Archive of Our Own

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You watch idly as the rest of the camp hurriedly packs up their things, like they can’t get away fast enough. You can’t blame them after what happened last night.

You glance over to Andrea, watching as her lips tremble, looking down at the pistol which rests in her palms, her eyes empty.

You fill with grief on her behalf. You know that look all too well. As well as what she’s feeling.

Amy deserved so much better.

You sit on a nearby tree stump, lost in thought of what you’ll do once everyone is gone—perhaps you’ll just finally stick a gun in your mouth once there’s no one here to witness it—until a pair of boots enter your vision.

You look up.

“You want to tell me why the hell you haven’t started packin’ yet?” Shane asks, hands on his hips, irritation lacing his voice.

“I’m staying,” you reply quietly.

His features portray nothing short of confusion. “What?”

“I’m staying here, Shane.”

He kneels down in front of you. “Why the hell do you keep saying that?” His tone is a bit softer now.

“Because I’m not…I’m not like the rest of you. All of you are either friends or family. Or, at the very least, useful. None of those things apply to me. Everyone will be better off if I remain here.”

His heart breaks, even just a little, imaging you standing there all alone as the rest of them drive away, you in their rearviews.

“Absolutely not,” he states, firmly. With finality.

“Shane-” Your voice breaks.

“Now you listen to me: you are going to pack your shit, or I will do it for you. And you are either getting’ in my Jeep, or so help me, I will throw you over my shoulder and tie you to the top of the damn Winnebago. So, do you want to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

Your eyes search his for a moment, but you know it’s useless. That he means everything he’s said.

Finally, you stand without another word, gathering your things.

He goes back in the other direction, helping load things into the RV, into his vehicle, and into Rick’s, glancing to you every few moments to keep an eye on you, making sure you don’t randomly slip away into the woods, trying to hide until they’ve all gone.

Eventually, you drag your wrapped up tent and a few bags over, which he walks over and promptly takes from you, loading them up.

You merely stand there silently with tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Look at me,” he says once your things are secure.

You don’t.

He gently grips your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his own.

You speak before he gets a word out, however. “Why are you doing this? I’m not your problem. Or your responsibility. I—”

“I’m makin’ you as much.” He nods toward the passenger seat of the Jeep. “Now, get in and wait until we’re ready to pull out.”

Solemnly, you do as you’re told.

You stay silent as Shane follows behind the line of vehicles in front of him, taking occasional bites of the sandwich he’d thrown in your lap before pulling out, telling you to finish it while he drives.

You’re on the road for perhaps a couple of hours before he eventually reaches over and silently places his hand on your knee.

You look at him, while he keeps his other hand firmly gripping the wheel, and his eyes on the road ahead.

You don't said a word when he removes it, or when he places it back shortly after.

You merely look to your side at the passing scenery, feeling empty.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I’m staying, Shane. This is what I want,” you say quietly—pleadingly—with tears shimmering in your eyes.

He heard those very same words from you only a few days prior at the quarry. And they hadn’t worked then, nor will they now. He won't allow it. He’ll shoot you in the damn leg and carry you out, if that’s what it takes.

He should've known—should've known—when he saw the look in your eyes—that gut-wrenching look of peace and understanding...perhaps even finality—that had come across your features when Jenner told everyone what would happen when the clock hit zero would lead to this.

He'd watched you as the man spoke—as he talked ridiculously about how it was "better"—hoping, praying, you wouldn't see it that way. That, between the quarry and the CDC, you'd found some small will to live. Some reason, even if it's a tentative one.

But you hadn't. Not for a moment. Not even for him.

You'd barely talked over dinner that first night. Had idly pushed your food around your plate before silently going off to bed without saying a word to anyone.

You're wasting away before his eyes and... He can't lose one more person he's come to care for.

He won't let you just rip yourself away from him.

He'd heard what Dale had said to Andrea: that you don't get to come into someone's life, make them care, and then just check out. Even if making him care—making him want to look out for, provide safety for...and something more, perhaps—had never been your intentions.

It'd happened anyway.

He wants to throw those words in your face, but knows they won't make a difference.

Maybe it's stupid of him to keep pulling someone back from the edge who's so eager to step off of it—who doesn't care about who they're leaving behind. But maybe he's stupid, then. Must be something about him: wanting women who only want to leave.

But this time it isn't about you leaving him. It's about you leaving yourself.

He can't let that happen. Not while there's still some chance to prevent it.

He glances to the clock, which has damn-near run out, then back to you.

He grabs your wrist painfully, his callused hand forming an iron-tight grip around it. “We are not about to do this again. I am not about to watch you burn to death in this damn place.”

“Shane—”

He cuts you off.

“No!” He shouts. “Enough is enough, and I have had it with this damn suicide mission you seem to be on. Now, you either leave this place willingly, or I will shoot you in the goddamn leg, throw you over my shoulder, and force your ass out.”

He doesn’t bother giving you a chance to even try and talk him out of it before he slips his hand down yours before twining his fingers painfully between your own as he pulls you along, through hall after hall, until you’ve made it to the surface.

Just as the two of you enter the front of the building, you see Rick running toward you. “Get down! Grenade!”

Shane immediately wraps his arms around you, and he squeezes you against his chest before he throws the two of you on the floor as the explosion hits, sending millions of tiny shards of glass in every direction.

When he stands, he yanks you up by your arm, leading you through the now-open window.

You’ve all barely made it to your vehicles before you hear someone yell to, once again, get down.

Shane and you fall against the ground so hard it knocks the breath out of you.

He, once again, covers the length of you with his broad frame—one arm wraps around your middle, while the other cups the back of your head while he holds you to him.

Hot concrete bites against your backside while the front of you is pressed firmly against him.

You squeeze your eyes shut when it finally happens—an absolutely deafening explosion which makes you cringe further into him while your body shakes in fear and terror against him.

And every time you think it’s nearly done, something else implodes, sending rubble and debris flying across the front lot, slamming into the ground, or against the cars.

You hang onto him for dear life, until, finally, it seems to be over.

Shane pulls you up, and your legs wobble and your ears ringing from a feeling of disorientation.

You stare up at him, at his wide eyes, creased forehead, and furrowed brows, but you don't hear a thing he’s shouting at you as he holds your face firmly between his large hands.

Finally, he shoves you into the passenger side of the Jeep an he buckles you in with shaking hands before coming around to the driver’s side and starting the vehicle.

You stare at the flames which now serve as the resting place for Jacqui and Jenner as everyone begins to drive away, Shane’s free hand—which is still shaking—holding onto your own.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

While the rest of the group are more than displeased with being stuck on the highway…you're actually enjoying scavenging. All of you are surrounded by countless vehicles, full of numerous types of supplies: food, clothes, medicine, drinks, batteries, weapons, ammunition…the list goes on and on. Not to mention fuel and car parts.

You understand the uncertainty and fear of being dead-in-the-water, right out in the open, which they all are feeling, but for the first time in weeks, you finally have something to take your mind off of things.

You take a laundry basket with you as you go from car to car, looking for anything of use. And each time you fill it to the brim, you walk silently back to the arrangement of the group’s vehicles and dump what you've found wordlessly on the ground, or on the inside of the RV, before walking away again.

Carol and Lori and Dale merely stare after you before beginning to sort through and divvy up whatever you've come across.

You hear, at one point, a male voice say from behind you, lowly, “she’s like a little machine”. You think it to be Rick.

T-Dog tries to talk you into taking a bottle of water that you’ve found, but you merely shrug him off before walking away to see what else you can find.

It's like a great treasure hunt.

When you open the back passenger-side door of a red sedan, peeking in, you immediately slam back into that same door, eyes filling with tears, hands coming up to cover your mouth.

You let out a strangled sob and Shane, who’d been looking over an arsenal Carl had found earlier, immediately jerks his head in your direction.

He drops the hatchet in his hand, the blade clattering against the ground, as he begins hastily heading in your direction. “Y/N!”

You don’t respond, you instead continue staring in wide-eyed horror at whatever you’ve found inside the car.

“Darlin’, look at me, what is it?”

You shake your head, sobbing harder.

Finally, he reaches you, pulling your hands away from your mouth as he looks you over in a panic. “Were you bit? Babydoll, talk to me.”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“N-no,” you whimper in reply.

Finally, he turns around, looking into the car, and he lets out a low curse when he sees: an empty car-seat, covered in blood.

He stands again, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, turning you so that he’s facing the vehicle instead of you. “Shh, shh, it’ll be alright.”

You sob into his chest.

“That was so horrible,” you say, choking on each word.

He cradles the back of your head, cursing himself for letting you look through all these damn cars on your own.

