Yeah. So it wasn’t just him, was it?”

Silence.

“Remember, I know you. The way you say cruel shit like it’s nothin’. An’ I know you like to throw blame ‘round when you’re feelin’ guilty. Seen it.”

There were no words after that. Just two sets of footsteps going in separate directions.

Sun was already up when Shane reappeared from the treeline, his boots kicking up dust with each heavy step. He looked like a man haunted. Didn’t so much as glance at you when you tried to say hi; truth be told he didn’t seem to look at anything. Just stalked past like a man walking to his own execution.

Then, you heard Rick say to Shane:

“We ain’t done talkin’ about this.”

Shane stopped dead in his tracks, shoulders stiffening beneath the grime-streaked shirt.

“Thought we said our piece,” Shane muttered.

Rick exhaled through his nose, that same tired sound he always made when Shane was being particularly bullheaded. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“What d’ you want me to say, Rick? That I’m sorry? Fine, I’ll say it again. I’m goddamn sorry. I’ll say it as many times as you want. Ain’t gonna change anythin’.”

Rick took a quick step forward. “This ain’t about apologies, Shane. It’s about you standin’ there thinkin’ you’re the only one who made mistakes in all this.” 

His voice dropped lower. Quieter. “I left y’all first. You didn’t know. That don’t… It damn right don’t make it okay, but it’s not…”

Shane paused. “What?”

At that moment, you caught a glimpse of Lori watching from the edge of camp, Carl clutching at her sleeve. Lori looked furious. If looks could kill, Shane would’ve dropped dead in the dirt. Shane caught sight of her too, before he deliberately turned his back to her, shoulders squaring like he was bracing for a fight.

You had the distinct feeling you were witnessing something that had been brewing for a long, long time.

Rick followed Shane’s gaze, his expression hardening as he took in Lori's glare. “This ain’t about her,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of it. This, this is about us. We clear, partner?”

Shane barked a humorless laugh. 

“Yeah?” Rick asked again.

“Just… yeah. Okay.”

Rick didn’t back down. He never did. “Now ‘bout everythin’ else, I ain’t leavin’ you with this shit. We work together this time.”

Then, Rick clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder, maybe a little too hard, but still. Something unsaid passed between them. Something good for once.

And then, just like that, Shane turned away before Rick could say another word. Neither of them looked at Lori still standing there, hands trembling with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore.

But you did. Something about that woman just didn’t sit right with you.

“Stay with Dad, okay?” Lori said to Carl, then walked down the hill, pretending she was going to her tent. 

Then you saw she was following Shane further down. Nobody really paid much attention to you, so you followed her, Rocky in tow.

“What the hell did you say to him?!” was the first piece of the shouting match that you heard.

You saw them, Lori looking at Shane like she wanted to tear him apart. He was smoking a cigarette, not looking at her at all.

“The truth.”

“You had no right—”

“I have every right, Lori!”

She flinched. Maybe because he said her name, but most likely because for the first time in a long time he didn’t look at her like she hung the moon. 

“Shoulda known you’d make this about you,” he said, voice scraped raw. 

“ Me? You think that was your call to make?” 

Shane scoffed, shaking his head. “Unbelieveable… You’re unbelievable, ‘d you know that? Hell, least Rick had the decency to talk to me! You, you just cut me off. Like I was nothin’!”

Lori shook her head, swallowing hard. “No. No, you don’t get to do that. You’re the one who’s unbelievable, Shane. Why… Why would you blow up our family like that?”

“I already blew it up! You blew it up, Lori! The day you let me think I had a place in it!”

He finally turned to look at her. Tired. Bleeding. Done.

“I took a bullet for him ‘cause I felt so fuckin’ guilty. You think I did that just to ruin your marriage?”

“You should’ve just left it alone , Shane!” Lori shook her head, voice breaking. “Let it die. You were supposed to .”

“Yeah,” Shane spat out. “Guess I ain’t so great at followin’ your orders.”

Lori opened her mouth, closed it. For once, the words didn’t come easy. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t the shrill fury from before. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Shane’s shoulders slumped, just a little. “Yeah, neither did I.”

For a moment, they just stood there—Shane furiously smoking, Lori with her arms wrapped tight around herself, staring at the ground like it might open up and swallow her whole. 

You retreated just seconds before she turned sharply and walked towards the camp. 

But then, Shane spoke:

“Yeah, you can come out now.”

You stopped, busted.

