SUMMARY — When Batu put a hit on you, Braxton did the only thing that made sense to him—he made you and your hacking his problem. Suddenly you had a handler and a “work wife” and “work husband” joke started to circulate.
WORD COUNT — 12,487
“Off the Books” (Braxton x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Desperate hitman looking for a petsitter. Enter: you—the woman who will slowly turn into Braxton's greatest headache.
WORD COUNT — 5,548
“No Honor Among Thieves (Or Assassins)” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 1/9)
SUMMARY — What happens when another killer steals your kill? With Braxton involved, probably just chaos. And insults. Now the two are stuck in the world’s most violent will-they-won’t-they. Spoiler: They will. Probably after someone gets shot. Again. Featuring: medically questionable wound-stitching as a form of foreplay and Brax’s inability to shut up, even when bleeding out.
WORD COUNT — 3,061
“Blood Loss & Brotherly Love: A Survival Guide” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 2/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”. Look, here’s the thing about waking up with no gun, no phone, and a bullet wound stitched like it was too good of a job for someone who hated your guts—at some point or another, you had to do a little bit of self-reflection. But Braxton would rather crawl through broken glass.
WORD COUNT — 3,272
“Blood Sugar” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 3/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”. While tracing an old contract, Christian uncovers that Braxton unknowingly eliminated one of the Brotherhood’s enemies years ago. With Justine’s assistance, they begin unravelling the truth behind Echo’s allegiance to the Brotherhood.
WORD COUNT — 2,080
“Welcome (Back) To Fight Club” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 4/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”. Braxton told himself that newfound obsession wasn’t personal. That it was just about unfinished business. Pride. Closure. Whatever. But the wondering…Jesus Christ, the wondering.
When all the jobs were done and tied up in a bow, and he was alone with his head again, the wondering and thinking about Echo clawed at the back of his head like a demonic possession.
WORD COUNT — 4,006
“No Grave Can Hold Her Down” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 5/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
See, Braxton knew everything about getting trained to be a super-soldier from the ripe age of seven. It wasn’t the only thing that left him profoundly fucked up. But what in the world must have happened to her to leave her like this?
WORD COUNT — 2,035
“Honey, I Escaped the Murder Cult” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 6/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
Braxton strongly suspected Echo didn’t trust him or his methods just yet, but he had no problem with showing off—and proving her wrong. He talked like a man born to lie and knew how to vanish without a trace. Well, maybe not like Echo. Her methods were still a mystery to him. But he knew enough to get paid the big bucks he did, so. There was that.
WORD COUNT — 2,035
“Nothin’ Personal” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 7/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
Braxton handled the car like he’d stolen it from a war zone—which, coincidentally, he had done many times before. But the way he drove was smooth, fast, and with the muscle memory of a guy who regularly drove an armored convoy through a desert under fire. Not much rattled him in general.
Except, maybe, that woman in the passenger seat right there.
WORD COUNT — 2,729
“Apocalypse (With Extra Bang)” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 8/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
“Try it,” she said. “See where I dump your body.”
Braxton grinned, sinking even lower in the seat. “Nah, not a ditch, that’s predictable. You’d get creative—feed me to a coyote, maybe.”
She smirked. Again. “You get more annoying? I leave you to scorpions. For lunch.”
A laugh rumbled in his chest, dulled with lack of sleep, but real. “So, ditch it is.”
WORD COUNT — 2,468
“Collateral Affection” (Braxton x Original Female Character) (Part 9/9)
SUMMARY — Continuation of “No Honor Among Thieves”.
Braxton comes to a world-shattering conclusion that maybe, somehow, he deserves to have a life.
WORD COUNT — 2,121
“And Then We Were Two” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)
Part 1/2
Part 2/2
SUMMARY — Years ago, Frank Castle pulled a broken girl out of hell. Now, she’s standing in front of him again—blood on her hands and a hit list in her pocket.
WORD COUNT — 7,118
“You Steal It, You Feed It” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Frank decided to retire in an inconspicuous apartment somewhere in Brooklyn. Well, as much as a man like him even could. Normally, he minded his business at all times. Except tonight.
Tonight, he actually was busy. Had business. But no, there you were, crouched on the fire escape at asshat o’clock in the goddamn morning, right in his way—with a duffel bag, bolt cutters, and a look on your face like you were about to commit a felony no matter what.
WORD COUNT — 5,310
“Another Life” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — A guy walks into a bar and runs into the girl who would take no shit in high school. He’s a walking armory of trauma, she immediately reminds him of the most embarrassing haircut he ever had. They’re probably not going to talk about their feelings, but the banter might be decent.
WORD COUNT — 4,446
“Temporary Trouble” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — It would be the summer of Deputy Walsh learning shit the hard way. First, never piss off people who got access to your lunch order. Second—the prettier the package, the sharper the tongue.
You, the newest temp at the precinct, were stuck dealing with Shane’s attitude, while Shane ultimately couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or drag you somewhere private.
WORD COUNT — 8,534
“Highway To Nowhere” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Shane Walsh was supposed to be the villain. And I said: bet.
The the wrong person lived, the wrong secrets got buried, and then you showed up—with a sharp mouth, and no patience for self-loathing.
Canon-divergent Season 2. Emotional carnage, redemption arcs, and everyone's tired, including you.
WORD COUNT — 17,315
“No Rest for the Living” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — The dead don’t stay dead, and somehow that’s not the strangest thing Shane Walsh has to deal with these days. Right in the middle of the apocalypse, he runs into a woman that can make corpses obey. Which, truth be told, is just one more headache Shane really didn’t need.
WORD COUNT — 16,002
“To the Bone” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Sometime in the not-so-distant future, Shane Walsh made it to GBI. As he rolled into a sleepy Georgia town to hunt down a serial killer, the last person he wanted to deal with was you, the local coroner—a brilliant, if quirky, woman who much preferred the dead to the living.
WORD COUNT — 11,489
“Loose Cannons—A Series” (Dixon fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — When you—the sharpshooting cousin of the Dixon brothers—join the Atlanta camp, tensions arise and changes creep in.
Daryl begins to step out of Merle’s shadow, and Merle struggles with the possibility of redemption. Shane sees another Dixon as a threat, Rick—as an opportunity. Now, survival isn’t just about the walkers.
Part 1—Robin Hood
Part 2—Unlikely Survivor
Part 3—Peace Offering
Part 4—Ain’t Dead Yet
Part 5—No Such Thing as Luck
Part 6—Nothing Left to Bury
Part 7—Dead Quiet
Part 8—The Devil Don’t Knock Twice
Part 9—Dust in the Rearview
Part 10— Close Enough to Kill
Part 11—Trouble You Keep
“No Surrender, Baby—A Short Series” (Grimes fem!Reader) (COMPLETE)
SUMMARY — Coming soon to a farmhouse near you: Rick’s sister spent twenty years pining after her brother’s best friend. Shane Walsh spent twenty years pretending he wasn’t pining right back. Then the world ended.
Part 1—After the World Ended
Part 2—Something Borrowed, Something Dead
Part 3—Bury Me Again
Part 4—The Girl and the Ghost
Part 5—Ain’t No Cure for That
Part 6—King County Dirt
“Dogs That Bite” (Grady Travis x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Grady might have been foul-mouthed, but now he finally met his match. You, the new medic in camp, turned out to be way worse. More importantly, you didn’t give a damn about his tough-guy act and were determined to save him no matter what.
WORD COUNT — 8,384
“The Sun Will Rise” (Grady Travis x fem!Reader)
SUMMARY — Against all odds and his own expectations Grady Travis survived the war. What came after was, thankfully, not quite the unhappy ending he expected after all.
WORD COUNT — 9,264
Decided to make a taglist. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged.
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🪖 Grady travis ~ who 'ain' too gud with the readin' an' tha words sugar, letter's gon' be a wasta damn paper. Keep yer pretty words for when i get my dumbass home aight?'. But he keeps every single thing you send him, your letters getting tucked straight into the pocket of his dirty ass fuckin' uniform until its long gone dark, he's gotta keep em' away from prying eyes.
🪖 Grady travis ~ who sits alone, rough ass fingers grazing the precious cargo in his pocket, waiting for the crew to finally fuck off. Bible's long since passed out, mutterin' his stupid fuckin' prayers in his dang sleep. Gordo' half cut, hummin' into a bottle 'a' fuckin' liquor, cross legged in the damn dirt. Wardaddy smokin' a cig by the latrine and pretendin' he ain' a fuckin' broken man for five minutes.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who's observing a rare moment of peace descending on the fury crew. Ain' gon' last, hell, he knows that fer sure, goddamn krauts gunna make damn sure'a' that. He spots Norman, sprawled out and lookin' too damn young as he sleeps propped up against the busted metal walls.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who feels his gut damn near twist up with guilt and somethin' even worse every time he looks at that boy. Cuz thats all he is, a boy. Lil' fucker was s'posed to sit and type up damn reports all day, on one of them fancy ass machines that he couldn' make head nor tail of even if ya tried to explain it to him. He wasn't made for war, hell, none of 'em fuckin were.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who really, really don't wanna do this. Shit, a mans gotta have some damn pride left right? But hell, how else is he gonna know what you said ta him huh? How else is he gonna find out whatchu wanted him to know badly enough that ya wasted precious pen and ink on his dumbass? So he sucks in a heavy breath 'tween his busted ass teeth, tired eyes flicking over to Norman again. He ain' got no other damn choice, fuck sake.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who kicks Norman's scrawny ass awake, shoving your letters into his chest and grunts out a quick "Read this shit ta me aight norman? Don' want yer damn opinions neither. Just fuckin' read it ya hear me boy?" Squatting down next to him and bitin' on his nasty ass nails that he ain' washed in damn near two years.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who absorbs every fuckin' word Norman reads off those sacred bits of dirty paper, poor kids eyes are crusted, he's yawning ta high heaven, but he keeps on readin. Never once giving Grady shit or asking why he couldn't read them his own damn self. Half of what your sayin', hell, its trivial bullshit. What kinda canned fruit ya picked up that week. How the general store ran outta your favourite kinda bar of soap. How much ya miss him, how much ya need him home.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who sits in silence for a solid ten minutes when Norman finishes reading your last letter. His eyes are twitching, and Norman's looking at him with something like pity in his eyes. Fuck that, he ain't need no damn pity party. This is war dammit. And your safe at home, shits all that matters to him anyway. That you ain't here to see what kinda fuckin' man he's become. Shit, he's barely even human, nevermind a damn man.
🪖 Grady travis ~ Who declines Norman's offer to write a letter back to ya. Scoffing and kicking away from him with a rough shove to the kids dome. Kicking his way outta the damn tin can thats been his home for too damn long. Thinkin' of your soft smile and pretty fuckin' eyes that he ain't never gonna see again.
He just doesn't know it yet.
《this absolutely kicked my ass, grady come home....please.》
《 taglist, i love all you bitches sm its unreal. @houndofsevenhells @honeybeechestnut @hellilovedit @scrmqwn @castleabbot @officergrimesloml 》
Frank I’m so sorry for what they’re doing to you 😔 I’m sorry they won’t stop retraumatizing you. I’m sorry they forget you are a good man and husband and father. I’m sorry they forget you’re a celibate. I’m sorry they piss on you. I’m sorry their kinks are making you a man you’d hate. I’m sorry they forget Peter is your son’s age. I’m sorry they mock your daughter by making you date someone her age. I’m sorry they’re making you into a sexual deviant. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry
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-18+ only beyond this point- (unprotected sex, p in v, mating press if you squint, shane has a big dick, lemme know if I missed anything lmao)
-you've been warned-
shane walsh who is so fuckin' on edge he's almost vibratin' with it.
jaw clenchin' tight enough to snap a tooth.
big 'ole hands grippin' his shotgun hard enough ta leave dents in his skin.
pent up energy just runnin' through his veins makin' him snap at anyone who's breathin' too damn loud.
whole camp's walkin' on fuckin' eggshells round him, motherfuckers tiptoe'in past him like hes boutta break.
and shit, he really just fuckin' might.
this place?
it ain' safe.
and nobody, not one single goddamn person seems ta fuckin' get that.
no one 'cept you a'course.
his lady.
his baby.
his pretty fuckin' woman.
yeah, damn right, he knows ya get it.
s'why ya let him corner yer ass earlier, grabbin' ya wrist in a grip so damn tight ya let out a cute ass fuckin' yelp, as he dragged ya off past the treeline.
boots crackin' twigs under his big ass feet, yankin' ya alongside him, 'til he's got ya far away enough that ain' nobody gunna hear shit.
"C'mere baby, shit lookin' so goddamn pretty all tha damn time ya know that? Ya got any clue whatchu doin' ta me huh?"
in seconds, he's got you backed up 'gainst a big ole tree, hands planted either side of your head while you stare up at him with a cheeky fuckin' grin playin' around yer lips, eyes all sparkly, ain' wearin' no damn bra neither.
he damn near cums in his fuckin' pants like a horny teenager when ya start trailin' ya fingertips over the fuckin' tent in his combats, hips buckin' forward as the last bit of his self control fuckin' snaps.
"yeah pretty girl, ya know whatchu doin huh? shit...fuckin' christ, ya wanna play fuckin' games?"
his hands move so fast you can barely keep track, one minute he's got you caged in his arms against the rough bark, the next second he's lifting you like you weigh nothing, and laying you down right there on the forest floor.
"Shane-" you laugh, can't help it, hes acting like a dog in heat. "Im gonna get fuckin, dirt in my hair c'mon." you wiggle slightly underneath him, twigs already digging into your scalp as shane starts practially pawing at you.
his hands are everywhere, squeezing your hips, digging into your skin through the denim of your raggedy old jeans, making you whine and spread your legs out wider.
he likes that, likes that a whole fuckin' lot.
"shit baby, ya fuckin' ready fer me already huh? fit real nice between yer legs, ain' a better place ta be in this fuckin' world. nah, there ain't i tell you that righ' now girl."
his patience is hangin' on by a damn thread as he leans down over you, lookin' like a fuckin' offerin' all splayed out under him like that. his hands can't stop fuckin' touchin' ya neither, trailing up your body to hike up your tank top until your tits are right there in his fuckin' face.
he breathes out through his teeth, a sharp little hiss that echoes round the dense woodland. you start wiggling again, impatient and needy, grabbing at the pendant dangling between his damn pecs and tugging on it, trying to bring him closer, get him to just fuckin touch you before you combust.
you're whining, you know you are but you can't fuckin help it when he looks you like that, like he's gonna devour you and leave you thanking him for it.
he snaps out of it, flicking your hand off his chain and finally, finally leaning down, placing a sloppy open mouthed kiss right over your left tit that has you gasping.
your hands coming up and digging into his broad shoulders as he takes your nipple between his damn teeth, working over your other one with rough fingers. rolling the bud round, pulling on it slightly until you're a desperate, boneless puddle underneath him.
he pops off your tit with a wet -shllluuuck- crawling over you and leaning down to whisper in your ear as he unbuckles his belt, shoving his combats down just enough to free his cock.
thick.
hard.
tip leakin' already as he starts fisting it a few times and cursing to himself, watching as yer pretty fuckin' eyes stay locked on his dick like its yer damn salvation.
"nah baby, I tell ya what ain' fair, yer walkin' round camp all fuckin' morning, ain' got no damn bra on, teasin' me ta high heaven while 'm out here loosin' my fuckin' sanity swee'heart."
his voice is like gravel in your ear, making your eyes roll back as your own hands start scrabbling at the clasp on your jeans, lifting your hips up and shuffling them awkwardly down your legs till they're dangling off one of your ankles, and your bare ass is touching the fucking dirt.
he laughs, mean and fond all at the same time as he glances down at your bare cunt, still moving his hand up and down his length, making you damn near start drooling.
"no fuckin' panties either baby? shiiit, the fuck ya think ya doin' today huh?" he delivers a sharp slap to your clit, making you yelp as he waits for an answer.
"laundry-laundry day, ran out of clean panties and stuff..." he nods once, already loosing focus, eyes drawn to the slick coating your folds.
"shit baby, yer goddamn drippin' already huh? ready fa' me baby? gon' take it all fer yer man hm? be real fuckin' good fer me now 'kay baby? ain' got the patience ta stretch ya out first."
you nod, frantic and feeling just as feral as he looks right now. "want it shane, please c'mon...I can take it.."
he groans at that, pretty words fallin' outta even prettier lips.
he ain' gonna deny you nuthin, no maam.
he pumps himself once more, before canting his hips forward and bottoming out inside you in one sharp thrust, buried inside you up to the hilt as you let out a long, low moan, damn near sobbing it feels so fucking good.
your hands come up to the back of his neck, tugging on it until his forehead is pressed against your own, both of you breathing eachother in as he starts really fucking moving.