But you’ve seemed determined to do it—to clean out every one. And, in truth, he admires you for it. For making so much use of yourself and your surroundings—the current situation you all feel stuck in. All while a couple of others want to bitch and complain instead, expecting other, more capable individuals to, once again, figure it all out for them.

After the CDC…seeing you up and active is a welcome change.

It's given him hope that you're finally doing better, even slightly.

He fears this will become another mental setback for you now.

Once you’ve calmed—having exhausted yourself from crying—he walks you back to the RV and you lie down in the back, quickly falling off to sleep.

The next day, when Shane tries checking in with you to see how you’re doing—how you’re feeling—you give him a mumbled “I’m fine” before wandering off. And you fear opening every door that you place your hand upon the handle of.

But you do it anyway, because you want to be alone.

It’s the middle of the day, when the sun is at its highest, when it happens.

You’re just about to climb up into a big-rig to check the cabin when you suddenly feel light-headed.

You shake your head, the disoriented feeling that’s come over you only getting worse. You try to swallow, but your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth. And you suddenly realize that you haven’t sweated nearly all day, despite the fact it’s almost a hundred degrees out.

Your vision swims, the world spinning in slow motion, and you fall.

The last thing you hear before you close your eyes—your vision filling with black dots—is a deep southern voice yelling your name.

As you begin to come-to, everything feels—seems—dreamlike. You’re dizzy, your head lightly spinning. It feels like you’re lying down on something soft…a bed? And the atmosphere feels humid.

You feel something being pressed to your lips and you swallow as cool liquid wets your parched mouth and throat.

“How the hell could you do that to me? Haven’t…haven’t I already lost enough? What, you want me to lose you, too? You may not give a damn about your own well-being, but I do. I ain’t just going to let you kill yourself. You’ve tried it time and again, and I’ll keep saving you as long as I have to. Or until I can’t anymore.”

He's rambling, whoever he is. Names bounce around your head: Rick, Dale, Jim, Shane, Glen, Ed. But you feel so exhausted that you struggle to match this voice to any particular one.

The liquid fills your mouth again and a cool cloth is pressed to your forehead, another dabbed against your neck and the tops of your breasts, even your stomach. You realize that your legs are bare.

You swallow and the bottle is removed from your lips.

“Honey, I don’t…” He trails off for a moment. “I don’t know what to do. How to make you want to live. I get it: your feelin’ like you don’t have a reason to anymore. After everythin' you’ve been through…you’ve lost everythin' and everyone you’ve ever loved—cared about. But I refuse to just let you slip through my fingers. So, you go ahead and try. And I’ll be there every time to catch you.”

You feel the cloth being lifted, a pair of lips being pressed to your forehead, and then the cloth being lied back down.

He takes your hand in his for a moment and then you hear footsteps coming closer.

And then there’s a female voice. “Rick needs you.”

A rough hand gently smooths some hair away from your face. “Little busy at the moment, Lori.”

A beat of silence, then, “I can sit with her.”

“I’m the one who’s lookin’ after her.” His voice sounds defensive now, protective. “If she slips away and I’m not here—”

“She won’t. It’s just dehydration. She’s still breathing. Her heart is still beating. She’ll be okay. I know she will.” Her tone is gentle, understanding.

Finally, with a slight squeeze, he releases your hand and you hear a chair squeak as he stands. “I’ll be back this evenin’.”

When you wake, it’s late, the RV dark, and a man is slumped against the bed, his head resting against your stomach, the fingers of his left hand twined between yours as he sleeps.

The damp cloth against your forehead has grown warm you’ve been asleep so long. You reach up with your free hand—your arm feeling heavy—and you remove it, dropping it to the floor.

You reach down, gently running your fingers through the man’s hair, and you know those curls can only belong to one individual: Shane.

He stirs for a moment, then returns to lightly snoring.

You lift your head, then lie it back down near-immediately, feeling a headache beginning to form from the simple action alone.

You groan, and the sound wakes him.

He slowly lifts his head, letting go of your fingers as he rubs the heel of his hand against one of his eyes.

“Y/N?” He asks quietly, his voice hopeful.

“Mm,” is all the reply you can manage.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “’Bout damn time, sweetheart. Been sittin’ here near all damn day waitin’ for you to open your eyes.”

You blink against the darkness, the only light being the moon shining in dimly from the window to your right side. Enough light for you to finally make him out, though.

You lift your arm—which still feels rubbery and somewhat disconnected from your shoulder—and you gently cup the side of his face.

He smiles, laughing lightly.

He rests both of his elbows against the side of the bed, taking your free hand in both of his, holding it up to his lips.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. You understand me?”

You nod.

“How could you even—”

You cut him off, already knowing where he’s going with his train-of-thought. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself via dehydration. I just…I just didn’t think about it I was so preoccupied.”

You lower your voice, whispering. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

He shakes his head. “Do it every damn day. Guess this one was no different.”

You smile.

“Did…” He sighs, looking down. “Did you hear anything, while you were asleep?”

He looks up to you again, forehead creased.

You rub your thumb against his cheek. “Not if you didn’t want me to.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You stare up at the crucifix before you, feeling devoid of anything.

No.

Not anything.

Hopelessness is the one thing you do feel.

One dead-end after another. That's the only thing you all do seem able to find.

The CDC and Jenner had had no answers. Not with his wife being gone.

The highway and Dale's RV blowing a radiator hose had left all of you stranded in the middle of nowhere.

And now you're here.

You'd all felt so hopeful when you heard that bell.

You'd prayed to a God who clearly isn't listening—if he ever has—for it to lead you toward something. To Sophia.

She'd never been here in the first place.

You glance to Carol and can practically feel the grief and desperation rolling off of her. You don't want to believe that Sophia is gone. Or worse: is out there alone in the woods...

If the wrong people—the wrong men—come across her... You don't want to think about how she'll never have a chance.

Death would be kinder.

So, you instead stare at Him who is crying tears of blood, and wonder how His father, who knows what it is to lose a child, can allow such a thing?

The wooden bench creaks as Shane sets down beside you. "Didn't know you were religious."

He says it softly, his tone anything but mocking, even if he himself doesn't believe. He doesn't understand how you can either—if you indeed do, that is. But if you do—have some sort of faith, something to believe in—he'll just be glad if it finally turns out that you have something that may perhaps help to keep you going.

"I'm not."

The thought of the possibility of you taking comfort in something more, even if you can't see it, quickly disappears. He leans back and rests him arm behind you, all thoughts of encouraging you to take a Bible with you when you all leave now gone.

You're quiet for a moment. "Are you?"

He shrugs. "Not really. Never was my thing, I guess. Hard to believe when you're witness to the shit I was as a cop."

He looks at you. "Were you ever?"

You shrug then as well. "My parents made me go to church when I was little. Like a lot of kids, especially in the south. I never liked it. The getting up early, and being forced into uncomfortable clothes, and the way my mom did my hair. I didn't like how the other kids were mean to me, or how I would sit on those uncomfortable wooden pews and stare up at a preacher yelling words and passages at me that I couldn't understand. I didn't like how judgmental so many in the congregation seemed to be, even toward each other. Once I was old enough to make the decision not to go anymore, I stopped attending. I didn't regret it."

You look at him and his head is now resting atop his fist as he looks at you. You're unsure of the soft look in his eyes.

"So, what'd you start believin' in instead? If anythin'."

You glance down to your lap. "Nothing in particular, I guess. I just... I suppose I tried to see the beauty in nature instead. In the plants and trees, insects and animals, fresh air and clear water. Occasionally even people."

You look at him. "The way I am now—who I am now—is nothing like the way I was before. I didn't need to look for a reason to live, because I didn't need one. Because I didn't want to die."

He uses his other hand that isn't propping his head up to reach out and take your right hand and he holds it firmly—comfortingly—in his grip.

"What if that reason is another person?" He asks, looking at you from under his lashes.

You look down to your hand that's in his and watch as his thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of yours. "I don't know how to make you realize you're wasting your time—"

He cuts you off, lacing the fingers of his other hand between strands of your hair. "I don't know how to make you realize the only waste would be your life being cut so damn short."

You think back to the things he'd said to you that night in the RV. He'd made it sound like...like you're something he's finally found after looking for it for so long.

You can't keep doing this to him: insisting that you want to be left alone to die. You've done it twice now. And while what happened on the highway had been an accident...had he not had his eye on you— not seen you pass out—you may've slipped away right there in the middle of the road. So, he had saved you a third time. And even now he's still trying to talk you into staying...alive.

Giving up is easy. The thought of trying to hold on? It feels near-impossible now. Like lifting a giant boulder and carrying it with you every step of the way.

"Do you believe we'll find her?"

He studies you for a moment. "I hope so."

"Do you believe we'll find...something, or somewhere worth living for?"

He leans toward you and he gently presses his forehead to yours before closing his eyes.