“You ain’t slick, darlin’.”

You slowly emerged from behind the tree, while Rocky happily trotted to Shane to say hello. Shane smiled at the dog and leaned down to let Rocky sniff his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you said, honestly. “I saw her walkin’ down here like she was gonna kill you.”

“And what, you’re the cavalry?” His tone was mocking, but it was all bark, no bite.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again. “Figured you’d be smart enough to steer clear of this shitstorm.” 

The cigarette butt hissed when he flicked it into a puddle of rainwater. His jaw worked like he wanted to say more; something bitter, maybe. 

“World's gone to hell and we’re still stuck on who fucked who before the damn apocalypse.” His hands flexed like he wanted to punch a hole through the nearest tree. “She wanted it buried. So I buried it. Now it’s dug up and stinkin’ worse than a walker smeared in shit.”

You let out a laugh, then cut it out quickly. “I’m sorry,” you cleared your throat. “That was… that was actually funny, I’m sorry.”

He huffed out a breath, halfway between a sigh and a scoff. “Yeah, well, ain’t exactly my best material.” His fingers absently scratched behind Rocky’s ears, the dog leaning into the touch with a contented rumble. “Should’ve seen the jokes I used to make at the station. Real knee-slappers, those.”

For a second, the ghost of that old Shane flickered across his face, before the exhaustion settled in. 

“Listen, darlin’—whatever you heard back there? Don’t go spreadin’ it around. Rick’s got enough on his plate without the whole camp pickin’ sides.”

“What?” You frowned, a little offended that he would think that. “No, Shane. I ain’t gonna talk ‘bout your business.” You paused. “Mostly just came down ‘ere ‘cause I wanted to throw hands.”

That actually made him laugh. Just a little. “Jesus Christ, woman,” he shook his head and looked at you like you were gonna be the death of him. 

Probably true. 

“Have you slept?” You asked him. “I mean, at all? ‘Cause no offence, it ain’t about the hair anymore, you look terrible.”

Shane’s laughter died in his throat, replaced by that familiar tired rasp as he dragged a hand down his face. “Sweetheart, I ain’t slept right since the world ended.”

“Well, just so happens I got this real luxurious quarters up the hill there. ‘S just full of spiders. But you seem to love ‘em so.”

Shane snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ll take the spiders over whatever the hell this conversation’s become.” But the corner of his mouth twitched, that stubborn half-smirk that meant you’d amused him against his will.

The survivors allowed themselves a quick breather after the looter attack. After that, they moved their camp deeper into the woods—more isolated, quieter, more space for people to breathe (mostly stew in feelings they were trying not to name). 

Shane had spent the past three days hauling supplies like a man possessed. He did pull his stitches once, but you just grumbled at him and redid them without much fuss. He seemed to appreciate that about you—little fuss. No games. You just… were. 

The man had a fuse shorter than a matchstick in a hurricane and yet… 

You figured after the virus folks either turned into monsters or they dug in and fought to stay human. And Shane put up one hell of a fight. Even if he mostly fought dirty.

One morning, you found Shane sharpening his knife by the creek as the others finished setting the camp up. For what felt like the hundredth time. 

The creek burbled around you. Rocky immediately started drinking from it and you could have sworn you saw Shane smirk at the sight.

Meanwhile, his knife scraped rhythmically across the whetstone. You stayed quiet for a long moment, before Shane finally spoke first. 

“You starin’ at my hands or my face, darlin’? ‘Cause I know both look like hell.” His tone was all grit, but he wasn’t exactly telling you to go.

That affectionate nickname was still there. Almost every time you spoke.

You reached for one of his hands and he let you, even if you interrupted his very important brooding. Because you didn’t believe for one second this knife needed a second sharpening this week.

“The hell you doin’?” he asked as you inspected his hand like a relic in a museum. His knuckles were split open from God-knows-what—as far as you knew, probably punching boulders.

“Rick’s been lookin’ for you,” you mentioned carefully, watching his shoulders tense immediately.

“Couldn’t find you, so he talked to me.”

“Jesus… What the hell for?”

“Depends. You gonna keep draggin’ that guilt around like a damn ball and chain?” The question came out harsher than you meant it to. Shane’s laugh was all bitter edges.

“Sweetheart, you don’t know the half of what I’m draggin’,” he said, standing abruptly. 

“Yeah, so am I, so is everyone. I can show you mine if you show me yours.”

He gave you one hell of a pointed look.