"shit baby- fuckin' goddamn perfect ya know that? so fuckin' tight, pretty girl with a pretty fuckin' pussy ain' that right baby? she damn near stranglin' my dick huh..."
the noise echoing round the woods is fucking obscene, wet squelching every time he pulls out, his balls slapping against your ass every time he pushes back in. your moans mixing in with the filthy sounds, shane swallowing them all down like a man starved with wet, desperate kisses, all tongue and no fuckin' finesse.
shit, this is what he fuckin' needed.
his thoughts finally simmer the fuck down as he pushes yer damn knees up to yer chest, the new angle makin' you sing out his fuckin' name as he picks up the pace, keepin ya fulla him, needs ta keep ya fulla him dammit, only damn reason he ain' lost his mind yet is because'a you.
always so damn good ta him, keepin' him sane, keepin' him in check same way ya always have done. even before tha fuckin' world went ta hell in a handbasket.
"shane, shane baby im so fuckin close-"
he grins down at you, keeping your knees pressed tight against your chest as you blink up at him with watery fuckin' eyes, mouth hanging open like ya can't help it.
"Gon' cum pretty lady? hm? gonna cum all over my dick out here in the fuckin' dirt like a good girl hm?"
you nod frantically, your so fucking close now that your almost sobbing.
"uh-huh, ye-yeah gonna cum shaney, fucking god..." your eyes fall shut, only to pop right back open again as shane delivers a light tap to your cheek, tsk'ing down at you as he starts rubbing rapid little circles on your clit.
"nuh-uh baby, ain' got nuthin ta do with god. jus' me out here, yer man. i want those pretty eyes open ya hear? keep em on me babygirl, wanna see ya fuckin' fall apart."
eyes blown wide, sweat dripping from his temples all the way down his chest, fuckin' you so damn hard yer gonna feel it fer fuckin days.
one hand digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, the other working your clit.
over..
and over...
until you finally cum with a damn scream so loud a flock of birds take off from a tree nearby.
goddamn, prettiest fuckin thing he ever saw.
yer back arched up, legs shakin' as ya pretty hands dig in the dirt by your head. hair gettin' fuckin' ruined, fulla goddamn sticks and who knows what the fuck else.
his fuckin woman.
"atta fuckin' girl, thats my fuckin' girl. ride it out baby, c'mon i ain' far behind ya sweets. lets go baby, ah fuck-"
he grunts, practially a damn growl as he gives one final thrust and pulls out with barely a fuckin' second to spare. leanin' back and paintin' yer tits with his cum, watchin' ya as you lay in the dirt, eyes glazed over as he covers you in his fuckin' seed.
he slumps down on top of you, breathing just as heavy as you are, keeping himself propped up on his forearms, he ain't tryna lay in his own jizz fer fuck sake.
"ya alright darlin'? ain't sore or nuthin hm? not wantin' my pretty girl hurt. not ever."
you lay there, blinking up at the canopy of trees above your head, slowly coming back to earth as you register the stickiness all over your tits. nose wrinkling as you meet shanes gaze, lookin' mighty fucking proud of himself.
a low mumble of what might be his name, or could just be a load of random fuckin' nonsense falls from your lips as you attempt to answer him, using your hands to weakly slap at his chest.
and shane?
hell, he just fuckin' laughs, usin' his own shirt to wipe yer tits clean so he can sprawl out on top of ya, making you squeak and try to push him off, grumblin' and complainin' bout how heavy he is.
because shane ain't keepin' the fuckin' camp safe, he could give two shits bout half'a those assholes back there.
(its my first ever smut fic guys plz be kind to me I will cry and ty to everyone who boosted me up in the dms 💗 I love all yall and I hope this lived up to yer expectations!!! stay horny babies 💕)
(no ai has been used or will ever be used in my works, this is all from my rotten ass brain)
SUMMARY — Grady might have been foul-mouthed, but now he finally met his match. You, the new medic in camp, turned out to be way worse. More importantly, you didn't give a damn about his tough-guy act and were determined to save him no matter what.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — Will I ever get tired of comparing the men I like to dogs? No, probably not. This fic was long in the making because I recently re-watched that film to hurt my own feelings and couldn't get this silly idea out of my head. So... Enjoy? I hope.
WORD COUNT — 8,384
Masterlist
Taglist
The bullet wasn’t just a graze. Grady had been playing it cool for the rest of the crew, but the longer they rode to camp, the more he felt that damn thing lodge harder and harder into his side.
“Now you hold on Grady, you hear me?” Bible kept telling him, in between Gordo’s “Fuck!” repeated steadily all the way to the base.
“Ain’t nothin’, quit fussin’,” Grady muttered, feeling more and more lightheaded with every time Fury hit a bump on the road.
Once they got him out of the tank, Grady hit the mud with a grunt, clutchin’ his side while the boys shouted over him. Don yelled for a medic, voice hoarse with urgency.
“Grady. Grady, fuck man! Look at me.” Bible tried to hoist him up, which only made the pain worse and Grady nearly fell on him, some two hundred pounds of bleeding Cajun deadweight.
Then, over the noise, came a voice Grady hadn’t heard before—sharp, female, cutting clean through the chaos. He blinked through the haze, and there you were on the far side of camp. Red Cross band on your arm, medical bag damn near dragging you into the mud.
“The fuck’s that?” Grady rasped, pointing.
You were screaming at the truck driver who’d just dumped you here, in the middle of their own private hell. You cursed like a dockhand, making the nearby soldiers turn their heads. Then you stomped straight into camp, bag slung on your shoulder.
The entire crew was already watching you go and so Don screamed for a medic one more time. You turned his way and, like a bloodhound, you caught sight of Grady bleeding out. Didn’t even pause—you stormed over, nearly shoving Don out of the way.
“Bullet still in?” you demanded to know.
“Uh… ‘S untellin’,” Grady grumbled, but then your hands were on him and you checked the back for the through-and-through.
Moments later, you already got a stretcher from who even knows where, and instructed Gordo and Bible how to move him.
Well, instructed being a relative word.
“Stop your prayin’ and move ‘im, dammit, or I’ll stitch your goddamn fool mouths shut first!” you snapped, thick Georgia twang rolling off your every word.
“Fuck me,” Gordo grunted.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bible muttered, still worried.
Don scoffed. “Now, wait just a goddamn minute—”
Grady let out a wheezing laugh, then groaned, head falling back. Figures. Leave it to him to get saved by a crazy Southerner. “Hey, Top,” he croaked, clutching at the man’s sleeve, “Naw, don’t leave me with the mad woman, ain’t—”
Grady groaned as the stretcher jostled under him, every bump sending fresh waves of pain through his side. He tried to focus on your face hovering above him. Didn’t seem fair, someone so goddamn pretty yelling at him like a drill sergeant.
“Fuckin’... hellcat,” Grady gritted out between clenched teeth, one hand gripping the stretcher rail so hard his knuckles went white. “Just stab me with whatever’s in that bag.” His laugh turned into a cough, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. Shit. That ain’t good.
“You two! Stop!” You noticed blood on his lips and immediately leaned over him, eyes sharp. “You. Soldier. Hey, look at me,” you ordered and Grady honestly didn’t know what to do with that.
Then you knelt beside him in the mud and got to work then and there. You opened that medical bag full of monstrous tools, opened up his shirt and got a packet of sulfa powder. For the first time in his life, Grady honestly wished the woman undressing him wasn’t so goddamn pretty, because he was losing what was left of his goddamn mind.
“You two! Get me a blood plasma from the medical and more sulfa powder.”
Don stood there and watched as you ordered his crew around with an odd expression.
Grady hissed through his teeth as you tore into his hide like it wasn’t attached to him. “Christ! Fuck! Bitch!”
You just shook your head. “Yeah, yeah, been called that since ‘40, ya ain’t special.”
“Yeah? An’ ya ever heard of gentle, woman?!”
“Shut your trap already, less you wanna cough up blood next,” you snapped at him, already packing the wound full of gauze and rummaging in there for the bullet.
Dying suddenly seemed secondary and Grady squinted up at you. “Ya from Georgia.”
“Savannah,” you muttered, not looking up as you pressed down on the wound to stop the bleeding, which resulted in Bible and Don having to hold Grady down so he wouldn’t lunge at you.
“ARGH—!” he roared. “Ya trynna kill me?!”
But you weren’t having it. “Save your breath—ain’t got time for your lip, soldier.”
In fact, your movements were sharp and precise, like you’ve done it a million times before. And, hells, you probably have. Grady couldn’t decide how to feel about that just yet.
Already high from blood loss, he barked a pained laugh. “Hell. Shoulda known. Only a Georgia peach’d talk to a man that way.”
You glared at him again. Your hands were already stained with his blood. “That you trynna flirt?”
Grady thought about it. You could tell—his frown deepened.
“Yeah, why not,” he grumbled. “It workin’?”
“Hell naw.” You laughed. “Be glad if I don’t leave the bullet in, Louisiana.”
“The fuck ya callin’ me that for?” Grady grunted roughly. “I’m from goddamn Arkansas.”
You shook your head. “Got lotsa fight left in ya, huh?”
“Damn right.” Grady just grinned, his teeth tinged with blood and tobacco stains. “Ain’t scared a’ you, sugar.”
“Oh, well. Reckon now you are.”
And then you jabbed… Whatever the fuck it was, it was in. Sharp as fuck. He screamed.
Now, Grady knew pain. He knew how to take a punch to the face, that’s for damn sure. How it felt to get your rotten tooth pulled out by a lousy town barber. Ever since he joined this hell, he even had to be stitched up a couple times.
But this… This, he couldn’t even describe.
Grady’s grin faltered, his whole body tensing. “Sonuvabitch—!” He sucked air through his teeth as you rummaged through his side.
“Ma’am…” Don exhaled, still watching that impromptu surgery closely. “That how y’all say hello down in Savannah or sumthin’?”
“Naw,” you drawled, unfazed. You leaned in and still dug for that bullet. “This here’s just me bein’ friendly. Hello’s the part where I don’t let your friend choke on his own blood, Sergeant.”
Goddamn, the pain got worse, but you—you were efficient, clinical, like Grady was a piece of broken machinery (the irony of which wasn’t lost on Don). He looked almost impressed.
Gordo finally came back with that plasma bag, then took one look at the surgery and walked away, shaking his head and muttering curses in Spanish.
“You,” you looked up at Bible, who was still nervously hovering and muttering prayers. “Get me morphine from my bag.”
Bible did. You told him how to fill up the syringe while you kept Grady from bleeding out. The needle felt like a jab of betrayal and Grady scowled harder. “You had morphine the whole time?!”
“Shut it, soldier.”
“Naw, fuck—”
Dark spots swam in his vision. The last thing Grady saw before his eyes fluttered shut was your lips, pressed thin in annoyance.
“Wake your ass up, Coon-Ass,” came the rough command, accompanied by a sharp smack against his leg—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt him. His eyelids peeled open to the sight of the medical tent, moaning and groaning wounded all around him.
Don was standing over his bed and Grady cursed under his breath. “I ain’t dead?”
“Nah.” Don chuckled, that wry smirk on his lips. “Why? You sound disappointed.”
Grady groaned as he pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing at the sharp pull in his side. Everything around him smelled like blood and gangrene, a combination that turned his stomach worse than last week’s rations.
“No, no, don’t do that.” Don moved quickly and pushed Grady back down. “You pull them stitches out, it’ll be both our heads that devil woman’ll have for it.”
Grady squinted at Don’s tired face. “They got you playin’ nursemaid now, Top? War must be goin’ real bad.”
His attempt at humor fell flat when a fresh wave of pain lanced through him. Grady’s hand fumbled at the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, fingers coming away clean—no fresh blood at least. That was something.
“Nurse Hellcat did one helluva job.” Don smirked, trying to lighten the situation. Grady knew that tone too well. “Even the doc said so.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Don looked more hopeful than last time Grady saw him—his blood staining half the tank.
“Why’s she here anyway?”
“Moved from 101st.”
“Planes?” Grady sounded a bit impressed. Don understood why.
Operating a tank was one thing—but flying a plane, now that was something. They’ve seen a lot of the 101st during their time in Germany. Each time they flew over to rain hellfire on the Nazis, Don could see that boyish glint in Grady’s eyes.
The canvas flap at the tent entrance rustled, and Grady’s head snapped up so fast he saw stars. For a second, he thought it might be you—but it was just some private delivering rations.
Grady slumped back against the thin pillow, suddenly exhausted. “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than Don. “What now, huh? They gonna give ya ‘nother loader or what?”
“Who even knows.” Don sat down on the metal chair beside the bed. It was a rare moment of quiet—relative quiet—around them. They still amputated limbs in another tent over, but at least soldiers in recovery didn’t have to watch.
“How long they keepin’ me for?” Grady tried to sound gruff, but was doing a poor job of it.
The truth was, the cot felt too soft after months of tank steel, and the lack of artillery raining down on his ass was getting him real uneasy.
Don exhaled sharply through his nose. “Doc says ‘nother week, maybe two.” He paused, watching Grady’s face carefully. “Command ain’t decided on a replacement yet. Got no orders. Fury’s sittin’ idle ‘til you’re back or they find some poor bastard to throw in your spot.”
The idea of some green kid loading for his crew made Grady’s gut twist worse than the wound. “Two fuckin’ weeks?” he scoffed, pushing himself up again despite Don’s warning look. “Hell, I could load blindfolded right now. This ain’t nothin’.”
Then the tent flap rustled again, and this time Grady didn’t bother looking up—big mistake.
“That ‘nothin’’ took fifty-two stitches to close, soldier, and if you pop one, I swear to Christ I’ll throttle ya m’self!”
Grady huffed out a laugh, the pain in his side suddenly forgotten. “Ya will? I might oughta start bleedin’ on purpose.”
You walked up to Grady in two strides and… Then you just looked at him. Silent. Grady couldn’t explain it, but the way you got angrier and angrier sent a sick kind of thrill through him—better than morphine, that fire in your eyes.
“Your crew asked ‘bout you,” you told him, your voice much quieter now. “So I told ‘em not to worry. Don’t make me go back on my word, cowboy.” You nodded at Don, who was watching you closely. “Sergeant.”
“Ma’am.”
“You got yourself a colorful team.”
“So I’ve been told, ma’am.”
You jutted your chin towards Grady. “I ain’t gon’ berate a grown man like a child, Sergeant, but that don’t mean I don’t wanna.”
That made Don laugh—the genuine kind. Grady looked between you two, confusion etched deep into his face.
“They done told me some of what y’all do and the others said your loader’s entitled to be the way he is,” you said. “So I’ll ignore the lip.”
“Appreciate it, ma’am.”
“The—” Grady frowned, unsure if he should be insulted, because goddamn, you talked fast. “She’s got me all sortsa confused, Top.”
“She’s sayin’ you’re doin’ a good job, Coon-Ass.”
“Heh.” Grady grinned at you. “Damn right I am.”
You shook your head, exasperated. “Yeah, word’s even the Krauts piss themselves when they hear your tank’s comin’.”
“Impressed, sugar?”
“Watch it, cowboy. I ain’t nobody’s ‘sugar’.”
You noticed Grady moving again and you shot him a look. “I ain’t gonna be too hard on ya, less you give me a reason. And ya don’t wanna give me a reason.”
That got Grady all smug. “So what, you’re gon’ be real sweet, Georgia?”
“Don’t push it, soldier.”
“Name’s Grady,” he grumbled.
As for Don, he was watching that exchange with brows raised high.
He had seen men explode in rage before. Hell, he’d seen Grady cause plenty of it himself—Grady tended to have that effect on people. But this was different. Your anger was quiet and you had a mouth on you. That there was worse. Don could already tell it would make Grady want to poke you just to see what’d happen.
“Fifty-two stitches, huh?” Grady spoke again. His grin was all teeth, reckless, even as Don shot him a warning look. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Ain’t never had a patient thank you proper before?”
“You just… Get better, hm?” Don cleared his throat and stood abruptly, deciding that this here was not his problem.
Grady barely noticed him leave, too busy looking at you. Like so many times before in his life, he got that nagging feeling at the back of his head—like he should maybe shut his goddamn mouth.