"I already have," he says in a whisper, before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Shane comes up onto the porch, his boots thumping against each step.

He stops, standing in front of you, watching you for a moment as you sew a button onto one of Dale’s shirts.

The button is near-silver in color, whereas the shirt is white, but it’s been the closest match you'd been able to find in the collection of them Maggie had let you sift through a little while ago. So, silver it is.

You look up to him, his hands on his hips, a small smirk on his lips as he watches you with mild interest.

You raise a brow slightly.

“This seat taken?” He asks, nodding to the rocking chair beside you.

You shake your head and he sits.

He leans back. “You the camp seamstress now?”

“There’s always work to be done. Even if it’s just mending a shirt.”

“Dale can’t do that himself?” He asks, his tone not betraying the mild dislike it seems he’s recently developed toward the man.

You can't understand what's occurred between the two to cause such a sudden rift, but you don't bother asking, either. None of your business, and not your problem.

That's the issue with near-everyone in this camp: dealing with walkers and supplies constantly dwindling, then needing to be replenished—if not the occasional injury or loss of life—isn't enough. No, they need to further their problems by causing more with others by sticking their noses where they don't belong, nor where they're wanted.

And that includes Shane.

More than includes him, perhaps. At least at times.

But he’s always been kind to you—helpful. Not that you don't know why: you pull your weight. You hardly ever stop working, really. Because when you do take a break, it allows your mind to wander. Not that it doesn't anyway, but at least this way you're always exhausted at bedtime, so there's no opportunity for you to dwell on troublesome thoughts when it's quiet, and dark, and you have nothing else to think about than the horrors you’ve endured. The losses you’ve suffered.

Finally, you shrug, continuing to sew. “I don’t mind.”

Shane leans back. “Somethin’s on your mind.”

You look at him and he continues. “I can tell. Not very good at hiding it. At least not from me.”

You pull through the last bit of thread, then snip, setting the shirt and sewing materials on the small table settled between both your seats.

“I’m fine.”

He sits back, rocking in his chair. “Heard that before. And it was a load of bullshit then just like it is right now. So, you want to give me the truth, or am I going to have to break out Officer Shane to get it out of you?”

You glance to him, and he has a playful smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, but you don’t laugh.

“Just thinking about my bucket list.”

His smile disappears. “That somethin’ I need to be worried about: that you’re thinkin’ like that?”

You settle back in your seat, bringing your left leg up, bending it at the knee, resting your foot on the seat as your other continues to push against the floorboards of the porch, gently rocking the chair.

You face him, back turned toward the front door behind you. “No.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “You have to give me more than that.”

You’d expressed a loss of will to live to him weeks ago at the quarry, but had stated the only reason you bother to keep breathing is due to the unknown of what death—caused particularly by suicide—will hold.

And then you'd considered staying at the CDC with Jackie and Jenner, but he’d talked you out of it, pulling you along beside him—his hand holding so firmly to yours you were sure he’d dislocate your shoulder as he pulled you along—out of that building. Then he’d covered your body with his as the building exploding, sending debris in every direction.

After, as you traveled the highway, he’d—every now and again—rest his palm over your knee. A reassuring touch that you aren't alone is all it had been; you have no doubt about that. Just innocent bodily contact.

Once the group was stranded at the highway, though, that sense of fear you’d felt watching the CDC burn had calmed. Your will to live dissipating once more. As you scavenged abandoned vehicles for supplies, you hadn't even thought to use any of it to keep yourself on your feet.

And then you’d collapsed from dehydration.

You’d woken up in Dale’s RV, Shane holding a bottle of water to your lips…begging you to wake up, cursing you for being just one more person to try and leave him. That he wouldn’t let you.

He may’ve been understanding of your behavior, but he’d not been pleased that you’d nearly died…again. He’d made as much clear. Had made you promise to be smarter in the future. To think before doing. To take better care of yourself going forward, or he would do it for you. And he assured you that you did not want Shane Walsh as your designated baby-sitter.

Neither of you have discussed the things he’d whispered to you in the RV that day when he’d thought you unconscious. You know that he knows you’d heard some of it, but neither of you are going to acknowledge the soft, desperate words he’d uttered while pressing a cool cloth to your forehead, his hands shaking out of fear that you'd slip away.

In truth, you can't understand it: why he cares so damn much what happens to you. He so often implies that he has no patience, nor need, for the weak. And that’s what you are, aren't you?

Then again, he’s told you more than once how he admires how much of a hard-worker you are, even if it’s gotten you in trouble with him more than once now, because perhaps you’ve been working too hard… Just a few times, though.

And now you're here, working yourself to the bone again, just like you’d done at the previous camp.

You clearly never learn your lesson.

Finally, you sigh. “If I do, you have to promise to keep it to yourself. And that…that you won’t laugh at or mock me.”

“I give you my word,” he states, eyes not leaving you.

You nervously wrap your hands around your bent knee, not looking at him. You feel so stupid even thinking it. The fact you're about to say it out loud? Even worse.

“Given the current state of things—not just the world, but right here with all of us—I want you to know that I know just how stupid and selfish I’m about to sound.”

Your eyes flit to him. “It’s why I planned to keep it to myself. It’s not the sort of thing you share with others.”

He doesn’t speak, just continues to listen, waiting for you to give him the answer to the mystery of what has seemed to be on your mind all day.

“I’m also about to sound incredibly cliché.”

You internally cringe before finally speaking it aloud. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”

You don’t look at him when you admit it.

“I don’t mean that in some ignorant I-just-want-to-finally-get-laid kind of way. I just…I just want to know what it feels like to have that with someone; that experience.”

You look at him, tears shimmering in your eyes. “I thought I’d have more time. I wanted to do things ‘the right way’. I wanted to fall in love, get married—and, yes, I know how old-fashioned that sounds—but I thought I’d one day get that opportunity. Now? Now I just wish I’d done it. Gone to a bar, gone home with some stranger, and gotten it over with. But it still wouldn’t have been the way I wanted it to be. Now, I just wish it could be, at the very least, with someone I care about. And if I’m lucky, they’ll care about me, too. If not?”

You shrug.

You expect him to at least give you a look which insinuates that you're being ridiculous for thinking about such things. Such frivolous and literally useless things.

Sex. That's what you're thinking about lately.

Not food, or water, or ammunition, or literally anything that will help to keep you all alive.

You're thinking about something that just…doesn't matter. Not anymore.

But he doesn’t give you such a look. Instead, you find understanding in his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s any of those things you said at all: stupid or cliché or selfish. Hell I…I get it, y’know. It’s one of those things—life experiences. Somethin’ most of us want to have at some point. Not everybody cares whether it’s with a stranger or the love of their life, but some do. Nothin’ wrong with that. I’m not judging you for wantin’ that.”

A tear slips down your cheek at his understanding, which you quickly wipe away. In truth, it isn't just about being intimate with someone. It all comes down to just how utterly lonely you are. How desperately you wish to have someone of your own.

But that isn't going to happen now. Not in this new world.

You won't just bump into someone in the grocery store, or meet someone online now.

Now… This is your life now. And you need to live with that.

You’re both quiet for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the campfire a few feet away, clanging of dishes being washed after the last of the camp finishes up their supper, some idle chatter coming from inside the farmhouse, and crickets and frogs singing as a choir of the forest.

Until Shane speaks. And what he says next takes you completely by surprise.

“I’ll have sex with you.”

Your head shoots up and in his direction. Your eyes widen, but he quickly holds his hands up in a gesture which says ‘let me explain first’.

“I don’t mean it in that kind of way, as in ‘you’re wanting to get screwed, and I think I’m the man for the job’, which really translates to me just wantin’ to get lucky. You want more than that—something deeper and…and actually meaningful, I mean. Like I said: I get it. You want someone who cares about you, and…hell, you know I do. Saved your life more than once, as I recall, at that,” he says with a smile. “I just…it’s somethin’ for you to think about, I guess. That I’m willin’ if you are.”

You’re left speechless for a moment.

He’d offered himself up so easily that it makes you wonder if he’s thought about it before. Being with you in that way, that is.

You glance over to the campsite, Lori and Rick talking amongst themselves, Carl having already gone to bed.

You then look back to him and speak lowly. “Lori wouldn’t get jealous?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you—”

You cut him off. “Please, Shane, spare me. I may be quiet and keep to myself, but I’m not blind. I’m nothing if not observant. I’m not judging you. Either of you. You both thought Rick was dead; you were grieving and scared. And you were all the other had. You were already practically family to one another.”

He remains quiet.

“I get it, Shane. I just…I’m not willing to give myself to a man who’s in love with someone else. I’m sorry, but thank you for the offer.”

He nods, refusing to meet your eyes now, perhaps out of shame.