“Well,” you cleared your throat. “I know some of your shit . I’m nosy.”

Shane tossed the whetstone aside with more force than necessary. “Rick’s got a camp to run,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Don’t need me for it.”

“You know he does,” you started carefully, and Shane cut you off with a sharp look.

“Don’t.” His voice was rough, but not angry—just exhausted. “Ain’t in the mood for pep talks or whatever the hell this is s’posed to be.”

“Okay then shut up, ‘cause it ain’t.” You slapped his shoulder. Hard.  

Then you showed him what you’ve been holding this whole time. Scissors. And manual clippers. He looked at you like you just sprouted a second head. 

“ Now you wanna play beauty parlor?” 

“ Yes, now, ‘cause we got daylight. Be grateful, I could’ve done it when you were sleepin’.” You manhandled him to sit how you wanted him and you got down in a high kneel position behind him.

“Woman, I just took a bullet—”

“ I know, an’ then I had to fix you twice, so stop bitchin’ ‘bout it.”

He grumbled something, but you just laughed and his shoulders relaxed, if only a little. The feeling of your fingers in his hair was familiar the way certain smells or tastes were. It sparked a whole involuntary reaction in him.

You leaned closer, the snip-snip-snip sounds of your scissors making him close his eyes. He moved his head, without meaning to.

“Easy. I’m not tryin’ to kill you. Yet,” you murmured.

Shane huffed out a breath. He was very sure you were grinning as you said it. It was unclear whether it was muscle memory or you were just that good, but pretty soon you were finished with layering the top, then went in with the clippers.

“Okay, now really don’t move. These don’t feel exactly great if I snag you. The electric were better.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Shut up.”

Then—

“I’m gonna go with a mid fade, ‘cause you probably don’t want it growing out in a week.”

Shane let out a grunt that meant you could do whatever the hell you wanted. So you worked and didn’t speak, but when you moved to the back of his head, your fingers lingered against the nape of his neck much longer than they needed to.

“Why’d you take that bullet, Shane?”

“ Jesus.” He snapped to attention and you almost flinched. Almost. 

“Cut the damn hair, woman, I ain’t here for your psych eval.”

But, after a long moment—

“It was like watching it all happen again.”

“Again?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Before the outbreak, Rick got shot on the job. I was with him. He was in a coma. Woke up after the outbreak. And he still somehow fuckin’ found us, stubborn that he is.”

“Fuck…” 

You stopped what you were doing, then leaned in and hugged him from behind—while holding sharp objects—and Shane didn’t know what to do with himself.

“That explains a lot. ”

“Yeah, that ain’t the whole story, though.”

You didn’t press. You never did. But somehow you coaxed the whole story out of him by just being you. 

And by the time Shane finished, his haircut was long done. You just sat behind him, gave him space. When he finished, the gravity of Rick and Lori’s confrontation from a few days ago really sunk in.

“Shane…”

“Save it. I don’t want pity.”

“No, listen. ‘Cause you need to hear it.” You shuffled on the grass and now sat beside him, facing him with a stern look. And Shane listened. These days, he tended to listen to you.

“Rick defended you. To Lori. He full-on confronted her. They had… words.”

A whole sequence of emotions went through Shane’s as you said it, then he made a face—not exactly irritated, but slightly. “Christ alive, woman. D’ you know everybody’s business in this camp?!”

You let out a laugh. “Well… Remember, my job was basically gossip with extra steps.” 

Shane chuckled at that, the ghost of him flickering once more through these dark, tired eyes.

“But no,” you continued. “I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping then. They argued beside your car. They didn’t know I was sleeping in it.”

“Figures,” he exhaled, then shook his head like he was physically trying not to think about it. 

So you asked him— 

“What will you do now?”

Shane dragged his hand through his hair and for a moment you could see that flicker of confusion.

“Oh, yeah, it’s done. Ta-dah! Shane Walsh, you look like someone who can pay taxes again.”

He let out a sharp laugh and then started to shake off all the hair you cut. 

“Jesus, you’re just like Rocky,” you murmured, grinning, but you moved to help him get it all off. 

Speaking of, Rocky slept like a big, murderous baby in the grass, his paws twitching like he was dreaming about chasing a looter.

You couldn’t tell exactly when it happened, but as you leaned in closer to Shane to get the rest of the hair off his other shoulder, suddenly his hands were on you—large, probably strong enough to pin you down with one.