But again, Grady had never been good at doing what he should. It’s how he had found himself on the front in the first place. First, Uncle Sam asked him real nice. Then threatened to throw his ass in Leavenworth if he wouldn’t go.
“So what, huh,” he moved on the cot, now getting irritated at the silence. “Ya gonna stand there glarin’ all fuckin’ day, Georgia?”
“Naw. But if ya don’t stop movin’ and rip those stitches, we’re gonna have a problem, Arkansas.”
Some of the others were looking up from their cots and Grady suddenly got uneasy. He didn’t much like people looking at him anyway.
He looked at you, all serious, then tried to sit up.
“Jesus, what’d I just say!” You rushed to his cot and pushed him back down.
Grady could almost taste the reckoning coming, and Christ help him, he wanted it. He’d seen men scream themselves hoarse in combat, but this anger of yours, it made his heart pound in a way no artillery barrage ever had. “Or what, are ya gon’ yell? Then yell, sugar, the hell,” he goaded, smirking.
“The fuck you starin’ at me for, huh?” He shouted at the private in the nearby cot.
The private gasped loud enough Grady nearly laughed—imagine thinking shock was still possible after Normandy.
You scowled. “I ain’t sewin’ ya back up if you keep tryin’ my patience.”
For a second Grady thought you might actually slap him, and damn if part of him didn’t hope for it. Anything.
“No?” Grady prodded. “So this here’s you tellin’ me I ain’t fit to wipe my own ass yet or what?”
The words tasted wrong even as he said them—he couldn’t help but being an ass even while half-hoping for scraps of human kindness.
“I seen soldiers rip out stitches to get attention before an’ I seen them do it to get sent back home,” you finally spoke, voice low. “So I will tell ya plain, soldier, ‘cause you might talk outta your ass, but you don’t seem too stupid. None of our boats are goin’ home anytime soon. Ya gotta learn how to survive inside your own head here.”
Grady felt something inside him twist. Whatever you felt towards him right then, it wasn’t anger anymore. Hell, it was something worse. Something that looked dangerously close to pity.
He opened his mouth, when the distant shouts for medics shook the tent canvas. Someone screamed outside and the strange spell between you shattered. You snapped to attention and rushed outside.
Grady lay back down, torn between relief and rage at being left behind. But like Don always said, war waited for no one—least of all a goddamn Arkansas dog, dumb enough to get himself sidelined by a lucky shot.
The outside was a cacophony of shouts. Grady closed his eyes, letting the noise wash over him like he did so many times before. He’d never been good at staying put. Never been good at much really, except loading shells and pissing people off. And right now, he wasn’t even fit for that.
It was dark when he woke up next, the recovery tent pitch-black save for one small gas lamp hanging above the entrance. Grady didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep. He slept well for the first time in four years of hell and while he should have enjoyed it, he couldn’t. Not really.
He wondered what time it was, if his crew was okay—and most importantly if he would get any more goddamn painkillers. His side was killing him. The morphine had worn off hours ago, leaving that hole in his side throbbing in pain.
A rustle at the tent flap made him turn his head. For a second, he thought it might be you, but it was just some fresh-faced orderly. The kid took one look at Grady’s scowl and kept walking.
“Yeah. Real brave bunch they got nursin’ now,” Grady muttered to no one in particular. He reached for the canteen beside his cot and winced as the movement pulled at his stitches. The water was warm and tasted like metal.
Outside, the camp was settling into that eerie half-quiet that came after chaos. The tent flap moved again and suddenly there you were.
“I’ll take over, Private. You can go,” you said, quiet. Probably mindful of all the other poor fucks around here, trying to sleep.
The boy couldn’t get out of the tent fast enough. You checked on all the serious cases first—amputated limbs, missing eyes, all the shebang.
Then you came up to Grady. You yanked at the blanket unceremoniously and checked his bandages.
Grady’s mouth went dry. He should’ve had some smartass remark ready, but he didn’t. He could see the dirt still smudged on your cheeks, the dried blood on your uniform. You’d been out there in the thick of it, while he’d been lying here like a useless deadweight. And your eyes held the same kind of resigned exhaustion he knew so goddamn well.
“Y’ wanna sit?” Grady jerked his chin to the metal chair next to his cot. “I ain’t gon’ run my mouth again, God’s honest.”
The words tasted pathetic as soon as he said them, but then, against all his expectations, you sat down with a deep sigh.
He could see the way your shoulders slumped—he had felt that same bone-deep weariness nearly every damn day.
“So… This thing gon’ kill me or what?” He gestured vaguely at his side.
You smiled, an exasperated type of smile. “You’ll live.”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded and reached for you, a little more eager. You saw that hand and slapped it away. Hard.
Seeing you get all annoyed again, Grady felt better.
“They really sendin’ a replacement loader?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The question was just an excuse to fill the silence, to keep you there a little longer.
You didn’t answer right away, just rubbed at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “You really that eager to get back out there, cowboy?”
Grady looked away, suddenly unable to meet your gaze. But the nickname made him smirk. Not that he didn’t like his war name, but this one was something just for him. Something you made up on the spot and made him not want to answer to anything else.
“Ain’t ‘bout bein’ eager,” he muttered. “Just don’t like sittin’ ‘round while…”
He didn’t add the rest.
You wiped your palm against your thigh where you’d swatted Grady’s hand away, your mouth twisting in mild amusement despite yourself. “I asked. Command ain’t decided ‘bout replacements yet,” you admitted, voice hushed enough not to disturb sleeping patients.
Grady’s eyes darted to you, the faded lamplight illuminating the surprise on his face. “Ya asked ‘em?”
You leaned back in the chair and shrugged. “It was either this or watchin’ you try to rip them stitches out every damn hour.”
Grady looked smug. At this point you just let him have it.
“Your crew’s holdin’ down Fury with some private they dragged outta the clerk office. Kid looks ‘bout twelve.” You smirked, shaking your head.
Grady shifted on the cot, careful not to pull at his stitches this time—not with you watching him like that. “Hell, I was drinkin’ moonshine outta mason jars by twelve.”
“Stole a horse when I was ‘bout thirteen,” you murmured.
“Shit fire, Georgia.” Grady’s eyes went wide. “If this ain’t somethin’, I don’t know what is.”
His smirk widened at your admission—it was the first real thing you’d given him, something honest, just for him to know. At least that’s how he thought about it and you couldn’t stop him.
“You should be good for light duty in a week or so. ‘Less you rip those stitches horsin’ ‘round before then.” Your lips quirked despite the warning tone. “‘Course, reckon we both know ya ain’t got the sense God gave gravel…”
“The fuck’s light duty?” Grady frowned, confused like a child told he couldn’t play outside.
You didn’t answer right away, just studied him with those tired eyes that saw too damn much. Grady was suddenly deeply aware that Fury was out there with some greenhorn loading his shells—and here he was, while the war moved on without him.
“Could mean runnin’ messages,” you finally said, voice softer than he deserved.
“Goddamn,” he grunted. “Messages? Loadin’ that tank’s the most schoolin’ I ever seen.”
He could barely spell his own name without missing half the letters. All of a sudden the truth of it scraped against his pride.
You smiled, just barely, the kind of smile that made Grady want to poke at it until it turned real. “Could be helpin’ in the motor pool if you promise not to cuss out every private within earshot.”
“Ain’t promisin’ shit ‘bout my mouth.” Then you saw these wheels turning in his head and Grady licked his lips. “‘Less you wanna…”
“No.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned. “Fine.”
“So you’ll behave?”
Grady shook his head. “Those grease monkeys got hands like goddamn waffles.”
“Waffles?”
Your confused frown made him grin harder. “Means drop more wrenches than they turn.”
You actually laughed at that and his chest did something very stupid at the sound. He wasn’t smooth, wasn’t charming—but stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery, that’s for damn sure.
“What kinda horse was it?” he asked, not ready to let you go just yet.
“Uh…” You let out a deep sigh and looked at him. “One of them spotted ones. Real beauty. Brown an’ white spots, black mane.”
Up close, you could see just how dark his eyes were. And his focus was fixed on you, entirely, the way he’d fixate on a jammed shell casing—like you were a problem he meant to solve with his teeth if he had to.
“Thirteen,” he muttered. “Bet you didn’t even look back.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ain’t that right, Georgia?”
But you were quiet again. That uneasy feeling settled in his gut—the one that said he’d misread this whole dance between you.
Then, your eyes filled with a nostalgic look—for a moment, Grady could have sworn he was seeing the ghost of that wild-haired girl in the weary medic before him.
“Georgia,” he started, then faltered. What was he even asking for? More stories? More time?
“You want a book?” you asked him all of a sudden and Grady huffed.
“A book?” He frowned. “Like for what?”
Your brows shot up and you looked at him, incredulous. It took him a moment to catch on.
“Nah, ain’t much for readin’,” he grumbled, like he was admitting to something shameful.
“You gotta do somethin’,” you insisted. “It’s what I saw helps y’all recover. If you just sit an’ stay in your head, ain’t gonna get much better.”
Then you rummaged through your bag and got him some paper and a small pencil. “Draw somethin’, dunno.”
Grady looked almost disgusted at the notion. He glared at you and shook his head in disbelief. “The fuck fuckin’ backwards med camp d’ ya come from, woman?”
But he took that pencil anyway and rolled it between his thumb and index finger for a while, like it was a particularly interesting cigarette.
One thing about Grady was you never had to wonder what he was thinking. He would either tell you or his face would do it for him. Truth be told, you kind of enjoyed that candor.
But to see him the next day so focused on that piece of paper was unusual to say the least. He was hunched over it like it was some kind of tactical map, his big hands dwarfing the tiny pencil.
You almost didn’t want to interrupt.
He didn’t notice you approaching and you sneaked a glance at the page—an honestly not too bad attempt at Fury’s silhouette. The lines he drew were dark and bold, which was to be expected. He didn’t seem like a tiny, precise drawings kind of guy.
Grady looked at the page with the same stubbornness he applied to everything—from loading shells to this godforsaken drawing. He even managed to get a smear of graphite across his nose at some point, which made you smile a little.
“Looks like a damn soup can,” he muttered before you could say anything, scratching at the stubble along his jaw.
“Naw,” you argued. “You just gotta even out the edges.”
He let out an annoyed huff. “Ain’t you supposed to be stitchin’ people up, not playin’ schoolmarm?”
“Barrel’s longer than that,” you said, ignoring the question.
“Like you’d know,” he grumbled, but adjusted the sketch anyway. “Ain’t like y’ ever had to fix her.”
“Naw, but I had to fix you, cowboy, an’ that sure earned me some favors in Heaven for my patience.”
That actually made him laugh—a rough, surprised kind of sound. Then you reached into your bag and placed more mismatched sheets of paper on his cot. Grady stared at the paper, then at you.
“Ain’t no damn artist,” he grumbled, then raised both hands. “There’s one thing these’re good for. Eh,” he mused, “maybe three.”
You squinted at him, already knowing one of them would be something like squeezing women’s backsides. But then some other thought took him and you watched the way his shoulders hunched, defensive like a cornered dog.
Somehow it made your chest tighten and you sat down beside him. That brought him back. “Ain’t askin’ for no damn art, it’s just somethin’ to keep ya busy. Before they get you punchin’ orderlies all day long.”
His laugh was rough, but for a moment it made his actual age show—so much younger than what war had done to him.
“You do this for all your patients, Georgia?” he muttered. “Hand grown men crayons?”
“Wish I had crayons,” you sighed. “Add a bit of color to my day.”
Grady’s attention shifted to your face and an absurd thought struck him: you’d look good on paper. Wild hair and all. The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.
He had only survived this long because he wouldn’t let himself want for nothing more than to survive the day. Get some food and some smokes if he could find it, that was good enough for him.
But now he had way too much time on his hands. And there you were, making him think things he shouldn’t.
“You ever think ‘bout… what you’ll do when this mess’s over?” he asked, very quietly.
Your eyes met and for a moment you stayed quiet.
Then—
“Easy. I’ll never see Germany again.”
“Naw, but…” The cot springs creaked as Grady shifted, suddenly needing space from your closeness. “Not like—not the bullshit. Like… ya could work at a normal hospital, I reckon.”
You thought about it and then shook your head. “No. I’d rather learn the typewriter, actually.”
“The typewriter?” He chewed on the word a bit, like it was foreign.
“Yeah. You?” you asked.
“War don’t exactly make me wanna make plans,” he grumbled. “Ain’t got none.”
“But you made me tell ya!” You shook your head in disbelief.
“Heh.” He grinned like the devil himself. “Guess I did.”
Grady stared at the sketch paper again and tilted his head. Truth was, the idea of you clicking away at some desk in a fancy dress made his stomach twist—that was a completely foreign territory. A different kind of world.
You plucked the pencil from his fingers before he could protest, turning it over in your hands. “We had one back home,” you said quietly. “Mama used it for church bulletins. Sounded like…” You tapped the pencil against the cot frame three times—clack, clack, clack.
You tossed the pencil back to him. “Alright, cowboy. Got real patients to tend. You seem good enough to me.”
Hells, if bleeding was all it took to get your attention then… But Grady decided against it. He picked up that damn pencil instead.
A week later, they cleared him for light duty. Every young private in the motor pool came to curse the command for it.
“Jesus, dumbass, that ain’t how ya torque a damn bolt—gimme that!” Grady snatched the wrench from the kid’s shaking hands, demonstrating the motion with exaggerated slowness. “See?”
Grady wiped his grease-streaked hands on his already painfully dirty shirt, watching the wide-eyed privates scrambling to keep up.
You had a slower day so you came around to lurk—you traded another nurse half your lipstick for her coffee stash, so now you had a good drink and a show.
Grady noticed you standing there and immediately turned his annoyance up a notch—performative as hell, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
“The hell’d ya want?” he snapped, wiping at the black grease across his forehead and succeeding only in smearing it worse. “Ain’t got better things to do, Georgia?”
You noticed he had rolled his sleeves past his elbows, revealing well-muscled forearms. He moved differently now. Still quick, still sharp enough to intimidate everyone around him. But there was a cautiousness that hadn’t been there before. Like he was holding himself back from fully inhabiting his own skin until he was cleared for combat.
You walked up to him and took a very exaggerated sip of your coffee. “Decided to come see for myself who’s been screamin’ all over camp.”
But then you looked around the tent and had to admit all looked to be in a good—if slightly terrified—order.
“I hear you’ve been a menace, cowboy,” you said.
Grady let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Sugar, this here’s me bein’ nice.”
You took another slow sip of coffee, looking at him. Grady noticed and rolled his shoulders with deliberate nonchalance.
“Ain’t my fault these greenhorns couldn’t tell a carburetor from a tire,” he muttered.
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Grady thoroughly committed to being the loudest, most obnoxious bastard in any circumstances.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “You’re healin’ real good. Might be back with your crew by week’s end.”
“‘Bout damn time,” he grumbled.
Suddenly he was unable to meet your eyes. “They’re lettin’ you stay or you gettin’ a transfer outta here?”
“A transfer?” You snorted, shaking your head. “As if they’d let me. Nah, this here’s where I’ll be. Least until Hitler wises up and shoots his brains out.”
You studied Grady for a while and you could tell he didn’t much like it.
“What?” he grumbled, as if bracing for a fight.
“Nothin’.”
“Uh-huh.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Then what the hell’re ya starin’ at me for?”
He was healing, sure, but there was a restlessness in him you recognized—the kind that made men pick fights just to feel something other than useless.
“Just…” You sighed. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself shot again.”
“Can’t promise ya nuthin.” He grinned. “I’m mean an’ dumb. There sure’s a bullet with my name on it somewhere.”
You finished that coffee, suddenly wishing you had bartered for something stronger. “You ain’t dumb. And I ain’t patchin’ ya up just so you can bitch at me.”
As soon as you said it, something changed in the way he looked at you. Grady watched you, then just nodded toward the nearest busted truck. “C’mere. Show ya somethin’.”
He tugged you toward the shadowed side of the truck before you could protest. The sudden movement sent your empty coffee tin clattering to the dirt. “The hell—” you started, but his other hand came up to silence you, a rough palm pressing gently against your lips.
“Ain’t gonna bite,” he murmured, voice low. “Just… wanted to see if you’d follow.”
You remembered there were some rules and regulations that specifically stated how this was a spectacularly bad idea. Suddenly you couldn’t name even one.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you pulled him closer. Grady lowered his hands and grabbed your ass without preamble, before ducking his head to kiss you.