You pick up Dale’s shirt, ready to give it back to him now that it’s been tended to, until Shane speaks again.

“Anybody else know?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. Or, if they do, they haven’t shared as much with me. Not that I talk much to everyone here to begin with, I suppose,” you say with a small laugh, fairly devoid of humor. “And you don’t need to worry about me telling anyone, either.”

“I know that,” he says, reaching over to rest his hand on your thigh.

You stand, then, heading over to the RV.

Meanwhile, Shane’s eyes never leave you.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You shove a clothespin into place before picking up the next item—one of Andrea’s pairs of cargo pants—and jump when you feel a palm against your back, which causes you to nearly drop the damp piece of clothing. You clutch it to your chest instead, thankful they won’t need to be rewashed.

You turn to your right where Shane is now standing with his palm still firmly in-place against your backside.

“Yes?” You ask as you hang the pants.

You then turn fully toward him, causing him to drop his hand.

“You missed training.”

You shrug, bending down to pick up a t-shirt, but he takes it from you, throwing it on the line without clothespins just to get your attention back on him. “Can you just stop for a minute and look at me?”

You sigh, doing as he’s asked, crossing your arms.

“I asked you to come,” he says, clearly not pleased with you.

“There was work to do.”

He shakes his head, placing his hands on his hips, and you can tell his temper is nearly at its boiling point. Not that it isn't always anymore, it seems.

“That’s always your excuse. For everything. And I’m gettin’ tired of hearin’ it.”

You give him a none-too-pleased look at the attitude now lacing his tone, and go to pick up a pair of clothespins so the shirt can be properly hanged, and not risk being blown away by the wind, but he takes them from you and throws them back into the basket before grabbing your hand in his and pulling you away from laundry duty.

“Shane—” You start, but he promptly interrupts you.

He turns back to you—your hand still held firmly within his callused grip. “I am tired of askin’ nicely. This is important, and you’re going to learn whether you like it or not.”

You can feel your face growing warm, and your pulse rising. You do not appreciate being made into just one more person he thinks he can boss around as he pleases. “I don’t need lessons.”

He gives you a look which says ‘yeah right’ before releasing your hand and pulling his pistol from its holster. He goes to hand it to you and you take it from him with caution. And don’t you dare think he doesn’t notice the fear with which you handle the weapon with.

“Alright, then. You know everything you need to know, then show me where the safety is.”

You look the sidearm over, looking for the right button, but look up to him in humiliation after a moment. You can’t even find it within yourself to tell him you don’t know.

He crosses his arms. “Show me how to eject the clip, then.”

Once again, you’re not sure which button will do what he’s asked for.

With an exasperated sigh, he takes the gun from you, tucking it back into its holster. “You want to tell me about how you don’t need training again?”

You shift from one foot to the other, refusing to answer.

“Not going to answer me now?”

You look up to him, into his eyes which are searching yours. You shrug.

Shane hangs his head, shaking it. “Sweetheart, you want to explain to me why you’re so reluctant to learn a new way to defend yourself? A pretty important one?”

You look away from him, to those milling around the camp, talking and laughing amongst themselves. And then you look the other way, to an empty field—tranquility, solitude. Peace.

“Learning self-defense means that I feel like I still have a life worth defending—worth living. That I feel like I’m worth defending.”

You look at him then. “I don’t believe any of that.”

He lets out a low swear. “I thought we were past this.”

“You keep insisting on saving someone who doesn’t want to be saved, Shane. I never asked for you to bring me with you all from the quarry. Never asked for you to drag me out of the CDC. Never asked for you to help me on the highway. I made my choice over and over again and you refuse to accept that.”

He grimaces and his fists tighten at his sides. “Just because you think you’re not worth saving doesn’t mean everybody else has to think that. Because I don’t. Which I’ve proved time and again. You’re—”

He rubs his hand over his head before settling it on his hip. “You’re one of the most valuable members of this group. You—”

You interrupt him with a laugh, which has no humor behind it. “Valuable? Valuable how, Shane? By doing laundry? By helping make lunch and cleaning out the RV?”

He shakes his head. “It’s more than that and you know it. Just because you don’t see your self-worth doesn’t mean I don’t. Because I do.”

You continue to stare up at him, fighting against the tears threatening to overtake your vision. A tear slips from one of your eyes anyway and he reaches up, gently brushing it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m going to keep saving you until one day I don’t have to anymore. Because you’ve finally made the decision to live. So, are we going to go practice? Because if you tell me no, girl, I’ll just keep on your case about it until—”

“Ok.”

He shuts his mouth suddenly, a small grin gracing his lips. “Yeah?”

“I said ok.”

He jerks his head in the direction of the training area they set up some ways off from the house and camp. “C’mon then.”

He places his palm against the small of your back again, leading you away from camp.

The Georgia heat can be insufferable some days, but at least today is a bit cooler, even by a few degrees, with a slight breeze. The sun is low enough for the trees behind the training area to cast long shadows which shield you from the sun overhead.

Shane leads you over to a bit of fence that has a row of bottles set up beyond it, along with a couple of targets.

“Alright, here.”

He stops you in the middle, the targets all directly beyond where you’re standing.

He removes the gun from its holster again.

“This is your safety,” he says, flipping a small switch on the side, a red dot now visible.

He looks at you, and you at him.

“Red means fire,” he says while flipping the switch back.

“And this is how you release your clip,” he states before pressing a button on the side, and the bottom of the pistol comes out—a row of shiny bullets now visible.

“It’s fully loaded,” he tells you while pushing the clip back in.

“You know your stance?”

You shake your head, feeling more and more ignorant with every question he asks.

You’d never had a reason to learn these things…before.

“I figured as much,” he says with a smile, coming to stand behind you.

He kicks your feet apart with his boot.

“Move your right foot forward some—good, like that. Now, turn.”

He grips your hips in both of his hands, firmly, turning your body just the least bit toward the fence.

Shane then removes his gun from its holster and holds it out in front of you.

You take the grip in your hands, only just now noticing how heavy it is when you try to hold it up.

The barrel droops, and he sighs. “Should’ve brought a lighter pistol, that’s my mistake.”

He reaches up, taking both of your hands in his, helping you hold it steady. “Alright, safety off.”

You find the small switch from earlier and push it down—that small red dot now visible.

“Chamber a round by pulling the slide back.”

You at least know that part, so you do as he instructs.

“Good.”

He presses his front against your backside, his body heat radiating onto you, causing a few small beads of sweat to form on the back of your neck.

“Make sure to keep your back straight, feet apart. And I want you to grip the gun firmly, but let it breathe. And don’t you ever put your finger on that trigger until you’re ready to fire and know what you’re firing at. You understand?”

You nod.

“Alright, close your left eye, find your target, and when you're ready, put your finger on the trigger and squeeze it slowly. Don’t just start firing off rounds at-will.”

You hear a smirk in his voice as he continues. “We’re saving that for the advanced course.”

“Given I pass this one,” you add, your tone nervous.

“You’ve got Officer Shane Walsh playin’ teacher to you now, darlin’. I’ll give you a pass.”

He shrugs. “Once you’ve earned it.”

You don’t dare to think what he said might have a double-meaning to it.

“Alright, sweetheart. Deep breath, then when you’re ready.”

You take a deep breath, slowly let it out, then place your finger over the trigger with his hands still over yours. You squeeze slowly…and miss the bottle you were aiming at entirely.

You nearly curse. “I missed.”

“That was just your first try. You’ll get there.”

He readjusts his hands. “We’ve got all day, baby. Just you and me.”

You feel sweat drip down your back. You tell yourself it's from the heat—not from his body pressed firmly against yours. Nor from the pet names that seem to be slipping so easily from his lips. And certainly not the fact that all of his attention is, at current, focused entirely on you.

He keeps his hands overtop of yours. "Try again, darlin'."

You close one eye, find the bottle you aimed at before, and fire once again, hitting it this time and thus shattering it.

You smile an actual genuine smile and fill with a small sense of accomplishment.

Shane brings his lips close to your ear. "Good job, honey. Four more to go."

You could swear he presses a brief, light kiss to the side of your head, but brush it off as nothing.

You miss your next three shots—each attempt sloppier than the last—and your cheeks feel like they're on fire. Whether from the warmth of his body nearly enveloping yours, the heat of the day, or the humiliation of having missed so many times, you're not sure.

But he's not gotten aggravated with you yet.

"Try again," he instructs softly.

"I—" you start, until he adjusts his stance behind you, briefly gripping one of your hips to fix your footing, causing you to go silent again as his hand skims your bare waist under your shirt.

"You say somethin', sweetheart?"

You shake your head. "I'm just having a hard time concentrating."

Your arms are resting in front of you now—the pistol lowered and gripped in each of your hands with the safety on.

"Somethin' you need to me to do?"