Not that he would’ve met with any resistance, this much was clear by the way you now looked at him. For a breathless moment, neither of you moved.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than sandpaper. “You ever think maybe you’re too damn good at this?”

“At… cutting hair?”

You could see the war playing out behind his eyes—the part of him that wanted to bolt, and the part that until now had only been touched with violence.

“No.” And the way he said it sounded final. Like he was closing something shut. 

“This is a real bad idea,” he breathed, but his mouth was already inches from yours.

“Okay.” You wrapped your arms around his neck. Traced that scar on the back of his head with one finger.

“You know damn well by now I ain’t got the sense God gave a rock when it comes to this shit.”

And then he pulled you in regardless. His mouth was hot, desperate against yours, but g oddamn, was he a good kisser. True, not the smartest with giving his heart away. But once he felt like he could, like you wanted it, he kissed you like he meant it. 

He gripped you like he would never let go, which was convenient, because you absolutely didn’t want him to. 

Then, the distant crack of a branch snapping had him jerking back, gun in hand in an instant. When no walkers emerged, he dragged a hand down his face, because the other still gripped your thigh. 

“Christ,” he rasped, pupils blown so wide the brown nearly disappeared. “We’re—goddammit, we’re gonna get our damn selves killed.”

You leaned in and rested your forehead against his, cupping his face with your hands.

“Tell me to walk away,” he said, voice wrecked. “Or don’t. But decide quick, darlin’. ‘Cause I ain’t got the willpower left to do it for you.”

You shook your head, then kissed his nose playfully. “No.”

You wondered how many times it got broken in a fight. Probably at least five, judging by how crooked it healed. You absolutely loved it.

“What does that mean?”

“ No. Don’t go,” you murmured.

“Not sure what you think you’re signing up for here,” he admitted. 

His embrace tightened, because you realised he was bracing for a blow. He needed to hear it from you and you didn’t blame him.

“There are many rules around becomin’ a girl barber,” you said, measuring your words. “One of them is: if you’re easily charmed, don’t do it. Find another job . ‘Cause the guys will hit on ya no matter what. It’s like a sport. So… never fall for a client. Otherwise you’ll be known as the easy package. A quickie an’ a haircut.”

You looked at him pointedly and he frowned, doing his damndest to understand. 

You saw it in his eyes, the exact moment it hit him.

You let your hands slide up his chest, now that you were allowed to touch him. “So, been kinda thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ that for… longer than you.”

There was that unspoken question hanging around you now. Fragile, like your admission. You could tell he wanted to believe you. But he didn’t. 

“Christ. Shoulda tipped you better.”

You laughed, definitely too loud, so he shut you up with another kiss. No complaints there. This time around it was slower, like he was testing his right to do it.

Finally, Shane huffed out a laugh against your lips. “Your damn hellhound’s gonna eat me if we keep this up,” he murmured. “See? Already plottin’ my demise.”

Rocky could not have been more asleep.

You leaned in and hugged Shane tightly, trying to say you cared. 

“Yeah, yeah. Gonna regret this when I start snorin’,” he grumbled.

“Yeah? And what if I snore?” 

“Then you go sleepin’ with the spiders, I ain’t doin’ that.”

You slapped his shoulder, but he knew it was coming. He only smiled. For once it wasn’t muscle memory or something hidden. 

“Better fix your damn face ‘fore we get back,” he murmured, voice rough with want. “You ain’t exactly subtle.”

“D’ you want me to be subtle?” You frowned. “‘Cause if I were, we’d be dancin’ ‘round each other until a walker got us one way or the other.”

And what you meant was—there was no time. Apocalypse waited for no one.

“Yeah, when you put it like that, sweetheart, then— hell no .” 

The last of the daylight caught in his eyes, bright enough to let you see a shift in him—not like something snapped, but more like it finally let him go.

When you came back to camp, it earned you some looks. The first reason was obvious, Shane looked like himself again, and judging by the levels of surprise, it seemed the quality of your skills was not at all exaggerated.

Safe to say, eyebrows were raised at how close together you were walking.

“Yesterday he looked like a swamp rat,” you heard Daryl’s twang all the way from where he was standing. “Now this.”

You gave Daryl the finger, he did the same, but both of you grinned about it. 

“You good?” you asked Shane, voice low.

He nodded, barely.

“Still think this is a bad idea?” you added, teasing.

Shane looked at you like you were crazy. Which, true, he did pretty often.

“Nah,” he said. “Think it’s the smartest one I got.”