That first kiss was a harsh one, like he was starving for it. But you didn’t mind one bit. Your head was swimming a little and you did your damndest not to make a sound. After a while, Grady slowed down, his lips brushing yours almost tentatively.
When he finally pulled back, you could tell he was waiting for you to bolt. But you didn’t move an inch.
Grady grinned, that smugness back in full force. “There. Now ya can remember which dog’s yours to patch up.”
You let out an incredulous, soft kind of chuckle and shook your head. “I don’t wanna see ya gettin’ shot ever again,” you said, quiet.
He lowered his eyes, suddenly all serious. “Georgia…”
“I know,” you said quickly. “I know. But I ain’t gonna pretend it’s not nice to steal a moment.”
For a long time, neither of you spoke. Grady watched your face closely, those dark eyes flickering between your lips and the medic’s armband on your sleeve.
Grady’s hand came up to run his fingers through your hair, lingering a heartbeat too long. “Shouldn’t’a done that,” he murmured, and you had no idea if he was talking to you or to himself.
“Too late now,” you murmured, completely disarming him.
You only held him tighter and now you actually let yourself embrace him. His whole body stiffened, obviously not used to any of whatever the hell this was. If he found a girl in any of them liberated towns, she’d usually be willing to sleep with him for cigarettes or a bar of chocolate. And he definitely wouldn’t get hugs after.
Grady stood frozen in your arms, breathing slowly. He hadn’t been held like this since… hell, probably since before the war. Maybe never.
“This ‘s some right nonsense,” he grunted.
You felt the exact moment he gave in—the way his shoulders dropped and his breathing slowed when he buried his face against your neck. His exhale shuddered out, hot and damp.
“Goddamn it, Georgia,” he said, quiet and angry.
And he held you tight now, unwilling to let go. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “They clear me for duty, I’m gone by dawn.”
You looked up at him and you had nothing to say. What could you even tell him that would make this better?
“I know,” you said instead, then pulled him in for another kiss.
There were no sweet sendoffs out here on the front, and yet… You still stubbornly held out hope that there could be a happy ending. But you didn’t tell him that. You already knew he’d say you were smarter than that.
Grady’s hands tightened around you and he deepened the kiss with a roughness that bordered on desperation. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
Then he stepped back and swallowed hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hell. Just… stay alive, will ya?”
“Me?” Your eyes widened. “I ain’t the one doin’ the fightin’.”
You just put together the pieces that were left.
Grady’s grip on your shoulders tightened like he was thinking the same. “Seen ‘nough medics catch stray bullets out there.”
He could see him wrestling with it—the urge to do something he had spent five years training himself absolutely not to do. You were both pretending you hadn’t gotten closer, on purpose at that, but you did.
If they were to drag Grady back to that tank, you had hours together at best. And you both still pretended you wanted to do nothing.
A small stupid part of you wanted to just laugh. Of all the men to get tangled up with...
Finally, Grady jerked his chin toward the motor pool where the privates were still keeping busy. “Best get back ‘fore they strip every damn engine for scrap.”
He took two steps before turning back abruptly. “You—” The words died in his throat. For once, the man who always had something to say came up empty.
All of a sudden, one of the medics from the next tent over appeared at the entrance. He whistled sharply to get your attention, jerking his thumb toward the surgical ward. Right. Duty called. You walked out and turned away from the motor pool, but not before catching Grady’s gaze one last time. He wasn’t grinning anymore.
War made liars of you all.
The medical truck jolted to a stop at the crossing, the stench of cordite and burning metal filling the air. You stepped out into carnage—smoldering tank husks, the acrid tang of spilled fuel, and the orange glow illuminating piles upon piles of dead SS soldiers.
Your boots sank into churned earth. It went muddy with blood. You scanned the wreckage, watching the crew of the other two American tanks being escorted to safety. One of them must have driven straight on the landmine, and the rest of it was still on fire. And then you saw it—Fury, her barrel still hot, sides marked with shell impacts, but otherwise intact. There was a smoldering carcass of a Nazi tied to its front.
They had stood their ground and held that crossing. Now your crew was sent here to pick up the pieces and for a second or two you kept wondering if you even could force yourself to focus.
Movement near the tank made your breath catch and you sprinted that way before anyone could stop you.
And then you saw him.
Grady was crouched beside a wounded private, pressing a filthy rag to the kid’s leg while barking something at Gordo.
Half of him was completely blackened with soot, one sleeve torn open to reveal a nasty burn. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy keeping the young boy in one piece. They’d stared down death and spat in its face. Again.
None of them looked victorious, though. Just numb.
“Oh, shit fire, cowboy,” you muttered, unable to come up with anything else.
Grady finally looked up, blinking in shock. “Georgia?”
Then the private whimpered and Grady adjusted his grip. “Quit squirming, Norman, or I’ll knock ya out proper!”
“Fuck… you,” Normal muttered, grinning wide.
Up close, you could see the fine tremor in Grady’s hands.
“I got it,” you said quickly and took out the gauze and the sulfa powder. “Don’t let nothin’ touch that burn,” you warned Grady, then pressed hard on the private’s wound. The boy, Norman, howled. But you held him firm.
“None of that. You survived this far, you’re gonna get through this, ya hear me?” You looked at him sharply, then watched Norman give you a terrified nod.
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Breathe.”
Grady watched you scare the boy into surviving with a faint smirk on his lips. There was something very close to fondness flickering in his eyes for half a moment. Then he sat down in the mud, leaning against Fury, entirely exhausted.
“Y’ did good, War Machine.” Grady grinned weakly, watching Norman’s pale face. “Kid took shrapnel tryin’ to play hero.”
“Wasn’t playin’,” Norman muttered. “Just… did.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Grady waved his hand, then regretted it quickly. That burn really was nasty. “Reckon y’ saved both our hides.”
Grady watched your hands as you were moving swiftly with the bandages. “Helluva place for a reunion, Georgia,” he said with a humorless chuckle.
“Somethin’ like that,” you replied, breathless. But you smiled when he reached for you, pressing one soot-stained hand to your cheek.
Norman watched you both with an incredulous frown, eyes darting from Grady to you. “The hell kinda Cajun magic did ya pull to get a lady like her?”
Grady flicked his ear, his scowl back in place. “Watch it.”
“They got your sergeant back there,” you said, trying to change the subject. “He ain’t lookin’ too bad.”
As the stretcher bearers approached, Grady took a half-step back, watching you help Norman get on it. The kid was obviously in pain, but no longer bleeding. You very possibly just saved that leg.
Later on, you and the Fury boys were all packed in the medical van. It rattled along the dirt road, canvas walls trembling with every pothole. Grady sat stiffly on the bench, jaw clenched as you dabbed antiseptic on that angry red burn snaking up his arm. You could tell he was only half-lucid, exhausted like the rest of them.
“You keep on fussin’, I’m gonna think you like me, Georgia.”
The other crew members exchanged knowing smirks.
“Hold still, you,” you muttered, fingers gentle despite your tone. The van hit another bump, making Grady hiss as your hand slipped. “Sorry.”
“Sure you are,” he grumbled, teeth gritted.
But he reached for you, placing his palm on your thigh as you worked on dressing that burn. Bible immediately pretended to study the floor, and Gordo suddenly became very interested in his boots.
Don cleared his throat from the opposite bench, eyes sharp despite his own injuries. “Coon-Ass ever tell you ‘bout the time he got that other burn on his—”
“No,” Grady grunted, opening one eye. “We ain’t sharin’ no stories ‘bout me, Top.”
You could see his ears going pink even underneath all that black grime. The van went silent again. The grumble of the engine and the rustle of the bandage became the only sounds around you.
Then—
“Best job I ever had,” Gordo offered weakly and they all looked at each other.
Grady laughed first, then Bible, then all the rest.
“Best job I ever had,” Grady muttered, eyes closed, his cocky smirk back in full force now that he had you fussing over him.
Don let out a quiet, relieved sort of laugh, and you found yourself right in the middle of a joke you didn’t understand. But it didn’t matter one bit. You wrapped that bandage carefully around Grady’s arm and then let out a deep, heavy sigh.
“You okay there, Georgia?” Grady asked.
You just nodded, trying not to fall apart. Because how could you even tell him you had expected to find all of them dead at that crossing?
The rumble of nearby engines signaled your return to base. Voices erupted around you, medics sprinting to action and escorting the most heavily wounded. The entire camp greeted the survivors like heroes.
When the van stopped and the others moved out, Grady hesitated. “Georgia…” he started, voice rough.
You decided to make it easy for him and just pulled him in for a kiss.
“Hey!” One of the medics waved at you, but then saw you were busy back there and he grinned.
“She comin’?” One of the nurses asked impatiently.
“We can give them a minute,” the medic replied.
Meanwhile, Grady kissed you back with a determined grunt that betrayed how badly he’d been thinking of you. When you pulled away, he pulled you back in. He wasn’t ready to let go, perhaps never would be. You got yourself one mud-stained loyal hound.
The medic outside cleared his throat pointedly. You could see the exact moment reality set back in—Grady’s gaze flicking past you to the camp, to Don, to where Norman was being loaded onto a stretcher.
“Yeah, go on then,” Grady grunted, jerking his chin toward the triage tents. “Bet they got boys bleedin’ out that need you more’n I do.”
Grady jumped out first and then carefully helped you down from that van. He held your hand a minute longer, giving you one more reassuring squeeze.
“You gonna be okay?” you asked, smiling.
Grady chuckled, for a moment back to his usual cocky self again. “Naw, I ain’t that easy to kill, sugar.”
No, he really wasn’t. In fact, pretty much everything about him seemed solid. Easy. Maybe that’s why you liked him so much.
“Finally! Kissed the livin’ daylights outta your man yet?” One of the nurses, Judy, teased when you entered the triage tent.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide that smile—even when you rushed to help her with another burn wound. “He ain’t my man,” you muttered.
“Oh, honey!” Judy chuckled. “If he ain’t yours, then butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”
The transport ship groaned underfoot as it cut through the Atlantic, the scent of sea salt a pleasant aroma after years and years spent in blood and mud. Somewhere below the deck, a harmonica started up with a wobbly rendition of “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
Grady leaned against the railing, watching the coastline grow smaller and smaller through the morning haze. You moved closer to stand beside him. He didn’t look over, just put his arm around you. “Ain’t real yet,” he muttered, squinting at the distant shores fading away in the distance. “Keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up back in that damn tank.”
His breath was warm against your temple when he spoke again, voice rough. “You sure about this, Georgia? I ain’t… I ain’t much.”
You turned in his arms and looked up. Grady had faced down Panzers without flinching, and now apparently was sweating bullets at the thought of settling down.
“You can fix a tank. An’ draw one.” You shrugged. “Good enough for me, I reckon.”
Grady let out a huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, but I ain’t exactly what decent folk picture when their girl brings a man home.”
You arched one brow. “Uh-huh… And you think there’s a man back in Georgia who’d stand for my temper?”
“Heh.” He smirked. “Guess not. But a sweet li’l thing like you with a knocked-’round bastard like me—”
Before he could finish that thought, you pulled him by the shirt and pressed your lips to his for a quick kiss.
“I ain’t sweet,” you muttered, then kissed him again.
He let out a sharp huff through his nose, then just pulled you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. “Yeah, you are.”
“You gettin’ sentimental on me, cowboy?”
“Yeah,” he muttered into your hair, voice gone rough. “Gonna build you a house, Georgia. An’ we can get a dog.”
“One that ain’t mouthy like you, preferably.”
“Goddamn.” Grady snorted like he couldn’t quite believe you. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”
“Well, if ya jump now, reckon you could still make it back to Ger—”
You didn’t manage to finish, because he pulled you to him roughly and kissed you like he wanted to glue you together.
After he let you pull away, reluctantly, you just grinned at him madly. “Now who’s bein’ sweet?”
“Ain’t sweet.” Grady clicked his tongue once, grinning. “Just... plannin’.” The word came out awkward, unfamiliar.
“Last time you said you don’t make plans,” you reminded him.
“I lied.” His grin was all teeth.
He grinned even harder when you hit his arm in annoyance.
“Ya can plant a damn garden too,” he muttered. “Tomatoes. Corn. Whatever the hell else you like.”
“Yeah?” You tilted your head back to look at him again.
“Yeah. Ain’t promisin’ I won’t kill the plants,” he admitted. “But I’ll dig the holes real nice.”
“You best build us a bookshelf,” you decided. “Someone’s gotta stay literate in the family.”
Grady’s entire body stiffened at the word family.
“Might get a radio,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “So you ain’t stuck listenin’ to me grumble all day.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “What if I like your grumblin’?”
“Oh, darlin’.” He snorted and his arms tightened around you. “Yeah, now you’re lyin’.”
“You ain’t never caught me in a lie yet,” you drawled, stretching up on your tiptoes. “But I will say, if ya snore then we better build a doghouse out the back, too.”
That got his attention right quick—his whole face did this funny little twist between offense and amusement.
“The hell kinda—listen here, woman, I slept elbow-to-elbow with four other bastards in that tin can for two goddamn years and not once did—” He cut himself off when you started laughing, and the realization hit. “Eh, you’re pullin’ my leg…”
You laughed harder so he grabbed you by the hips and hoisted you up onto the railing suddenly enough to make you yelp—then he locked both arms around you, keeping you steady. “Yeah, guess I can make any noise ya like,” he muttered, leaning in until he nuzzled your neck.
Maybe it was the sunlight in your hair or the sea air making his head all hazy, but Grady just couldn’t stop looking at you.
“Alright,” he grumbled. “Gonna build ya a house so far out in the sticks, the only shit we’ll hear are the crickets and your smartass mouth. How’s that for a plan now?”
Then he kissed you before you could even think to argue.
SUMMARY — It would be the summer of Deputy Walsh learning shit the hard way. First, never piss off people who got access to your lunch order. Second—the prettier the package, the sharper the tongue.
You, the newest temp at the precinct, were stuck dealing with Shane’s attitude, while Shane ultimately couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or drag you somewhere private.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — See, I told you it would be short and we are under 10k! So. It's short. Yes, it is. I just hope nobody ever expects me to write a drabble...
I hope this will make you smile at least once, maybe twice @death-in-a-tar0t-card (tried not to make Shane too goofy, but damn, the temptation was there).
WORD COUNT — 8,534
Masterlist
You thought it would be just another temping job. At least that’s what the regular admin told you right before she went on sick leave and left you alone at the circus.
By now you managed to gather that this was very much not a “Fast and Furious” type of town—even without the slowness of summertime counted in. And by all that was holy, that Georgia humidity really made you wonder if that temp position was even worth it.
Not to mention what conditions you had to work under—said conditions being Deputy Walsh’s moods.
Now, the fan above Shane’s desk struggled against the heat, rattling like a man about to breathe his last. It didn’t do shit except circulate the stale air.
Shane was leaning back in his chair, boots propped on the edge of his desk, fingers laced behind his head. He watched you rifle through that filing cabinet for the fifth time in ten minutes and you could tell you were somehow getting on his nerves.
Jesus Christ.
“You plannin’ on actually findin’ that DUI report today, sweetheart,” he drawled, “or we gonna play hide-and-seek all afternoon?”
You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fingers fumbled just a fraction before you shoved the drawer closed—hard. The metal screeched in protest, loud enough that Rick glanced up from his own paperwork with a look towards Shane that said—Behave!
Shane scoffed and lowered his feet to the floor with a thud. He walked up to you and took the folder from your hands, then flipped through it.
And hell, he didn’t even know why he was doing this. Maybe it was the way you braced yourself when he got too close, like you expected him to bite. Maybe it was that stubborn frown you gave him when he questioned your abilities. Or maybe it was the August heat.
Whatever it was, it pissed him off.
Shane stepped back—slowly, like he was doing you a favor—and tapped the edge of the filing cabinet with two knuckles. “You know the alphabet, darlin’?”
And there it was. That glare you shot him that said—Fuck you.
“Yeah.” He smirked, the bastard. “’Cause I can sing it for you, if that’d help.”
You yanked the right drawer open with more force than necessary. “You’re bein’ an asshole.”
“And?”
“And,” you gave him your sweetest smiles, “remember I got access to your lunch orders, Deputy.”
Oh, he liked that. Way too much.
“Oh-ho! Sweetheart’s got spine!” Shane exclaimed, with a positively shit-eating grin on his face.
Rick groaned from his desk. “Jesus, Shane. You enjoy bein’ this much of a pain in the ass?”