Take a step back and let me breathe, you want to say, but don't. It's impossible to concentrate with your hands all over my body, you consider, but keep your mouth shut.

He's just trying to be a good teacher, that's all.

Somehow you doubt he'd been this handsy with Patricia or Jimmy, though.

"Could we take a break, maybe?"

He comes to stand at your side. "We only just started. Tell you what, hit another bottle and we'll take a quick break. Can you do that for me?"

You don't answer. You simply raise the pistol again, but before you can even shut one of your eyes, he's pressed right back up against your backside—his arms and hands quickly enveloping your own.

You sigh, squeeze the trigger, and somehow manage to get lucky.

As you take a brief pause, you try to ignore his staring, since the two of you are now seated facing each other while leaned back against opposing trees.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. "I'll get you a lighter gun when we get back. Think I know the one for you. Just...not sure if giving you a firearm is the best idea. Not right now, at least"

You fidget with your hands in your lap. "Why? Because you think as soon as you hand it to me I'm going to stick it in my mouth?"

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You said it, not me. But yes. Given your past...behavior, you can't blame me for bein' a bit paranoid."

You lean your head back, looking back to the three untouched bottles that mock you across the way.

Had you hit them, you wouldn't be having this conversation right now. "No, I guess I can't."

You don't see him shake his head. "Not even going to try and convince me otherwise?"

You look back to him. "I haven't exactly tried ending my life in incredibly direct ways thus far, Shane. I chose to stay at the quarry, you wouldn't allow that. I chose to stay at the CDC—same result. I collapsed on the highway and you nursed me back to health. It's not like I was slitting my wrists or downing bottles of pills. It was more just...whatever happened happened."

"I just wish I knew how the hell to stop it."

The truth is...being here—at the farm—is actually helping. The wide open spaces that're free from walkers. The quiet, slow way of living. Having some sense of security with there being an actual house and barn nearby. Even meeting new people has lifted your spirits.

But you're afraid to admit it out loud—that you feel small moments of happiness in this place every now and again. Because as soon as you do? It'll all be ripped away.

But you know Shane is worried about you. A worry that grows with each day. So, you cross your fingers—mentally knock on wood—before you tell him.

"Being here has helped. Being someplace so...untouched. I still have bad days and bad moments, but I feel better here. Lighter, somehow. I don't think about wandering off and ending it all like I did anymore. Now I just... I wish we could make a life here. All of us. But if you keep butting heads with Hershel, that dream will end one day."

He studies you for a moment. "Think he's just living with his head in the clouds. Thinking those things aren't what they are. That help is coming. That we'll get past this and things will just return to normal before we know it."

"What does it hurt you to let him believe that? We all had hope like that at one time, too, incase you've forgotten. He hasn't seen what we've seen. Hasn't been through what we've been through. Just...put yourself in his shoes. Wouldn't you be just as blind?"

He shrugs. "Don't think I'd have my head that far in the damn sand."

You both grow quiet again.

You don't bother arguing further with him. He's as stubborn—hard-headed as they come. Trying to make him see reason, or at the very least, another way, is futile more often than not.

"I'm happy to hear it, though. Relieved, really. That you feel better here. Guess we made the right decision by staying."

You flush. "I always wanted to live in a place like this. Quiet, with lots of land, and far away from everyone. Just...peaceful."

"Never did strike me as a city-girl," he says with a smirk.

You hum. "Hardly."

You lean back once again and close your eyes while you enjoy the breeze that blows through the tall grass, and the birds that sing overhead.

Meanwhile, Shane can't take his eyes off of you. Not your flushed face or full lips, or your neck, nor the the swell of your breasts under your t-shirt, and your round hips, or legs.

He knows it hadn't been entirely necessary—him keeping himself pressed up against you during your first round of training, but the truth is that he couldn't keep his damn hands off of you. You're just so damn soft and it'd felt good to grip and touch and slide his hands along you.

He's thankful that you didn't seem to notice the swell of his hard cock pressed up against your backside.

He'd not entirely tried to hide it.

He can feel that same erection returning as he admires your body, fantasizing about what's underneath all those layers.

He adjusts himself as he considers what you might sound like as he traces your curves with his tongue, what you might taste like coming on it.

He likes to imagine how tight you would feel clenching around him, milking his body of every last drop of cum he has to give.

Late at night weeks ago, he'd came—hard—and not with Lori's name on his lips, but yours, as he had his cock fisted tightly in his grip. He'd not even been expecting it, but it'd happened anyway—his thinking of you on your knees, his length in your wet mouth while your wide, innocent eyes stared up at him as he instructed you on what to do to please him.

After that night, all he did was fantasize about you. He hardly even considers her anymore.

It all started after you told him that damn wish of yours from your bucket list: wanting to lose your virginity before you die.

"You thought anymore about it?"

You've nearly started drifting off to sleep when his voice wakes you.

You look at him—a bit dazed and if anything, and it turns him on all the more. He takes no qualms with that idea: you lying there, limp and relaxed, with your legs spread for him as he does all the work to get you both off.

"What?" You ask, stretching.

He licks his lips at the sight of your midriff making a brief appearance before your shirt lowers again as you rest your hands in your lap.

"What we talked about a few nights ago on the porch."

You blanch, flushing. "Oh. That."

"Mhm, that. So, you thought about my offer?"

In truth, you did. Once, late at night with hand in your panties which came away slick after you finished tending to yourself.

And then you'd filled with shame at what you'd done.

Your family is gone—Sophia is missing, Carl had been shot and nearly died, even Otis, a member of Hershel's own family, sacrificed himself to ensure the little boy made it.

The list goes on and on. And that is what you decided to use a bit of your spare time for?

Disgraceful. That's the best word you have for it—for yourself.

You shrug. "Not much."

His erection deflates, along with his ego. "Oh."

You look up to him and try to quickly salvage the situation. "It's not that I don't find you attractive, Shane. Of course I do. But like I said before, about Lori—"

He shakes his head. "That's done. Been done since Rick came back from the dead. She's moved on, and so have I."

You raise a brow, not really believing him.

He sees the doubt in your expression. “Guess I’ll just have to prove myself to you, then.”

You cross your legs. “Why me, Shane? Why the sudden interest? Why not Andrea, or Maggie, or—”

He chuckles, glancing down to his lap while rubbing one of his thumbs against the palm of his other hand.

He then looks back up to you and shrugs. “I think I’m just the type of guy who needs to feel needed. The two of them, as far as I can tell—at least for the most part—seem to be able to take care of themselves. You? Not so much. Not yet, at least. You need someone to look after you. Guess I appointed myself to that position without even really knowing it. Not at first, at least.”

So he sees you as a damsel in distress.

Terrific.

You aren't sure whether you should feel offended or flattered by it.

“I’m not looking for a knight in shining armor to come save me, Shane. You don’t need to keep making me your problem. You have enough on your hands with—”

He leans his head back with an interrupting sigh. “We’ve had this conversation before. And it didn’t deter me then, and it ain’t goin' to now. You’re not a problem, darlin’. I just want to be the solution, I guess.”

You can’t understand it: why someone like him—intelligent, reliable, with leadership skills, beyond good-looking, and above all a survivor—whatever the cost—has an interest in you. At all.

“What does that mean: be the solution?”

He shrugs, standing.

He walks over to you, offering you his hand. “You tell me.”

It takes over an hour for you to break the last three bottles, as well as make decent progress firing at the targets.

You tell yourself you'd get done sooner—would do better—if his hands weren't all over you...again.

Shane stops bothering with ensuring he's touching you only over your clothes as he grips your bare hips more times than you can count.

And you don't want to acknowledge the hard length you feel pressed into your backside once or twice.

You tell yourself he must have another pistol on him, or a knife perhaps. That's all.

More than once, just as you have your target lined up, he does something: touches you, whispers something in your ear, shifts his body against yours, and it causes you to miss entirely.

You wonder if it isn't just his attempt at dragging your training out for even longer.

When he finally announces that you’re done for the day, you nearly cry from relief. Your arms are sore, as well as your legs from standing in-place for so long, and your head is pounding from how hard you’ve been trying to focus on not just hitting your targets, but also responding correctly as Shane drills you on various parts of the gun in your hands, as well as proper firearm etiquette.

You wonder if he takes delight in making you feel flustered and frustrated.

When you finally make it back to camp, you’re thirsty, hungry, and want to take a nap.

You begin to wander toward your tent, until you feel an arm wrap around your waist and pull you in another direction.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You can sleep later. You didn’t bother with eating breakfast, so you’re having lunch, even if I have to hand-feed it to you.”

You look up to Shane and find you don’t have the energy to argue.

He drops you off at the nearby picnic table, which is positioned comfortably under a shady tree, and you watch as he steps away to prepare you something to eat.