Shane didn’t even glance at him, too busy enjoying being a massive pain in the ass.
The phone rang before you could retaliate, the shrill sound cutting through the tension. You snatched it up and the second you answered, your voice was all sugar—professional and polite:
“King County Sheriff’s Department.”
Shane scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned away. The contrast between sweet and spiteful was infuriating. He walked back to his desk, dropping into his chair hard enough to make it protest.
The fan above him rattled uselessly again, and he kicked at the leg of his desk, sending a pencil rolling to the floor. Rick shot him a look. Shane opted to ignore it.
“No, Mrs. Burnett… I mean, yes, of course we can send someone. Uh-huh…” You rolled your eyes again when you heard Shane making even more noise somewhere in the background. “Stolen begonias. Certainly.”
Shane’s boot hit the desk leg again—harder this time—just as you stressed the word “begonias” with that painfully patient customer-service lilt.
“Christ, Shane,” Rick muttered. “Forgot to take your nap today or somethin’?”
But Shane was too busy watching the way your fingers tapped an irritated rhythm against the desk. Frankly, he kind of admired your resolve. Even if he could see plain as day that calm in your voice was forced, you never broke character.
Just as you reassured Mrs. Burnett that yes, the King County Sheriff’s Department took floral theft very seriously, Shane leaned back in his chair again and hollered to you:
“Tell her we’ll bring the K-9 unit, sweetheart! Sniff out them dangerous horticultural criminals.”
Your grip on the receiver tightened as Mrs. Burnett’s voice squawked through the line, high-pitched and alarmed. Rick buried his face in his hands.
“No, no, Mrs. Burnett, of course no dogs.” You shot Shane a glare. “No, that was just my colleague being hilarious.”
Shane gave you an exaggerated, innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.
Rick shook his head like he could physically push Shane’s bullshit out of his skull. “You’re gonna get us a complaint filed, man. Again.”
“Aww. What’s she gonna do, Rick? Call the cops?” Shane snorted at his own joke.
Finally, you hung up the phone with more force than necessary, the plastic clattering against the receiver. Shane’s smirk widened.
“Oh, I think it’s an emergency.” You nodded solemnly. “Better get that siren goin’, boys.”
“Lord help me,” Rick muttered, pushing back from his desk with a scrape of his chair. “I’ll radio Lowell to handle the begonia crisis. Least then I know it’ll actually get done without someone makin’ it worse.”
“Oh, come on, Rick. Where’s your sense of adventure? Maybe we’ll find a whole underground begonia black market.” Shane’s grin was pure trouble, the kind that made Rick want to strangle him. “Hell, might even get into a shootout with some rogue landscapers!”
Rick paused, halfway out the door. He shot you both a very strange look before finally stepping out, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “never wanted more kids”.
You watched Rick leave, then shot Shane that glare—the one he couldn’t quite figure out. Granted, you’ve been working here only for a week. But, if he was motivated (which he rarely tended to be) Shane could actually put his detective skills to good use.
You, however, were still a mystery and some part of him thoroughly enjoyed it.
“You know,” you mused, voice sweet as poison, “I could just accidentally lose your lunch order today. Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
Shane’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. “Aw, darlin’, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” You looked at your nails, then arched a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
“You playin’ hardball now, sweetheart?”
You just shrugged and damn if that didn’t interest him even more.
“Tell you what—you lose my lunch, I start ‘accidentally’ misplacin’ all your paperwork.” His grin widened. “Bet you fold before I do.”
The phone rang again, cutting through the standoff. You snatched up the receiver and this time your voice sounded even more high-pitched:
“King County Sheriff’s Department! How can I help you?”
Shane chuckled, shaking his head. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
You noticed very quickly that every time someone came to file a complaint in person, Shane was somehow always… there. In the beginning, Rick tried to rein him in, but then mysteriously gave up. You had no idea what that was about exactly and frankly didn’t want to know. Their friendship was puzzling enough for you. The two of them couldn’t be any more different.
Now, Shane was pretending to pour himself the twelfth coffee of the day, while in reality he was just watching you take a witness statement. You were trying to handle yet another civilian with that sickeningly sweet voice and Shane honestly couldn’t decide if it was impressive or deeply annoying.
An old man was droning on about his neighbor’s dog barking too loud, and you—Christ—you were nodding like it was a goddamn federal case.
“Oh, Mr. Henderson, I completely understand,” you said, helping the man fill out the forms with a sympathetic tilt of your head. “We’ll send someone right over to check on that terrible disturbance. Deputy Walsh, are you available?”
Shane scoffed under his breath. “Gotta check my schedule.”
Jesus wept, the issues these people sometimes came to report never ceased to astonish him. But what really got under his skin was how effortlessly you switched gears—one second, you were all sugar for the public, the next tearing him a new one over a misplaced stapler.
Which was currently on house arrest. In the drawer. In his desk.
The old man finally shuffled out, and Shane sauntered over. “You ever get tired of bein’ that nice?” he asked. Then his smirk deepened when he noticed your face change as soon as you dropped the act.
“Depends,” you shot back, flipping a file shut.
“On what?”
“Oh, I dunno, Deputy Walsh,” you drawled, and the way you said his name and title sounded like an insult. He kind of liked it. “You’re a detective, ain’t you? So, go on. Detect.”
Oh, hell.
Shane chuckled, low and amused. He liked that retort way too much.
“Uh-huh.” He leaned in just enough to invade your space. “See, way I see it, you’re playin’ two roles. An’ somehow everyone’s buyin’ it.”
Your eyes narrowed at him, like you were weighing whether to snap at him or keep on pretending.
“Or,” you said, quieter, “maybe I just don’t waste my good manners on you, Deputy.”
That got a laugh out of him. “I think you got plenty of manners left in the tank, darlin’. Just gotta figure out what kinda currency gets ‘em.” He tapped his fingers against the mug. “So what’s the exchange rate? Chocolate?”
“I’m not five.” You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t miss the way your lips twitched.
You actually laughed at that one and Shane did a poor job at hiding his surprise. It wasn’t one of those mocking little chuckles you kept giving him either. Goddamn, at this point you really were gonna give him whiplash.
His smirk faltered for a second. “Well, hell. Ain’t that a first…”
He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough for you to miss it.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” you replied.
“Too late.”
You turned back to your paperwork just to avoid giving him the satisfaction. But damn if that smug grin of his wasn’t a little attractive. Meanwhile, Rick exhaled loudly from his desk and shot Shane another look that said—Really?
But Shane still seemed insufferably pleased with himself. Like he’d cracked some secret code.
You finally had the time to explore the town some more over the weekend. It wasn’t exactly charming as far as small towns went, but you supposed it was nice enough. There were some picturesque historic buildings peppered here and there along the main street, and to its credit all of the businesses you have seen so far were local. Since you had nothing better to do after your long walk, the dive bar on the corner seemed like a good idea to finish your day.
The place was exactly what you expected—dim lighting, the scent of old beer hanging in the air, and the low hum of classic rock playing just loud enough to drown out half the conversations in the room.
You slid onto a stool at the bar, ignoring the way the vinyl stuck slightly to your legs.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
You hesitated for a moment, then chose one of the beers on the tap with all the confidence of knowing nothing about what you’d get.
The bartender poured your beer while glancing at you curiously.
“You’re new in town.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Just passing through,” you replied.
The answer wasn’t good enough, you could tell, so you just shot him your special customer service smile number three. You weren’t a local, this much was plain. But in a town like this your business was probably everybody’s business. You kept your answers to a minimum.
You turned to the side to watch the world go by while you drank. The beer was bitter, hoppy—not bad, but definitely an acquired taste.
“You working over at the station?”
Your shoulders tensed a bit and the bartender must have noticed that because he extended his hand and tried his best to look less imposing. For a burly man like him that was a bit comical.
“Name’s Jimmy. An’ relax, honey, it’s a small town. News travels faster’n a fart in church. Everyone here knows Evelyn’s havin’ her surgery tomorrow, we’re all prayin’ for her.”
“Oh. Yeah, she seemed like a nice lady,” you replied, then shook his hand and introduced yourself.
“Hm.” Jimmy’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Heard you been putting up with Walsh’s bullshit.”
“Oh, I dunno if I’d call it that.” You took a gulp of your beer. “Not the worst job I’ve had.”
“Really?” Jimmy’s eyes narrowed like he clearly knew something you didn’t. “Y’know they sent another girl there ‘fore you? She quit after a day.”
“Well,” you shrugged, “that explains the hourly rate then. They must’ve been desperate.”
Jimmy barked out a laugh and then poured himself a shot of what you assumed was bourbon. “Well, then cheers, darlin’. To mildly shit jobs.”
You smiled and raised your glass to that.
After a pleasant evening of watching strangers (and them in turn watching you), you decided one pint was more than enough. The sweltering Georgia heat didn’t let up even after sundown, so you definitely felt just the right amount of tipsy.
It was the kind of sticky-sweet Southern summer night that made even breathing feel lethargic so the way back to your hotel felt twice as long as it should have. You were halfway down the block when you spotted him—Shane, standing by his Jeep and smoking, his expression like a storm cloud.
No smirking. No running his mouth. He just stood there, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other gripping that cigarette like he was personally angry with it. There was something quieter about him and you honestly debated if you shouldn’t just walk on by and pretend you never saw him.
But then he noticed you. A muscle twitched in his cheek, but he didn’t speak. You honestly didn’t know what to do with it.
God only knew neither of you owed the other a conversation—but something about the way he was now gave you pause.
“Bad night?” you asked lightly. Yes, it was obvious, but pretending otherwise felt cruel.
Shane exhaled through his nose. “You could say that.”
His voice was rougher than usual. You waited. He didn’t elaborate.
Shane finished his cigarette and then, abruptly, he pointed toward the sidewalk ahead. “I’ll walk you.”
“Oh. No. You don’t have to.”
“Wouldn’t offer if I didn't mean it.”
It wasn’t even an offer, just a statement, and usually you’d take offence. But in this context it almost felt… protective. So you decided not to give him shit about it either.
There was no familiar humor there tonight, no “sweethearts”, just something tired underneath. You turned back towards the hotel and Shane fell into step beside you.
Shane was an overwhelming presence on a good day, but this time he seemed very different. He was tense, this much was clear, and you fought the urge to even look at him—like staring too long might set off a bomb.
It wasn’t until you passed under a brighter streetlight that you caught the faint bruising along his knuckles, and the way his shirt collar was slightly crooked, like someone yanked at it.
“Y’know,” you said, “if you punched someone, I won’t tell Rick.”
“Ain’t that sweet of you.” The sarcasm was weak at best, and there wasn’t even a trace of his usual smirk. “Naw. Just… bad company.”
“Well,” you said lightly, “if you need a witness for your inevitable assault charges, my rates are very reasonable. We could say you’ve been with me all evening, chasing away them pesky dogs from Mr. Henderson’s lawn.”
“Christ alive.” He shook his head and let out a short laugh. “Shoulda known you’d be a smartass even off the clock.”
“Oh, I’ll have you know, Deputy Walsh, I’m way worse off the clock.”
The hotel came into view. Shane slowed to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place—somewhere between irritation and gratitude.
“Get inside,” he said finally, nodding toward the door. “Lock it.”
“Why?” You raised an eyebrow. “Are we planning on causing mayhem out here later, Deputy?”
“No.” His smirk was faint but there, just barely. “Just don’t feel like explainin’ to Rick why I let somethin’ happen to his new favorite secretary.”
“Oh?” You couldn’t resist poking at him just a little more. “Is that jealousy I hear?”
Shane scoffed. “Keep dreamin’, babygirl.”
“Ah, but you don’t wanna know what goes on in there, Deputy.” You tapped your temple with two fingers, smirking.
He tried to scoff again, but to your trained ears it sounded suspiciously more like a laugh. Good. You could almost feel him wrestling with whatever was eating at him tonight—whether to say something else or let it lie.
You shook your head, toying with your hotel key. “Just spit it out, Shane.”
That snapped him to attention, since you’ve never called him by his first name before. By the looks of it, he didn’t exactly hate it.
He rubbed the back of his neck like he was physically trying to push the words out. “You ever get the feelin’ you’re wastin’ your damn time?”
Well… It wasn’t what you expected. Not even close.
“All the time,” you admitted.
That seemed to catch him off guard.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged. “But then I remember I’m getting paid to deal with you, and it all feels a little better after a quick Sephora trip.”
He laughed, rough and surprised. “Goddamn, woman. You ever not got a comeback ready?”
“Eh… With you, it’s kinda easy.”
He shook his head, but the tension in him eased just a little. “You’re a pain in my ass, woman, d’ you know that?”
“And yet,” you said, grinning, “here you are. Walking me home like a gentleman.”
“Don’t push it.”
For a moment, it was almost comfortable. Until he remembered something, you could tell by how his eyes changed—suddenly that anger was back.
“Some people ain’t worth the breath it takes to argue with ‘em.”
You arched a brow and he quickly added:
“Not you.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Goddamn it—”
“Their loss, anyway,” you said simply.
He looked at you for a very long time, like you just handed him a new piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit with any of the other pieces he already had.
Then he jerked his chin toward the hotel door. “Go on. Before I change my mind about bein’ decent.”
You rolled your eyes, but started walking up the steps to the front door.
“Hey.”
You paused at the door, glancing back at him.
“Don’t go tellin’ anyone I was nice. Ruins my reputation.”
“Oh no!” You laughed. “We can’t have that.”
“Shut up…” He shook his head, suddenly a little softer around the edges.
You only laughed harder. “Your secret’s safe with me, Deputy.”
The following Monday morning was very different. When you came in, Shane was already there, fidgeting with the coffee machine—which wasn’t exactly unusual. But normally you’d have expected at least fifteen jabs and twenty “sweethearts” to have come your way.
Not today.
“Mornig,” you said.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at you with a frown, that line between his eyebrows even deeper than usual. Then he handed you a cup of coffee.
You blinked.
Shane had never made you coffee before. You had never even seen him be helpful to the general public in any way, shape or form. Well, maybe with the rare exception of Rick Grimes. Shane still gave him shit, just… In a slightly nicer way.
You took the mug cautiously, half-expecting it to be a trap.
“Uh… thanks?”
He just watched you, then let out a sharp sort of grunt and turned around to drop an ungodly amount of sugar in his own mug.
Rick, who had been watching this entire exchange with the kind of quiet amusement you had never seen in him before, finally spoke up. “Shane, you feelin’ alright?”
Shane shot him a glare. “Uh-huh.”
“You sure, partner?”
“I’m great.”
Meanwhile, you took a tentative sip of your coffee. It tasted… fine. In fact, there was nothing wrong with it.
“Did you poison this?” You immediately wanted to know.
That got a reaction. Shane’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “The hell kinda question is that?”
“A leading one, Deputy Walsh,” you said, taking another sip just to watch him bristle. “You’ve never done anything nice for me before. Matter of fact, I’m still waitin’ to get my stapler back.”
“Ain’t nice,” he muttered. “Just coffee.”
Rick coughed into his fist—badly hiding a laugh.
“You,” Shane pointed at him, “shut it.”
“Oh, I ain’t sayin’ anything,” Rick replied, enjoying himself way too much.
“So,” you said, “what’s the catch, Deputy?”
Shane scowled. “Ain’t a catch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Christ, woman…” Shane clenched his jaw. “Drink the damn thing, don’t drink it, I don’t even care.”
You took another very exaggerated slurp. “And yet…”
“Just figured you’d need it after last night.”
That made you pause.
Rick’s eyebrows shot up. “Last night?”
Shane shot him a look. “Ain’t like that.”
You watched the exchange between them with no small amount of amusement. It was kind of fun—now that Shane got a taste of workplace bullying.
Rick leaned back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, I’ll be damned…”
“Don’t push it, Rick.”
“Oh, I ain’t pushin’.” Rick cleared his throat and then pointed to his own empty cup. “So…?”
Shane ignored him, focusing instead on stirring his coffee with unnecessary force. “Just drink the damn coffee, woman.”
You smirked. “Oh, I am. And it’s good.”
That seemed to throw him off. He blinked, then scowled harder. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”
You pouted. “Aw. Really?”
Rick chuckled, shaking his head. “Lord help me, I think I like whatever the hell this is.”
“Yeah, that’s enough from you.” Shane shot him a glare. “You’re fired.”
“Can’t fire me, partner. We’re the same rank.”
“Then I’m quittin’.”
You laughed into your cup.
Shane pointed at you. “You—”
The phone rang, cutting him off. You snatched the receiver and this time didn’t even need to fake that chirping:
“King County Sheriff’s Department!”
Then your face fell. “An intruder...?”
Shane and Rick both straightened immediately, their playful banter forgotten.
Rick stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. “Where?”
Shane was already reaching for his car keys, the most cheerful you had ever seen him.
“Alright, Mrs. Calloway, you stay where you are,” you said to the receiver. “We’ll send someone right over.”
When Mrs. Calloway hung up, you scribbled down the rest of the address, your fingers tight around the pen. “Mrs. Calloway—her neighbor’s place across the street. She says she saw someone breakin’ in through the back window. Two men, black clothes, didn’t see a gun but said they were huge an’ had somethin’ like crowbars.
Shane was already moving, now definitely in a much better mood. “Alright, let’s roll.”
Two hours later, the biggest man you've ever seen was brought to the station in handcuffs. He was snarling insults at Shane, who only seemed to grin wider the more the man thrashed. The guy was massive—at least 6’5 and built like a damn linebacker—but it still looked like he was freshly out of a couple teeth and had a proper black eye forming across his left cheekbone.
His partner, a wiry little weasel of a man, was already being processed in the other room, whimpering about how he “ain’t gonna talk ‘bout the boss-man.”
But this one? Oh, he was pissed.
“Y’ain’t shit, cop!” the giant snarled, yanking against the cuffs hard enough to make the metal creak. “I’ll snap you in half soon as I get outta these!”
Shane, the absolute bastard, just grinned wider. “Calm down, sunshine! Could be we’re both retired when that happens so I ain’t gonna hold my breath.” He clapped the guy on the shoulder—hard—like they were old buddies.
The guy lunged at him, but Shane simply stepped to the side, laughing under his breath. “Easy there, killer. Save it for your cellmate.”
Rick, who had just locked up the other guy, looked at his partner with a sigh. “Shane, quit antagonizin’ him.”
“Me?” Shane, the picture of innocence, had the audacity to ask.
You snorted into your coffee.
The guy in cuffs whipped his head toward you, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck you laughin’ at, bitch?”
Shane’s grin vanished momentarily. Before anyone could react, he stepped between you and the perp, crowding into the guy’s space like he meant it—which was sort of a feat since Shane was so much shorter.
“Say that again, big guy,” Shane said, the angriest you had ever heard him. “Don’t think I heard that right.”
The perp sneered, running his tongue over his teeth before letting out a low chuckle. “I said—”
“Shit fire!” you jumped out of your seat and promptly spilled the rest of your coffee in the general vicinity of the perp.
“The fuck?!” the man roared.
“You lost your mind?!” Shane demanded to know.
But you stuck to your act and pointed to the faraway corner. “That was a rat! There. Right there!”
“Alright now. Show’s over.” Rick stepped between Shane and the perp, using the distraction to take the man to his cell.
Shane watched Rick haul the guy off, then turned back to you with a look that was equal parts exasperated and impressed. “A rat?”
You shrugged, wiping your hands on your pants. “Don’t look at me like that. You were hot ‘n’ ready to knock the rest of his teeth out.”
“Bullshit!”
“Even I know ya ain’t supposed to beat ‘em up after you already arrest ‘em.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, y’ know that?”
Rick returned, looking at you with a curious expression. “Alright. I say that’s enough excitement for one day.”
Shane clapped him on the back—hard enough to make him stumble. “Come on now. Ain’t you havin’ fun?”
Rick shot him a glare. “No.”
You grinned at the exchange. “So… what’s the story with those two?”
Shane’s smirk returned full force. “Buncha idiots tryin’ to rob an old lady. Thought she had cash stashed in the walls or some shit.”
Rick sighed. “They were after her coin collection.”
“Coin collection?” You blinked. “That’s it?”
Shane laughed, low and rough. “Yep. Dumbasses thought they were gonna be rich.”
Rick sighed deeply. “And now we gotta deal with the paperwork.”
You decided to take pity on the man and reached for the forms. “Well, Deputy Walsh, since you’re feelin’ generous…”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“You can help me fill these out and let your partner go home for family dinner.”
Shane groaned, dragging a hand down his face. But you could see he was smiling, if just a little. “Christ, woman, you drive a hard bargain.”
Rick wisely took a step back, retreating to the door with a smile and a quick nod towards you.
Shane snatched up a pen, clicking it aggressively. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, darlin’.”
You sighed. “Because you got to punch a guy?”
“Because I got to punch that guy.” He smirked, scribbling his signature with a flourish. “And he was askin’ for it.”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Truth was, you didn’t mind this side of him—that easy confidence was kind of attractive.
Then he flipped the form back toward you and leaned in. “But… In the future, let me handle my own damn fights, sweetheart.”
You met his gaze and you both looked at each other a second or two too long for it to be casual.
“Next time I’m bringin’ an actual rat,” you decided. “Just in case the perps catch you in a bad mood or somethin’.”
Shane smirked, his dark eyes still fixed on you. “Whatever you say…”
The heat let up a little during the weekend and you decided to go on a walk through the nearby fields to watch the horses.
The air was still warm, but the oppressive humidity had eased up just enough to make being outside bearable. You’d found a quiet spot near the fence line where a few horses grazed lazily, their tails flicking at the occasional fly. The darkest of the bunch noticed you and walked up towards you, clearly expecting treats. You came prepared with a bag of carrots.
You stood there for a while, feeding the horses and trying to angle your phone just right to catch a good shot of them. Then you heard footsteps—someone was jogging down the dirt path that cut through the fields. You moved out of the way, fully expecting whoever it was to just move past you, but then he spoke:
“Didn’t take you for the outdoorsy type, darlin’.”
Shane. His shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to his broad frame. He slowed when he spotted you, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. His breathing was heavy, but controlled, as he came to a stop.
You shrugged. “Didn’t take you for the jogging type.”
He smirked. “Gotta stay in shape somehow. It’s a good route for a workout.”
“Because you like horses?” you asked, frowning.
He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “They’re alright. Uh, Rick likes them. Me, I prefer cars.”
The horse closest to you nudged your hand, urging you for more carrots.
Shane watched the interaction and you noticed his eyes were a little kinder, a little softer than usual.
“You got a way with ‘em,” he admitted after a moment.
“I got a bag of carrots,” you corrected him. “Here.”
Without any preamble you stuck one in Shane’s hand and nudged him towards the horses. He stared down at the carrot like it was an alien artefact.
“The hell am I supposed to do with this?”
You grinned. “Take a wild guess.”
He scoffed but didn’t argue, stepping closer to the fence. The nearest horse—a chestnut mare with a white blaze—sniffed the air, ears pricking forward. Shane hesitated, then held out the carrot like he was defusing a bomb.
The mare took it from his fingers with surprising gentleness, crunching loudly. Shane blinked, watching her.
“Now… Why am I, a city girl, teachin’ you ‘bout country living?” you teased.
He shot you a look but didn’t snap back. Instead, he reached for another carrot from your bag, this time offering it with a little more confidence. You watched, letting the horses be the judge of his character.
“She likes you,” you said after a moment.
Shane huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “She’s got bad taste then.”
The mare nudged his shoulder, searching for more. Shane exhaled sharply, but there was no real irritation in it. “Greedy thing, ain’t ya?”
The sun caught the sweat still drying on his skin and somehow you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
“Careful.” You grinned. “She’ll follow you home.”
“Yeah, well. Not the first time that happened.”
“A horse followed you home?”
Shane looked at you pointedly until you caught his innuendo.
“Oh.”
He winced. “Yeah.”
“Wait, so…” You hesitated. “That night when you walked me to the hotel. Was that a bad date too?”
Shane rolled his shoulders, as if trying to physically escape embarrassment. “Yeah. But don’t get all excited. Most of ‘em ain’t worth the walk.”
The chestnut mare huffed, lipping at his empty hand, and Shane absently patted her neck.
You snorted. “Well, that’s just sad.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow, turning to face you fully now.
“Yeah,” you said. “If you’re gonna have strays followin’ you around, Shane, least they could do is be good company.”
That surprised him. He clearly expected a jab.
He made a low sound in his throat, half-amused. “You offerin’?”
You grinned. “Nah. I don’t follow anyone.”
That got a real laugh out of him—short and rough, but genuine. “Shoulda figured…”
“Figured what?” You walked up closer to him.
Shane looked at you, incredulous, then all of a sudden went poker-faced. “Don’t make me say it, woman.”
You stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the sweat and faint whiff of cologne clinging to him. Not the best concoction, but somehow not the worst.
“Just… out with it, Deputy,” you pressed.
Shane exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching like he was physically grinding his molars on the words. “You ain’t like most of ‘em. You’re…”
The admission was there between you now. No way to take it back.
“Well,” you said, “I’ve definitely never met a guy like you, that’s for damn sure.”
Shane’s lips twitched, something close to a real smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
You shrugged, stepping back before you did something stupid—like reach for him. “Don’t get all excited, that wasn’t a compliment.”
“Ah, I think it was actually.” He watched you retreat, that familiar smirk finally creeping back. “Good to know, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You gonna keep feedin’ me to the horses,” he drawled, “or are you gonna let me walk you back?”
He was watching you—like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“You’re starin’,” he pointed out.
You rolled your eyes. “And you’re sweaty.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t move, just kept watching you. “So what now, darlin’? We just stand here till one of us caves?”
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“Maybe I do.”
That honesty gave you pause. You weren’t used to any of this. And especially not men who actually meant what they said.
“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms like he was shaking off the moment. “I got a shower to take. You comin’ or what?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Shane chuckled. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Back to town, woman. Unless you plannin’ on sleepin’ in the field.”
You huffed, falling into step beside him as he started down the dirt path.
“This don’t mean I caved,” you grumbled.
He grinned, extremely pleased with himself. “Naw, ‘course not.”
Shane kept his pace slow, matching yours without comment.
“You know,” you said after a while, “for a guy who hates small talk, you sure do a lot of… talking.”
He snorted. “Ain’t small talk if I mean it.”
You shot him a look. “You always mean everything you say?”
“Pretty much. Saves time.”
“Guess that makes you predictable,” you mused.
Shane scoffed. “The hell it does.”
“Uh-huh.” You grinned. “I could set my watch by your bad moods.”
He stopped walking so abruptly you took two extra steps before realizing. When you turned, he was just watching you, his gaze sharp again.
“You ain’t figured me out yet, sweetheart,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll give you this—you’re tryin’.”
You held his stare, refusing to back down. “Like hell I am!”
“Yeah, you are.” He took a step closer. “But I ain’t complainin’.”
You rolled your eyes, turning back toward the path before he could see you were blushing.
As you walked back to town, you noticed now and then that people were giving you looks. Well, mostly women were, so you pretty quickly surmised it was not because of you. The novelty of your presence had gotten the chance to wear off.
It was because of Shane and you, together. And, most probably, whatever the hell he was wearing did not help. Some women were doing their darndest to pretend not to look—but they still tracked Shane with narrowed eyes. And not just him. You. Together.
Shane, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He walked with that same confidence, his damp shirt still clinging in places you would honestly prefer it didn’t cling to.
“You got a fan club, Deputy,” you muttered.
Shane followed your gaze and scoffed. “Christ. Buncha busybodies.”
“Uh-huh.” You smirked. “Or maybe they’re just shocked to see you voluntarily walkin’ with someone who ain’t Rick.”
His eyes darted to you. “You’re enjoyin’ this.”
“Hm. A little.”
Shane shook his head, exasperated, but you didn’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitched upward—despite his best efforts.
The newspaper landed on your desk with a quiet thump. You glanced up just in time to see Rick retreating to his desk with a cup of coffee—all casual, like he hadn’t just done something extremely weird.
The paper was folded open to the classifieds, several listings circled aggressively in red pen.
Rooms for Rent. Short-Term Leases Available. Quiet Neighborhood.
You stared at it for a long moment, then glanced towards Shane’s desk. He was elbows-deep in paperwork, scowling at some report, completely oblivious to Rick’s meddling.
Rick, meanwhile, had settled back into his chair, pretending to be engrossed in his own work. But you caught the way his eyes flicked toward you, then Shane—just once. Much like his partner, the man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“You plannin’ on explainin’ this, Deputy Grimes?” you asked.
Rick didn’t even look up. “Nope.”
Shane’s head snapped up at that, eyes narrowing as he caught the tail end of the exchange. “The hell’s goin’ on?”
You held up the paper, shaking it slightly. “Your best friend’s got a side hustle in real estate.”
Shane squinted at the paper, then at Rick. “Huh?”
“Just thought she might wanna know her options, is all.”
“Options.” Shane repeated flatly.
“Since the temp job’s goin’ longer than expected and Evelyn’s still recovering.” Rick shrugged. “Wouldn’t want her stayin’ in that hotel forever.”
Shane opened his mouth, but you cut in before he could:
“You know what?” You folded the paper neatly and tucked it into your bag. “I do hate that hotel.”
Which was how Shane Walsh somehow got outmaneuvered and forced to go be your (very grumpy) chaperone at an apartment viewing.
As soon as you stepped inside, Shane, much to your amusement, immediately started poking around like he was inspecting a crime scene.
He crouched to check under the sink, muttering something about water pressure, then ran a finger along the windowsill—checking for condensation, apparently.
“You moonlight as a handyman, Deputy Walsh?” you asked, insanely entertained by his prodding and poking at the shower tiles.
Shane shot you a glare over his shoulder. “Just makin’ sure you ain’t gettin’ ripped off.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothin’. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were worried ‘bout me.”
“Shut up, woman.”
The landlord, an older man with a bushy mustache, watched Shane’s inspection with no less amusement. “Place is solid, Deputy. No need to worry.”
Shane grunted, unconvinced.
You exchanged a look with the landlord, who just chuckled and shook his head.
“So,” you said after a moment, “what’s the verdict, Deputy? You’re throwin’ the nice man in the slammer for real estate crimes?”
Shane turned the faucet off harder than necessary and shot you a glare. “Ain’t terrible.”
“Excellent.” You clapped your hands. “You can help me move my bags.”
“Like hell I am!”
Shane still helped you move your bags.
The whole time, he complained—loudly. About the stairs, about the broken wheel on your suitcase, and mostly about the fact that you apparently owned way too many books. But he still hauled every last thing for you and wouldn’t let you lift a finger even when you tried.
“You gonna actually unpack this shit, or just live outta cardboard like some kinda raccoon?” he grumbled, watching you stroll around the place.
You grinned, then mercifully tossed him a bottle of water. “Depends. You gonna stick around and supervise?”
He caught it one-handed. “Nah. Got better things to do than babysit.”
But he didn’t leave. Just watched you unpack the few belongings you had and mostly was just hanging out with you in silence. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, in fact you were a little surprised how easily you got used to Shane just… Being there. With you.
“Alright, darlin’. You need anything else, or you good?”
You paused, considering. “You hungry?”
Shane hesitated, then pointed to the little kitchenette in the corner. “Sweetheart, I ain’t seen you unpack a single kitchen utensil. Not riskin’ your cooking.”
You just laughed and took out your phone. “So. Pizza?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
When the pizza arrived, Shane paid before you could even reach for your wallet. You shot him a look.
He shrugged, already flipping the box open. “You’re buyin’ next time.”
There was something dangerously comfortable about the way he said next time—casual, like it was already a given. You let it slide, mostly because arguing with Shane about anything was a lost cause.
You both ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional rustle of cardboard and Shane’s muttered curses when he burned his mouth on the cheese.
“You always inhale your food like that?” you asked.
He smirked. “Army habit.”
That explained... a lot, actually.
Shane wiped his hands on a napkin, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Alright. Now that you’re all moved in—”
“Barely.”
“—you gonna invite me over again, or do I gotta keep invitin’ myself?”
You smiled at him and this time made sure it was a kinder sort of smile. “Shane.”
His eyes flicked to you and for a moment you saw that hesitation in him, like he was bracing for a blow.
“Thank you. For today,” you said quickly. “An’ of course you’re invited, don’t be daft.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for a second before meeting it again. “Yeah, well. Ain’t like I got much else goin’ on anyway.”
“Wow. I’m so flattered.”
That got a smirk out of him. “You should be.”
The silence settled again, just... easy.
Finally, Shane grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, slinging it over his shoulder. “Alright, darlin’, I’m out. You behave.”
“No promises.”
It was a particularly slow day at the station, even by this town’s standards. Rick was flipping through a case file with the kind of disinterest that suggested he’d read it three times already and retained no information.