You nearly laugh from the absurdity of him fixing you a plate for lunch—it seems so domestic, especially since he's the one doing it—but you’re so tired that all you can manage to do is lie your head down, and your eyes quickly flutter shut.

You fall asleep near-immediately... Until you’re woken by a plate being dropped in front of you.

“Eat.”

You lift your head—barely—and stare down at the two sandwiches before you, with an apple on the side of the plate, and a bottle of water on the other.

You groan. “I’m tired, Shane.”

“Hand-feeding it is, I guess.”

He picks up a sandwich, which you promptly snatch away from him.

“I can feed myself,” you state, taking a bite. Ham and cheese, you quickly figure out.

Shane sits with his legs on either side of the bench with his body facing you, watching as you eat.

You’re too tired to bother feeling self-conscious as you do so directly in front of him.

You swallow, briefly glancing to him. “Thank you. For today.”

He nods, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear which had escaped your ponytail. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

He even goes so far as to press a kiss to your forehead. “You did good today, darlin’. I’m proud of you. You have no idea how much.”

You take another bite, smiling to yourself.

Once you’re finished eating—Shane had refused to let you leave the picnic table until you’d finished every last bite, as well as the whole bottle of water—he leads you over to your tent, which you crawl inside of as soon as he opens the flap.

You briefly think to yourself that the tent is the wrong color and that the interior looks strange, but you don't dwell on it too long. Once your head hits the pillow, you're out like a light.

When you wake, it’s in the middle of the night with the urge to pee.

You nearly scream in fear at the feeling of another body pressed up against your own, until you realize just who it belongs to.

Shane.

Why is he in your tent?

And then it dawns on you: you're in his. It’s why everything had seemed so off to you earlier before you laid down. He’d led you to his tent, and put you to sleep in his bed.

He isn't being subtle about what he wants anymore, clearly.

You don't know that you like this sort of behavior—him being so forward; not even asking what you want.

Instead, he's just deciding for you.

On the one hand, part of you just wants to let him—anyone—do all your thinking and decision-making for you.

On the other, you're sure that a part of him still cares for Lori. Perhaps more than cares for her.

Even if not, he frightens you sometimes. From his fiery temper to his hard-headedness. And doing this…right in front of everyone—placing you in his bed in broad daylight—he's staking a claim. It's possessive. And that scares you a little.

You don't belong to him. You aren't sure that you want to.

You don't wish to read too much into things—into this—but if that's what he wants: to be with you… All you can think is if you open yourself up to caring about another person again, you’ll lose him just like all the rest.

But being alone hasn't been easier, either. Closing yourself off emotionally from the rest of the group has lessened your will-to-live significantly. Contact with others is human nature; you're all social creatures. And keeping yourself from having such contact has deepened that well of sadness and loneliness inside of you.

A well you think maybe he’s trying to fill, in his own way.

Shane has chosen the worst sleeping position for you to try and get out of to relieve yourself. And if you don't do so quickly… Suffice to say you’ll never have to worry about him wanting you in his bed again.

You're facing his bare chest and your head is tucked under his chin, while one of his arms is thrown over you—holding you firmly against him.

You try to wriggle downward, thinking perhaps you can just slip out of his grip that way, until he moans in his sleep and clutches you even more tightly, causing a small squeak of surprise escaping your lips.

You briefly press your forehead against his chest, nearly groaning in frustration. You press your thighs together tightly, then do what you have to: you push firmly against his chest, not caring if it wakes him.

Thankfully, however, he releases you, rolling onto his other side.

You’d blush at the fact he's only in his boxers now, and feel angry at the fact you’re only in your panties and a t-shirt—meaning he undressed you for bed while you’d been asleep—but you're near-to-bursting at this point.

You quickly exit the tent, grab a roll of toilet paper from a basket of supplies nearby, and find a tree to relieve yourself behind.

Once you’re finished, you stand, staring at two different tents.

And you hate to admit: that you don't know which one to choose.

You're going to have a talk with Shane in the morning about his behavior tonight while you’ve been asleep. But right now, all you want to do is lie back down—not make decisions. Not think.

And it's chilly out.

You tell yourself, as you zip the tent closed and climb under the blankets before pressing yourself back up against Shane’s chest, that you’ve chosen his simply for his body warmth.

You fight against the small smile that begins to form on your lips as he wraps an arm around you once again before whispering to you—his voice slurred from sleep, “I knew you’d come back.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It feels like since the world fell apart, that there isn't a moment that you aren't filled with utter terror. Like you're always waiting for the next tragedy to strike. But this? What you're about to ask of Shane?

It doesn't matter if he made you an offer...and mentioned it once more during target practice. You're petrified—as you stand across the camp staring in his direction—as you try to come up with the right way to say it.

You worry that, perhaps, he's now changed his mind. What if he doesn't want to anymore? And when you ask...is the camp really the best place to do it? What if someone overhears? What will they think?

And while he told you that he's moved past whatever he once felt for Lori—whatever they'd had—you aren't so sure.

You suppose it doesn't matter either way. It'll be one thing: sex—no feelings attached. It's just...something you want to experience.

You only wish to know what it feels like. Even if it only serves as a brief release.

You'd lied awake tossing and turning nearly all night, debating with yourself about it. You'd tried, in earnest, to talk yourself out of it. Had told yourself that you're being stupid. Selfish. You'd torn yourself apart until you were in tears.

He may've made it sound like—that night on the porch—it wouldn't just be 'getting laid' to him, but you know otherwise. You're so...worthless and weak.

It doesn't matter if he told you he sees you as anything but. He's a leader. You, a follower. He's kept everyone safe—has bothered to waste his time saving your life over and over. Meanwhile, you do meaningless chores all day.

Why does he ever bother giving you the time of day in the first place?

Why did he ever glance twice in your direction? You can't wrap your head around it.

You'll never mean something more to someone. Not that you want to to him. You know he's...beyond your grasp.

You shake your head while huffing and fighting back tears. God, you're absolutely pathetic.

And it's for that very reason that you finally march over to him—ready for him to tell you no and that he has no idea what he'd been thinking making someone like you such an offer in the first place.

You want the rejection. You want him to hurt you. Badly. You want to be proven right: that you're nothing.

It'll make letting go of this idiotic notion that much easier.

Shane doesn't even see you standing across the picnic table at first.

"Shane," you say quietly while nervously clasping your hands in front of you.

He looks at you. "Was thinkin' 'bout gettin' these rifles cleaned up and sortin' through the ammo. Not sure how much we've got left in here. If you want to help, you can—"

"I want you to do it."

He stops—the pistol in his hand slipping from his grip back into the bag.

He stares at you for a moment. "What?"

Please, be as harsh as possible, you think.

"I want you to take my virginity."

He blinks at you, dumbfounded. And then a slow smile spreads across his lips.

You hope he's about to mock you for ever taking his offer seriously in the first place.

You know he's about to.

You don't blame him.

He comes around the table to stand in front of you, then he gently takes your hand in his. "You do?"

You nod.

The look on his face softens and you suddenly feel confused.

Why isn't he being mean to you for this?

"When?" He asks in a hopeful whisper.

"N-now...?"

He reaches up and brushes his knuckles along your cheek. "Where?"

Did...did he actually mean it, then?

"I...I don't know."

You can't think properly now.

"I know a place."

"Oh."

Did he think ahead? Has he been planning for it all this time?

He chuckles. "I uh...I need to grab somethin' from my tent real quick. Wait here for me?"

You nod, then remain standing there, taken completely aback.

How...how could he actually want this with you—to be the one to do it? You see it as more of a burden on him than anything.

A chore.

You're broken from spiraling thoughts of telling him to forget it—that you've changed your mind; made a mistake—by him taking your hand in his, and he leads you away from the farm with a blanket tucked under his other arm.

Shane leads you well away from the house and into a clearing in the middle of the woods, and it's beautiful.

Vibrant green canopies of leaves sway overhead, while the sun shines through them, casting rays of dappled light across the forest floor. Birds sing a melody all around, and a cool breeze kisses your skin.

You look at him, and watch as he fans out the blanket he'd brought, smoothing it across the grass.

Finally, he stands again.

Before he can speak, you do so first. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

He gives you a quizzical look. "I should be asking you that. Why're you askin' me, though, darlin'?"

"I don't understand you," you blurt out.

He raises a brow.

You continue. "Don't...don't you see this as more of a burdensome chore than anything else?"

Sadness flashes across his features. "How could I ever see makin' love you as that?"

He cups your cheeks in his hands then.

"Making...love..." You struggle to wrap your head around him seeing it as that.

His voice becomes a mere whisper. "I've wanted this for so long. Have I not made my feelings for you clear yet?"

You blink up at him in response.

"Then let me show you. Right now."