You leaned against the edge of Shane’s desk. “So. Army stories.”
Shane didn’t even look up. “Nope.”
“Come on,” you pressed. “You can’t just be like this and not have some wild lore.”
That got his attention. “Be like what?”
You waved a hand vaguely in his direction. “You know. Like this.”
Rick, who had been pretending not to listen from his own desk, suddenly got very interested in this conversation.
Shane glared at him. “You got somethin’ to add, partner?”
Rick set his mug down, grinning. “Nah. Just thinkin’ about that time in basic when you—”
Shane’s jaw twitched. “Rick, I swear to God—”
But Rick was still grinning. “Easy, Shane. Just sayin’—you got stories.”
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned back to you. “Ain’t nothin’ interestin’. Just did my job.”
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. So you’re tellin’ me you never did anything stupid? Never got in trouble?”
“Uh. No.” Shane spoke through gritted teeth. “That ain’t what I said.”
“Oh, he got in trouble. Plenty.”
Shane shot him another glare. “Rick.”
But Rick was already warming up to the story. “There was this one time in basic—Shane here decided he was gonna ‘improve’ the obstacle course.”
Shane groaned. “Jesus Christ, Rick.”
You were suddenly very interested. “Improve how?”
Rick’s grin widened. “By rewirin’ the damn thing after hours. Made the whole thing twice as hard. Drill sergeants were pissed—until they realized it actually worked.”
Shane muttered something under his breath and shook his head.
“So what happened?” you pressed.
Shane sighed, finally giving in. “Got my ass chewed out. Then they made me run the damn thing first to prove it could be done.”
You blinked. “And?”
He shrugged. “Did it.”
Rick chuckled. “Yeah, an’ then they promoted him to latrine duty for two months.”
“You just love tellin’ that story, don’t ya?”
Rick grinned, unbothered. “Gotta keep you humble, partner.”
You leaned in. “So, what else you got?”
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose. “Ain’t nothin’ else worth tellin’.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Rick mused. “There was that time at the base—”
“No.”
“—when you decided to arm wrestle some guy from Alabama—”
Shane groaned. “Jesus wept…”
“—and lost spectacularly.”
You burst out laughing. “Aww.”
Shane scowled. “Guy was built like a damn refrigerator.”
Rick nodded sagely. “You still took the bet.”
Shane threw his hands up. “Alright, that’s enough outta you, man. Go get another coffee.”
You were grinning now, thoroughly enjoying this. “You’ve got a real talent for makin’ friends, Deputy Walsh.”
Shane was shooting daggers at you, but there was something almost playful underneath it. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, darlin’.”
Rick was now looking far too pleased with himself. “See? Told you he had stories.”
Shane muttered something under his breath and snatched up a pen, pretending to focus on his paperwork.
In a small town like this one, hiding anything seemed downright impossible. You realized very quickly that after about three months everyone knew who you were, where you worked, where you came from, and—most importantly—that there was something going on between you and Shane.
Something neither of you managed to put a label on yet, because according to you there were no labels to be printed. The man hadn’t made a move, and well, neither have you. Still, your experience probably paled in comparison to the local American Gigolo.
You figured by this time Shane had dated half the female population in this county and one over, so you wondered why the hell the height of your supposed “fling” was eating pizza in your half-empty attic apartment or him “running into you” on his jogging route.
There was no “running into” here, you quite deliberately hung out with the horses nearly every weekend. Sometimes you’d just sit on the blanket near the paddock, just watching them play with each other and graze.
It was a nice Saturday morning and you were lounging on the grass—until a shadow fell over you.
“We gotta stop meetin’ like this, babygirl.”
You didn’t even look up. “Mornin’, Shane.”
Shane dropped down onto the blanket beside you, stretching his legs out with a grunt. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. You handed him a bottle of water.
“Yeah, well.” He grabbed it and took a long swig before handing it back. “It’s a good place to jog.”
One of the horses—a big dark gelding—walked over, sniffing at Shane’s hair before losing interest and wandering off.
“You just gonna sit out here all day?” Shane asked.
“Maybe.”
He smirked. “Boring.”
“Then…” You waved your hand towards the dirt path. “Go on.”
“Nah.” Shane leaned back on his elbows, tilting his face up toward the sun. “Think I’ll stay.”
“Suit yourself.” You sighed and lay down beside him.
The silence settled between you, easy and familiar. After a while, he shifted and you opened one eye to find him hovering over you.
“There a problem, officer?” you muttered.
Shane chuckled, his voice rough.
“You ever gonna tell me why you keep comin’ out here?” he asked after a minute.
You shrugged. “It’s a nice view.”
Shane snorted. “Uh-huh. Bullshit. You just like watchin’ me suffer through these damn jogs.”
You grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head once he caught your meaning.
“You ever gonna make this easy?” he muttered.
“For you?” You tilted your head. “Naw.”
That got a laugh out of him. And you quite liked the sound of it.
“You ever think about leavin’ this place?” you asked suddenly.
Shane stilled for half a second before shrugging. “Nah. Got everything I need right here.”
“Even the begonia thieves?”
“Especially the begonia thieves.” His smirk was back, sharp as ever. “Why? You plannin’ on skippin’ town?”
You looked up at the sky, squinting from the sun. “I miss Atlanta sometimes.”
Shane didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly:
“You’d tell me if you were leavin’, right?”
You turned your head to look at him. His expression was… odd. Tense.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d tell you.”
He nodded, like that settled it.
“But I’m not leaving,” you said quickly. “I mean... I don’t want to. But Evelyn can’t stay sick forever I guess. I’d have to find another job. Or maybe they’ll send me to temp somewhere else.”
Shane bristled slightly at the mention of you leaving, but he covered it with a scoff. “Hell no. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna arrest me?”
He leaned in closer. “That what you’re into? ‘Cause I can.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Wow. Shane Walsh, the romantic that you are…”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to be,” he grunted.
Before you could retort, he hooked two fingers in the collar of your shirt and yanked you forward. “Yeah, you ain’t leavin’,” he said, searching for something in your face. “Ain’t up for discussion.”
“That so?” You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Ugh, you need a shower.”
That got him going alright. His smirk was diabolical. “Yeah? Your place’s closer.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re insufferable.”
Shane’s grin only widened. And then he kissed you—rough and impatient, like he’d been waiting too damn long.
There was little finesse to that kiss, it was intense. He gripped your arms to pull you closer with barely contained frustration.
You pushed back just enough to catch your breath. “You—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned, too busy watching your mouth.
“Shower,” you reminded him pointedly.
“You’re presumptuous, woman.”
“Jesus Christ, you still can’t call me by my name?”
“Sweetheart?”
“Ugh…”
“Darlin’.”
Shane just laughed, but finally let you go—with obvious reluctance.
Later—much later—when your sheets were tangled beyond saving, Shane propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with his usual smirk.
But you weren’t about to let him off the hook.
“So you do know how to say my name,” you noted.
“Goddamn.” He shook his head, laughing. “That’s what you wanna say to me right now?”
“Well, I distinctly remember you sain’ it—”
“Quit it.”
“Twice.”
“Alright, that’s it.” He pushed your wrists down and stifled your giggle with a kiss. “You ain’t leavin’ this bed.”
“Oh really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And who’s gonna sort your paperwork, Deputy Walsh?”
His grin was all teeth. “Oh, I got somethin’ else for you to sort, sweetheart.”
You kicked at him halfheartedly. “Shut up.”
Shane caught your ankle, dragging you back with a laugh that rumbled through his chest. “Make me.”
sort of part 3? more like a random collection of thoughts i had while burning alive in this weather.
this was inspired by the fucking heatwave ruining my life right now! hope yall like it!!! stay safe out there kiddos! put yer fuckin sunscreen on.
can be read alone or as part of my neighbor!shane series.
asshole!shane
no use of y/n
part 3 ish? I no idea yall im just having fun with it.
Come Back With a Warrant Part 3 - Too fuckin hot...
The georgia heat is no fucking joke.
Its hot.
Too damn hot.
You're sat on a bench, bag of groceries discarded by your feet after an incredibly awful, sticky trip to the market that you regretted as soon as you stepped foot onto your porch and got blasted by a wall of heat so thick you could taste it on your tongue.
You let out a sad, strange wailing noise as you literally melt into the wooden slats. You're dying, you have to be. This is what death feels like. The reaper is not a hooded figure with a sythe and a list.
Its the fucking sun.
Its kind of heat that makes your hair stick to your skull, your thighs sweat so much they start chafing and your clothes practially weld to your body.
Your brain has stopped functioning correctly, and your about ninety percent sure your skin is going to start peeling off any second.
The wailing of a police siren makes you raise your head about two inches off the back of the bench, you squint as Shane performs a genuinely impressive maneuver that has the patrol car skidding to a stop in front of you directly.
Any other day you would've clapped, maybe given him the finger or something. Today? You can barely muster up the energy to even blink.
Shane calls over to you, spotting you layin' spread out on a damn bench in this heat, lookin' like a sad fuckin' cat. Goddamn, he told ya it'd be too hot fer the market 'fore he left, ya clearly ain't listened, stubborn ass woman.
"Damn baby. You aight over there? Wit your dramatic ass, c'mon girl git in the car. I got food."
He's got his head poked out the window, that dumb cap you love teasing him about perched on his head, shit eating grin on his face as he takes in your sweaty self. He looks so damn fine, theres not even a single bead of sweat on his face, its not fair.
You articulate this beautifully with your greeting to him, raising a hand and finally flipping him off as you sit up with extreme difficulty.
"You're a smug bastard walsh. A stupid, smug bastard and i hate you. Die a thousand deaths. Evil, awful man."
He looks so good in that uniform, and have his arms always been that big?
Goddamn, attractive, stupid man.
He laughs, because of course he fucking does, you ain't being serious, you never are when it comes to him.
He hops out of the squad car and saunters over to you, standing in front of you with his hands gripping his gun belt, one leg sticks out and he starts kicking you in the ankles.
"Only way im goin' is if your pretty ass is takin' me out baby. Git up, lets go. Got the air con blastin for ya too. Foods gonna get cold mama, lets move."
Your sat in the passenger seat a few hours later, feet kicked up on his dashboard, the remnants of a cold cheeseburger and fries that have long since gone stale sat on the console between you both.
"Git yer feet off my dash woman."
Its the fifth time he's said it, and its the fifth time you've ignored him. His air con is blasting in your face and it feels like absolute heaven on your sticky skin.
You hum, eyes shut and hair blowing round your face as he huffs in irritation, finally loosing patience with you and yanking your feet into his lap with a grunt.
"Oh Shane come on, what the fuck? Stop-get off im all sweaty and gross."
He laughs directly in your face, your half crumpled against the passenger side window, body bent all out of shape as he lounges in his own seat, looking smug and entirely too fuckable for this weather.
"Nah, ya look real nice baby. Always too pretty for yer own damn good I tell you that right now."
His hand starts trailing up your calf, and you huff in irritation, propping yourself up slightly from your awkward position against the window.
"I'm not fucking you in the squad car shane."
He practially fucking leers at you, tugging you closer and closer by the ankles until your lower half is resting in his lap, the remaining food gets knocked onto the ground, cold and forgotten, by your knee as shane starts unbuckling his belt.
"Ain't you thats gunna do the fuckin' pretty girl, just lay there and let yer man take care of ya hm?"
"You are such an asshole shane."
"Yes I am, yes I am baby. I am the asshole, now git yer fuckin' panties off. Only got a damn hour 'fore I gotta get back to it."
Your laughter quickly turns into a moan, and you find yourself thinking that the heat really ain't so bad after all.
thanks for reading!
bonus thought, below is a picture reader took of shane one morning when he was off work. that man drinks beer for breakfast on his free mornings. no I will not elaborate.
Ahhh the "yes I am, yes I am, I am the asshole" is living rent free in my head, I think about it involuntarily seven times a day, I just hear his voice in my head saying this 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷Amazing work as always. Like I said I am so glad that you started writing!! I can just tell that there is a spark of something fantastic inside you because I started writing the same way, one day I just picked it up on a whim and never stopped. I love how you write his dialogue too. He is terrible but exactly the way he should be and I love him 😍🩷
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“Part 6—King County Dirt” (Shane Walsh x fem!Reader)
“No Surrender, Baby—A Short Series”
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
SUMMARY — Coming soon to a farmhouse near you: Rick’s sister spent twenty years pining after her brother’s best friend. Shane Walsh spent twenty years pretending he wasn’t pining right back. Then the world ended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — And so this saga, too, comes to an end… I'm so glad you enjoyed it and those who left all these comments I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I hope it was funny and I hope it was romantic. I'll see you in the next one, undoubtedly, since Shane haunts my every narrative now.
WORD COUNT — 3,491
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“My sister,” Rick said, once you were far enough away from the barn. “You and her…”
“You saw what you saw,” Shane said, too tired and too beat to deny anything.
Rick nodded slowly, like he was digesting something bitter. “How long?”
“Don’t matter how long.”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?” Shane asked, his head snapping up to glare at Rick. “Why does it matter? ‘Cause the answer is longer than you know.”
Rick didn’t let himself be provoked.
“We got nothin’ but time.”
Shane wasn’t as bad at reading people as some would think. He supposed he just never really bothered to use whatever he had read, is all. But Rick’s calm unnerved him, even if Rick was right. There was nowhere to run now. And Shane sure as hell wouldn’t run without you.
Rick wasn’t exactly mad at him. Shane didn’t even remember Rick ever really being mad at him, which… Was a separate kind of problem. Maybe, Shane decided, Rick already suspected what had been going on with you both. Maybe he suspected your teenage crush, too.
“Since before she left for Atlanta,” Shane said, for once telling the complete truth. “Before I watched her pack her car and didn’t say a goddamn word.”
Rick looked at him sceptically and it made Shane want to tear his hair out.
“It was… Dunno, man. Maybe it’s when she was twelve years old, tellin’ me I better not let nobody make fun of her again.”
Rick didn’t say a word still. His face stayed a solemn mask.
“Really? Back then?” he asked finally.
“Yeah, back then,” Shane admitted. “Back when we were kids and I used to make her mad just to get her to look at me.” He dragged a hand across his mouth. “But I never did anythin’ ‘cause… Don’t matter now. I did the right thing. I let her go. And then the world ended. Thought everyone I ever loved was gone, made my peace with it.”
For a while, Rick just… Looked at him. Shane felt the urge to fill that silence with more talk, but decided against it. He glanced at that barn instead, like he expected it to explode any second.
“Okay. So what the hell happened in King County?” Rick asked. “Before I woke up.”
Shane’s stomach turned over. Part of him hoped he would never have to explain. But another part knew Rick wasn’t stupid, knew the man had been walking around with pieces of the puzzle since he came back.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “It’s… You ain’t gonna like it.”
And he told Rick everything. The very unpleasant details included, or maybe especially those details, because deep down inside Shane felt like a glutton for punishment.
The tale ended and Shane could tell that Rick was working hard at staying calm. Shane knew that look. He had seen that one before. Rick was deciding what kind of man he was going to be in the next thirty seconds. Shane honestly hoped they would fight. He was all talked-out for the next millennium or so. A punch to the face felt more honest.
“You were always my brother, Shane,” Rick said finally. “I’ve known you longer than my sister.”
“That ain’t fair—”
“I ain’t finished.”
Shane’s mouth snapped shut.
“You saved my wife. You saved my boy. You kept ‘em alive when I couldn’t and in the end, you tried to save me. I owe you everything for that. Everything.” Rick looked right at Shane now. There was no escaping his scrutiny. “But with my sister, it’s different. ‘Cause I know how she felt ‘bout you. And you treated her like hell sometimes. Back then, when she was followin’ us around. You were mean to her on purpose.”
Shane let out a short, broken laugh. “Yeah. I was.”
“Why?”
Shane looked away and said nothing. Rick scoffed, his saintly patience finally wavering.
“You’re an asshole,” he muttered.
Shane laughed, shaking his head. “Yes I am, yeah. I’m the asshole.”
Rick grimaced and still wouldn’t let him deflect, not really. And Shane cracked, just a little.
“You don’t gotta understand it,” he said, his voice getting raspy, “but every time she looked at me with them big eyes, I kinda forgot other people existed. So yeah, I was an asshole. Still am.”
Rick sent him a pointed look and it made Shane feel two inches tall.
“You shoulda told me,” Rick replied, his face a little less stony now.