Shane crushes his lips to yours, and he cups the back of your head to hold you to him, terrified that if he lets go for even a moment, you'll run and this...this will be over. For good.

He's waited for you for weeks, and months, and now—now—here you are. Finally.

You've finally come to him on your own. Have finally asked him for himself. Asked him to be the man you give this precious part of yourself to.

How can he not love you for that? How can he not otherwise?

He slides his other hand along your hip, until his palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back to bring your body closer to his own. He flicks his tongue against your lips, asking you for entrance.

And you grant it.

He flicks his tongue again against yours, silently encouraging you to enjoy this. To make the most of this—of all of it—of him.

He pulls away for a moment and reaches down to his belt, until your hands come to rest over his.

He looks at you, his heart sinking. "Do you want to stop?"

You shake your head while looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, before glancing back down.

He drops his hands and yours take over, gently unbuckling his belt.

Meanwhile, he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, and he presses a kiss to your forehead as you next unzip and unbutton his pants.

He toes off his boots, pulls his shirt over his head, then steps out of his pants next.

Once he's clad in nothing but his boxers—his erection firmly present—he slides his hands up your hips, and he pulls your shirt off as well.

He reaches to the back of you and he gently unclasps your bra, and you quickly cover yourself as it slips off of your arms.

He shakes his head, his eyes flitting between yours. "You don't need to hide from me."

"What...what if you don't like how I look...once I'm naked?"

He hates that you're worried about such a thing in the first place, but understands.

"What're you worried about, babydoll? Some stretch marks? Do you want to know what a man thinks when a naked woman is in front of him?"

You shrug.

"Shit, she's naked."

You give a small laugh at that, and he's glad to see you smile.

"A woman giving you her naked body is a gift. Any man who sees it otherwise never deserved you in the first place. At that," he says, unbuttoning your jeans. "He ain't a man if judging your body is the only thing on his mind when you're like that in front of him."

Finally, you toe off your shoes as well.

He gently tugs your jeans down past your hips and then your legs, until they've pooled around your feet.

You step out of them and Shane lays them to the side.

He stands again and you lower your arms.

He grips either of your hips and brushes his thumbs against your bare skin as he studies your nearly-naked form, wanting desperately to unwrap the rest of his gift by removing your panties.

He looks you over and his eyes dilate with lust.

"Sweetheart, I don't think you've got anythin' to be worried about."

He looks into your eyes and his lip twitches when he sees how flushed your face is.

He crushes his lips back to yours, then slides his hand down your stomach and past the waistline of your panties, until his palm is resting against your sex—finding you to already be pleasantly wet.

He runs two fingers between your folds and you whimper against his lips, your tongue slipping inside his mouth.

He does it again and your hips jerk, bringing you closer to him as you throw your arms around his neck while your breasts press firmly to his chest.

He groans as he continues to tease that sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs until his palm is covered in you.

Shane then reaches down, grabs the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you.

You wrap your legs around him as he sets both of you on the ground.

He lies you back as he rests on his haunches, studying every inch of you.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, then looks at you, and when you give him a small nod, he slips them down your legs and tosses them to the side before spreading your legs further apart.

He licks his lips. "You're so damn perfect."

He leans down and kisses you fervently, but gently. He then presses hot kisses to your neck, then your shoulder, your breasts—he teases your nipples with the tip of his tongue until your hips are rising up to rub against his erection, desperate for any form of friction.

He then moves to your stomach—spearing his tongue as he licks and teases you, and then he moves lower until his face is between your thighs.

He throws your legs over his shoulders, and you gasp as he presses his open mouth against you, tasting you over and over—lapping at you like he can't get nearly enough.

He spreads your soaked folds with his tongue, then teases your tight entrance. He then flicks his tongue against your clit over and over, and your hips buck against him while his large, callused hands hold you firmly in-place.

He eventually begins to press hot, wet kisses along your inner thighs, enjoying the sight of you spread open before him—pink and glistening. And the sounds coming from your mouth... He doesn't know if he's ever been so fucking turned on before.

Finally, he stands quickly enough to remove his boxers before retrieving a condom from the pocket of his pants, and your eyes widen as he rolls it onto his considerable length.

All you can think is that that much girth will be excruciating.

He lies back down on top of you—his erection now in his right hand, which he rubs against your entrance as his other smooths hair away from your face.

Finally, he begins to ease into you, inch by inch.

You do your utmost to relax by positioning one of your legs over his back, and it helps with the pain, even minimally.

He stops halfway inside of you to allow you to adjust.

"You alright, angel?"

You nod while biting your lip. You wiggle your hips then to try and get more comfortable.

"Want me to keep goin'?"

He voice is husky, his words said between breaths.

You nod.

Once he's eased himself the rest of the way inside of you, he presses his forehead against your shoulder.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers.

You wrap your arms around him and massage the back of his head with your fingers.

He fights against his body jerking as he feels you clench around him once, twice...

He looks at you, and in that moment...something has changed. For both of you, so he kisses you, pouring himself into.

"This won't be enough for me. I can't just do this once and be expected to forget about it. To move on. Getting over her was one thing. But if I lose you? It'll damn-near kill me."

He twines his fingers between yours while he begins to gently rock his hips.

"Tell me you're mine. Tell me," he grunts, slipping out then back into you. "Tell me this is forever."

You wrap your other leg around him, and he sinks even deeper. You sigh, then grip his chin gently in your hand, wanting nothing more than to look into his eyes as you give him this promise.

"I'm yours, Shane. Forever."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It'd taken a good bit of convincing on your part to talk Shane down from going full-steam-ahead and using the walkers in Hershel's barn for target practice.

Numerous soft words, touches, looks, and kisses later—and right in his lap, at that—he'd finally calmed enough to let you go inside and try and talk to Hershel yourself, instead of risking Shane, once again, acting first and thinking later, if at all.

At present, you and Hershel are seated at his dining room table, Shane leaning back against the wall, eyes intently upon you.

You lay your arms upon the tabletop, hands clasped in front of you. You do your utmost to maintain a calm, sympathetic demeanor, in every manor, as you talk with him. Shane had already done enough damage. So much so that when you'd initially come to Hershel to talk, Shane right on your heels, he'd initially told the both of you to get out.

He'd only acquiesced due to you and your genteel femininity.

"How do you know? How can you look at me and tell me you don't believe there's a chance? For a cure? Something? Rick insisted the same thing, and my answer is the same now as it was then: we've been fighting plague after plague since the world began. And we've always survived, just as we will now. Just as...as they might." Hershel asks, voice full of doubt.

"You've been sheltered here. I can appreciate that. But you've still seen them. Their skin is rotting from their bones. Entire limbs...missing. Their organs have decayed. There's...there's no coming back from what they've become. And I hate to say it, because it's still so awful to even try and accept, to even grasp, but they're walking corpses. Who they once were? Your neighbors and friends, your family—people you loved and cared for? They passed away a long, long time ago.

“I think that, even if by some miracle, a cure or vaccine—treatment—one day becomes available…it won’t apply to them. They’re too far gone for any amount of saving. And I’m so sorry to say that. Truly.”

He’s quiet for a long while, staring at the window across the room, his breathing steady. You know he’s thinking; considering.

He doesn’t look at you when he replies. “You’ve lost people you love. By your age, I assume your parents?”

He glances to you then and you nod.

“Would you see things this way if they were in there?”

“I would.” And you mean it.

Shane sighs. “Man, let me tell you somethin’-”

You turn abruptly toward him. “Shane, stop.” You say it firmly.

He shuts his mouth.

Hershel then looks at him. “If you speak again, this meeting is over. You’re not the one I agreed to listen to. I let you in my house as a courtesy. Same with my farm, which you and your people were supposed to have been gone from some time ago after Carl recovered. But I’ve allowed you to stay longer out of good Christian charity, which runs lowers with every word you speak. Don’t you forget that.”

Shane shakes his head, looking away, thumbs threaded behind his belt.

Finally, Hershel looks back to you. “How would you do it?”

“I’d really prefer—if you do agree to this—that you and your family not be here when we…put them down,” you say it as kindly—as softly—as you can manage. “I don’t want all of you bearing witness to it—in any form. I don’t want to risk any of you seeing it, or even hearing the gunshots.

“I know it’s dangerous: asking all of you to leave. But it would be, at most, for perhaps an hour. We can get started on digging the graves now…if you have an estimate of how many may need created? And then, when it’s time, a couple of our people can go with you, maybe to the training area we set up, since it’s already cleared out.

“And when you come back, and they’ve been laid in their graves, you tell us their names—what you want put on their markers—and we’ll help you do that, too. You’ll finally have a place where you all can go to see them. To talk to them. To mourn them and grieve. They can finally be put to rest.”

You reach across the table, resting your palm atop his clasped hands.

Hershel stares at the table and he’s quiet again for a long time. Then, “I need time to consider this. This isn’t a decision I can make on my own. They’re not just my family and friends.”

You nod, bringing your hand back. “I understand that. Take all the time you need.”

“And if I tell you, once I’ve decided, that my decision is no? If I tell you all to get off my land once and for all?”

You glance to Shane and you see his jaw feather and then he shakes his head.

You look back to Hershel. “Then we would leave. But you need to understand that…if you leave them in there…it may only be a matter of time. A matter of time before they get through the doors. Or break through the sides of the barn. And if—when—that happens… We won’t be here to help you if they begin to overrun the house, or your farm. So, I guess it’s a good thing Patricia, Jimmy, and Beth went through training.”

He stands then, as do you. “I’ll consider this.”

You smile. “Thank you for being willing to. For taking the time to listen to me.”

You all three head toward the front door, until Hershel stops Shane with a hand to his chest, which he then drops. “She’s an extraordinary young woman. You could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve her. Perhaps you should take that into consideration,” he nods his head toward you. “For her sake, when you think about what’s truly best for her.”

Shane doesn’t deign to give him a reply. He simply takes your hand firmly in his, leading you outside.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Shane looks at you then. “Y/N-baby, been awful quiet. Like to hear your thoughts on it.”

Dale speaks before you can. Not that you want to. You don’t entirely like being made the sudden center-of-attention to begin with anyway.

“Well, obviously she agrees with me. She’d never advocate for cold-blooded murder like this.” He looks at you. “Right?”

You shift from one foot to the other. You look at Daryl then. “You’ve spent more time with him in the barn than most of us. What, exactly, has he said to you?”

Daryl glances from you, to Dale, to Shane, then to the floor. “Told me this one story, ‘bout the guys he was with. How this one night they came across this camp—a dad and his two daughters. ‘Real cute-like’ was how he described ‘em. Said the other guys took turns, made the dad watch. That they didn’t even bother to kill ‘em after. ‘Course he told me that ‘he isn’t like that’. It was just somethin’ in the way he talked about it. Like…I don’t know. Like he got off on it, or somethin’. Made me wanna put an arrow through his skull.”

Your stomach turns. You’re quiet for a moment, glancing to Shane, then you look at Dale. “I understand his standing by as witness. I’m sure if he’d so much as tried to stop them, they would’ve killed him. It was self-preservation. He’d be dead and…they still would’ve done it anyway. But to talk about it in the manner Daryl described…” You shake your head, crossing your arms. “To describe those girls like that…it’s clear what kind of man he is. If he’d shown any amount of remorse, I’d feel differently. So I agree with Shane.”

Shane gives you a small smile, standing up a bit straighter.

Dale looks absolutely flabbergasted. “I can’t believe I’m getting out-voted over something so…so-”

Shane cuts him off, shifting his weight from one hip to the other. When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on you all the while. “If I ever saw that bastard near her,” he nods his head in your direction. “I’d drop ‘em several times over. I ain’t about to take any risks over the woman I…”

He pauses for just a moment. The two of you had said it a handful of times so far. And only after the first time you’d had sex. That warm, perfect day far away from the farmhouse. Far from the rest of the camp.

He’d taken your virginity, just like he’d offered to, and in that moment, with him sheathed inside of you, whispering sweet nothings against your ear as he made love to you so painstakingly slowly…something shifted. And the both of you could no longer deny that something more—some invisible bond—was binding the two of you. Had been all along since he saved you from staying back at the quarry.

But the two of you had agreed to keep your new, blossoming relationship just between you. To keep moments of true, physical intimacy either in his tent, or in that field you returned to time and again to feel your bare skin upon one another.

You didn’t need to risk someone sticking their nose in your business and trying to come between you—trying to ruin what you’d just found; just formed, and were slowly building.

You’d both lost enough. You weren’t about to lose one another, too. Especially after Shane had put forward so much effort in saving you over and over again. In taking care of, and protecting, and providing for you without asking for anything in return, but for you to finally try and live. For him, if nothing else.

You both knew people in the camp suspected.

Shane was gradually, as time went on, trying less and less to hide it. He’d give you a quick kiss on the cheek or top of your head here or there, whisper something in your ear—both of you pulling away from the other laughing—or giving each other lustful looks, heat pooling between your thighs as he told you the things he’d been thinking about doing to you all day. Or, you’d serve him lunch, him even once pulling you into his lap when it was late and half your people were gathered around the campfire chatting or eating.

Lori had cornered you one day in the kitchen about it. You’d just finished helping Maggie tend to the garden—pulling weeds and harvesting the fruits and vegetables that were ready to be eaten—and were washing off, and cutting up, and preserving when she’d come inside, seeking you out.

She’d asked Maggie if she would please give the two of you a moment alone, which she had of course obliged.

And then she’d asked if something were going on between you and Shane, and what it was, exactly, at that.

You’d remained quiet for a moment, setting some tomatoes in a bowl to begin drying off before you’d simply shrugged and said how you didn’t see it being anyone’s business but yours and his.

She gently grabbed your arm, turning you around toward her, the look on her face one of pure concern. “Honey, I don’t think you understand the kind of man he is. What he’s done, and-”

You’d promptly crossed your arms over your chest. “We’ve talked at length about the things he’s done. And even if none of them had anything to do with me, I still granted him my forgiveness when he asked me for it, because it was that important to him that he have it.”

She’d been left speechless for a moment. Long enough that you’d turned back around to begin scrubbing the potatoes of the dirt and soil they were covered in.

“Y/N, you’re young. And Shane is…he knows what he’s doing. He’s been with plenty of women before. Whereas you’ve-”

“Like you?”

She had shut her mouth instantly. “If you think this is jealousy, it isn’t. I’m just trying to look out for you; trying to prevent him from taking advantage of your youth, or your vulnerability. You don’t have anyone left to do that for you anymore.”

“Except him. He’s the only one who bothered to save me time and again when all I wanted—more than anything—was to give up and die. He refused to let that happen. I wouldn’t be standing here listening to someone else lecture me on how they know better than I do without him.” You’d turned back around then, bowl of tomatoes held between your arms. “I need to get these to Patricia, excuse me.”

Just as you were nearly out of the kitchen, you threw over your shoulder “Feel free to help if you have nothing better to do.”

You and Lori hadn’t spoken since that day. You had thought, after, that perhaps you’d been too harsh. You knew where her concern primarily stemmed from: the night in the library at the CDC. When Shane told you about it…you’d remained silent for a long while after, unsure of what to do. What to say. You felt afraid of him, even for a moment. The fact he could even think to do such a thing…to anyone—it didn’t matter that she had jilted him or not. It was inexcusable.

When you had looked at him, he’d been staring at you, his eyes red, and he’d told you he understood if you wanted him to stay away from you from now on. That maybe it was true: you deserved better.

You’d told him you didn’t want that, but that that action…it wasn’t for you to forgive. He’d nodded, understanding what you meant. He’d promised he would never hurt you like that, no matter what the future held.

You believed him.

Even Andrea had seemed a bit…jealous when she saw Shane so close to you nearly all the time now. Whenever he was in camp—he refused to let you go on runs unless it was with him, which typically translated to finding an abandoned house so you had a proper bed to have sex in—he was almost always pressed up against your side, his hands on your hips, your lower back, cupping your cheek, gripping your chin… A few times his hand had been high on your thigh, sometimes nearly touching you there—his way of silently asking to be alone with you for awhile.

She’d given you the cold shoulder for a couple days after she had once asked Shane if he wanted to go on a run and he had told her he didn’t intend to go out that day, but had then loaded you into his Hyundai later that afternoon, slipping a few small square wrappers into his pocket, adjusting himself over his pants, before climbing into the driver’s side and taking off from the farm like a bat out of hell.

Shane sighs for a moment, glancing down to his boots, then back up to you, silently asking for permission to finally give them all the truth you’re sure half of them are already well-aware of you.

You give him a small smile.

He continues. “I ain’t about to take any risks over the woman I love. I’ve almost lost her three times already. I ain’t about to let there be a fourth. I’ll put a bullet in his chest before that ever even comes close to happenin’. You can all bet your damn lives on that.”

You hear someone scoff, and you’re sure it’s Andrea, but you don’t care. Let them think what they wish. You were growing tired of people like Lori and Hershel treating Shane—someone who had kept the group alive and for so long—like the devil.

She had taken him for granted. Tossed him aside like he’d never mattered in the first place when Rick came back to her. You understood her reuniting with her previously-thought-dead husband, but to act like Shane had never been of any importance to start with? After all he’d done for her and Carl? After tearing himself apart, thinking his best friend was dead for all that time?

You wouldn’t be making that same mistake.