“When?” Shane asked. “When she was graduatin’? Gettin’ her scholarship, makin’ big plans? Nah, man. Even I ain’t that selfish.”
“Yeah, you’re… You’re right. She would’ve stayed,” Rick admitted.
“Yeah, so… There was no point.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck, thinking hard. “B’sides, the last time I saw her, it was at the hospital. You were in a fuckin’ coma, which by the way was my fuckin’ fault, too. Was I supposed to tell you then? Hell, on the other hand, maybe it would’ve worked, you’d get so worked up you’d wake up just to punch me in the teeth.”
Rick laughed at that, actually laughed, and it was like that evening back on the porch again, when you and Shane came back from that run for Carl. It felt like a semblance of peace, a fragile foundation for something better than feeling like a piece of shit.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rick said, but Shane didn’t accept it.
“Nah, it… I should’ve seen that third shooter. I could’ve—”
“No, you couldn’t, okay, so just stop it. It’s done. Nothin’ you could’ve done any different.”
“Nah, I ain’t…” Shane waved his hand dismissively, deciding not to say this next part. And Rick wouldn’t push him anyway, because there was enough self-loathing between them to get seconds.
“I couldn’t get to Atlanta either, so. Much good it all did us, me survivin’ that shootin’ instead of you.”
Rick went quiet again, turning Shane’s words over like a casefile he couldn’t close.
“Is that what you think?” Rick asked, shaking his head, arms folded. “Jesus, you just can’t help it, can you?”
Shane blinked. “Help what?”
“Be the villain in every fuckin’ story.”
Shane couldn’t admit it even to himself, but at one point he was fully prepared to burn the world down if it meant getting you out of Atlanta first. He seriously considered just driving there, never looking back. Now it all felt like a feverdream.
“You survived and that ain’t a crime.” Rick pointed to himself.
“Feels like it sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, feelings ain’t facts.” Rick studied Shane’s face for two more seconds, before he dropped the bomb on him:
“She make you happy?”
“She makes me fuckin’ insane,” Shane snapped, before he could stop himself. “Flicks my goddamn ears like we’re kids again, I—”
Rick’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t what I asked. But I’ll take it.”
Rick studied him for one moment more, before his face calmed.
“You hurt her,” he said finally, “and I don’t care what we’ve been through, Shane. I will put you in the ground myself.”
“Yeah,” Shane said and nodded, even though his ego was screaming at him. “You’d have to get in line behind her, though. She’d kill me an’ I’d probably let her.”
“Fine.” The corner of Rick’s mouth turned up again and he clapped Shane on the shoulder. “But we ain’t fine, Shane. I know there’s some shit we gotta talk about and it’s gotta come out now, ‘cause we ain’t got the time to go back and forth like this with the group. These people, they’re countin’ on us. We gotta think ‘bout our next move here and we can’t keep buttin’ heads like that.”
Shane stared at him, then scoffed.
“Yeah, about that… Y’wanna, you know, punch me or somethin’?”
Rick sighed deeply and shook his head, crouching down in the grass. “Not after the night we just had, no.”
Shane exhaled, even though that small temporary truce between him and Rick felt fragile like a house of cards. And Shane knew better than to make himself at home in it.
So he made a choice.
“Wait,” Shane said and grabbed Rick’s shoulder hard enough to stop him from walking back to the house. “There’s somethin’ else.”
The next day, you saw Rick as you came to the kitchen to get breakfast. You didn’t see Shane anywhere and a thought crossed your mind if maybe the two former partners had a shootout after all and you just slept through it.
“Mornin’,” you said and pulled up a chair next to him, getting into his personal space on purpose, just as he hated.
“Mornin’,” Rick mumbled back, not moving his coffee cup from in front of his face.
You reached over and stole a piece of bread from his plate.
“Hey,” he protested.
“You sleep at all?” you asked him, pretending to be innocent.
“Do I look like I slept?”
“You look like shit.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t exactly a prize yourself.”
“Hey!”
Rick laughed into his coffee.
“Yeah, well, fuck you too,” you grumbled and stuffed your face with the bread. Rick pushed the butter dish your way.
“So,” you said, chewing, “where’s Shane?”
Rick sent you a pointed look and you played innocent.
“What?” You shrugged. “Just checkin’ if you killed him.”
“No. We talked.”
“Ouch. Even worse.”
You could tell he was working up to something. Rick never could just say a thing, had to circle it like a dog finding the right spot to lay down.
“He told me things,” Rick said. “About... before. About how long he’s felt the way he feels.”
“Uh-huh.” Your brows drew together. “Did he tell you… Any other things?”
Rick went silent again, just looking at his coffee.
“You gonna answer me or just stare at that coffee like it’s a suspect?” you asked.
“I’m thinkin’.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
Rick shot you a look. “You’re real funny, you know that?”
“Comes with the territory. Big brother’s a cop, gotta develop a sense of humor or become irrelevant.”
He didn’t comment, just set his coffee cup down and turned in his chair to face you properly. “He told me other things.”
“Rick…”
“I ain’t mad at you,” Rick interrupted, holding up a hand. “That’s not what this is. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
“Ain’t about me.” You nudged his boot under the table.
“He told me about the hospital,” Rick said. “If that’s what you’re gettin’ at. How he had to make a choice.”
“That wasn’t his fault.”
“I know.”
“Then why you lookin’ at me like that?”
Rick met your eyes and you noticed something guarded in his face. You knew instantly this was something serious.
“‘Cause he also told me you found something. Back at the house. Before all of this went down.”
You stared at him. “He did?”
“Now, he told me to ask you, but just so you know, if it’s ‘bout Lori and I…” Rick started, then stopped. “That’s between me and her. Whatever happened when I was gone, I gotta work that out with her. Not you, not Shane—”
“She filed for divorce,” you said then, quickly, like you were afraid you’d never get another chance. “Just so you know that. When I came back home and you were in a coma. I found the papers at your house, that’s what Shane told you to ask me. She wasn’t even tryin’ to hide them too well. So you fix things with your wife all you want, just as long as you know that Miss Americana was trynna leave you while you were fuckin’ unconscious.”
Rick went still. Completely, utterly still, like he was a puppet and somebody had cut his strings. You immediately felt like a piece of shit for causing that.
“What?” he asked.
“Divorce papers,” you repeated, quieter now, because this felt less like justice and more like cruelty. “She had ‘em drawn up before the outbreak. I found ‘em at your place when I was visitin’, when you were still in a coma. I was looking for your health insurance, opened a drawer, then another, and there they were.”
Rick’s hand was trembling, just barely, and he pressed it flat against the table.
“She was gonna leave me.”
“Yeah.”
“Take Carl?”
“I assume.”
“Did Shane know?”
“No.” You hesitated for a moment. “No. I think only I knew and I never told her I found them. And listen, I… I’m sorry. But I’m only telling you this because you never listened to me when it came to that woman. And she is… If she wasn’t runnin’ around, acting like the First Lady of the Apocalypse, I wouldn’t say shit. But she’s fuckin’ insufferable. Besides that, I had to watch her treat you like shit for years and now she’s back at it and—”
Rick slammed his hand against the table and you stopped talking. You watched a dozen emotions cross his face—hurt, anger, embarrassment, and then something like relief.
“I gotta…” He stopped and ran both hands down his face. “I gotta go.”
“Rick, I’m sorry.” You got up from your seat when he did.
“Don’t.” He held up a hand, not looking at you. “I ain’t mad at you. Just... give me a minute.”
Then he left, the screen door shutting hard behind him.
You thought that maybe he should be mad at you after all. But then again, Rick would never get straight facts when confronting Lori. Maybe you couldn’t fight his battles for him, but now at least you gave him some ammo. You thoyught he did deserve to know. Maybe she did deserve to have her secrets dragged into the light, too.
In truth, you had spent years watching Lori Grimes twist your brother into knots and you were downright sick of her. You tried to talk to him about it, many times, but he shot you down every time, so in the end you stopped meddling. You called him less and less. You bit your tongue at Thanksgiving and Christmas when Lori picked fights over nothing and pretended everything was fine the next day.
Well, everything wasn’t fine. Everything hadn’t been fine for a long damn time.
The screen door creaked behind you again and you turned, expecting Rick, but it was Shane, looking like something a walker chewed and spat out.
“Jesus, what the hell happened to you?” you asked.
“We cleared the barn.”
“Ah.”
He moved to the counter, slow and careful on his bad ankle, and poured himself coffee from the pot.
“Saw Rick stormin’ out,” he said.
“Yeah.” You hung your head and refused to look up. Shane didn’t push you, though, just stood by the sink and cleaned his hands with his back to you.
“I told Rick the truth ‘bout Lori,” you muttered, then sat down and put your head on the table like you were ready for the headsman to cut it off. “Somethin’ I learned before the outbreak.”
Shane paused his cleaning, but then pretended he didn’t. “Which is?”
“She wanted to divorce him while he was in a coma. I found proof.”
“Jesus…” Shane rinsed his hands and wiped them, then finally turned around to you. “How’d he take it?”
“About like you’d expect.”
He grunted and took a long sip of the coffee. “What the hell you tell him that for?”
You looked at him, and he must’ve seen something in your face, because he held up a hand before you could snap.
“Nah, I ain’t gonna defend no one,” he said, softer. “Believe me, better he knows and doesn’t buy whatever the hell Lori’s sellin’.”
“He didn’t say nothin’ about me and you?” you asked. “Last night?”
“Nah, he said plenty.” Shane leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “Told me if I hurt you, he’d put me in the ground. Also said I been his brother longer than you been his sister.” He paused, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Don’t kill the messenger, sweetheart—ow!”
You tossed your spoon at him, but he just laughed. Despite everything, you smiled, too. Shane pushed off the counter and limped closer, stopping just out of arm’s reach. He studied your face like he was looking for damage.
“You alright?”
“No.”
“Good. Me neither.”
He reached out then, hesitant in a way you’ve never seen him. He cupped your cheek in his palm and you covered his hand with yours, keeping him there.
“Rick’s probably gonna go to Lori,” Shane said, like he was a cop and you were the victim and he was explaining the next steps of the investigation to you. “And whatever happens next is gonna be ugly.”
“So what do I do?” you asked.
“Nothin’,” he replied. “Best we do nothin’. You eat somethin’. And I’m gonna sit my ass down before this leg gives out.”
Shane lowered himself into the chair Rick had vacated, wincing as he stretched his bad leg out under the table.
“You cleared the barn,” you said, changing the subject. “Just like that?”
“Not just like that.” He took another long sip. “Took four hours.”
You didn’t ask for details. You could smell them on him from your seat.
“You should sleep,” you said.
“I will. Eventually.”
“Yeah, me too.”
You were both such liars sometimes that it almost made your getting together cosmically fated. Nevertheless, seeing the exhaustion first in Rick’s face then in Shane’s made your chest hurt.
“Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep this place from fallin’ apart while your brother sorts out his marriage.”
“That somebody ain’t always gotta be you.”
Shane laughed. “No? Who else? Ain’t nobody volunteerin’ for the job.”
You moved then, sliding your chair closer until your knee bumped his thigh. He went still, watching you with this familiar expression—like he knew you were up to no good and he enjoyed it.
“Move over,” you said quietly.
He did. Just enough. You sat sideways in the chair facing him and took his free hand in both of yours. His knuckles were split, the skin around two of them still raw.
“You’re still bleedin’,” you said.
“Scratches.”
“Scratches from what?”
Shane didn’t answer.
“What’re you doin’?” he asked.
“Nothin’.” You looked up at him. “Just sittin’ here with you.”
Shane stared at you for a long moment, something calculating behind his eyes. Then he set the coffee cup down and reached out, ran his fingers through your hair, then placed his palm at the back of your neck.
“Used to think of doin’ that,” he said. “Back in King County. Sittin’ at your mama’s kitchen table, you stealin’ food off my plate, me pretendin’ to get mad. Normal shit. Stupid shit.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You flicked his ear faster than he could stop you. “But you just let me pine for you instead.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped himself and exhaled sharply through his nose. “Stop that. You weren’t pinin’.”
“I was. I am now.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Ain’t that just all kinds of fucked.” Shane smirked. “Speaks to your taste, I guess.”
He leaned back in the chair and pulled you closer. Not with force, just slowly, deliberately. And you went in easy, which surprised him the most. There was no fight or begging for affection. Your head rested against his shoulder and he never wanted you to leave.
“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“I’m gonna fuck it up.”
“Probably.”
He laughed. “Goddamn, woman. You could at least lie to me.”
“No.” You closed your eyes. “I ain’t never gonna lie to you. We’ve spent twenty years lyin’, then you lied some more and look where it all got us. Nobody’s happy.”
Shane opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
“So,” he said after some time, “what I’m hearin’ is I’m worth the wait.”
You laughed and hid your face in the crook of his neck. “Debatable.”
“Hey. Watch it,” he warned you.
But you looked up at him then and saw that Shane was smiling. Really smiling, the kind of smile you haven’t seen on him in a long while. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap. He didn’t seem to care that anyone could walk through that door at any moment.
“Tell you what,” he murmured into your hair.
“Hmm?”
“I’m gonna kiss you now. And if Dale walks in with his damn binoculars, I’m gonna make him eat ‘em.”
You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin. Shane tilted your chin up and made good on his plan. This kiss was different. Not desperate or rushed, more unhurried and full of twenty years of wanting.
You kissed him back, lips moving against his like you had all the time in the world, even though neither of you probably did. But whatever came at you, you’ve decided there would be no retreat from what you wanted. Not anymore.
So now that this fucking masterpiece is over….. what the fuck am I supposed to do?!?!?!?! 😭😭😭😭😭 please tell me you have more Shane fics in progress 🥹🥹🥹🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
Don't worry pookie, Shane never leaves my head 🤭 I just need a little break, that was a lot of words and I managed to catch a bitch of a flu in the meantime 😭🩷
(I'm actually drafting a very special chapter but don't want to jinx it)
Hello!! I just wanted to reach out and say that I absolutely love your blog. I occasionally write for Frank Castle on here and Shane Walsh on my other blog. I asked my mutual Melly (@scrmqwn) what authors I should reach out to that also write for Jon Bernthal's characters. Your name came up, and I immediately recognized your work. I’ve been following you for a while, and I’ve interacted with a few of your fics, but I’ve been too nervous to reach out lmao. I have to send this as an ask because my Tumblr isn't allowing me to send the first message in DMs for whatever reason.
Helloooo 🥰🥰🩷 always nice to hear from someone who enjoyed my silly little fanfic! Thanks so much for the lovely message, I really appreciate you 🩷
shane walsh is possessive and so unhinged with jealousy you cannot change my mind.
you brush past glenn on your morning walk?
shane is behind you in seconds, one hand slung over your shoulders, the other one yanking your back to his chest while he's pressing a rough kiss to your neck, glenn literally jogging away in fear while you blink all confused, lookin' so darn cute it just about stops his heart for a second.
your talkin' to maggie about the next run into town, gigglin' with your hair blowing in the breeze while he watches with his teeth on edge from the edge of camp?
aight, cool, that's just fine, he can deal with it.
wrong. he in fact, cannot.
he's there in seconds, pressed up against your back and grinning like a shark as he nips beneath your ear to get your attention, maggie rolling her eyes and making herself busy somewhere else.
"C'mon baby, yer man needs ya right now hm? Got a whole buncha shit needs sortin', come help yer fella out yeah?"
man?
woman?
this man cannot stand not being the centre of your attention. any second your not focused on him he takes as a fuckin' insult.
even watching you pat down a damn horse has him half feral and stalkin' towards you to demand your attention, boots crunching on the gravel like an omen as he makes his way toward you.
nah because why are you cooing at a goddamn, stinkin' horse when yer man is fuckin' waiting for you to finish your chores so he can hide you away in your shared tent for a whole fuckin' day and fuck you real nice huh?
(Bonus thought- he absolutely makes you sit between his legs while he cleans out his shotgun. No i will not elaborate further.)
because what do you mean this is so accurate and so fun but so vexing at the same time but also I'd enjoy the shit out of it?
He sounds like a pissed off clingy rescue tomcat with overgrown jowls, if you know cats then you know. The type of cat who'd be pissed off he loves sitting on your lap most of all, that's what Shane's giving in this blurb and I'm so here for it.
But then again, that obsession would make him survive. If you think about it. Yep I love it, already makes my Shane brainrot purr
It's a very interesting thing, seeing someone enjoy writing fanfic about made up characters and getting mad about it to the point of needing to leave a passive-aggressive anonymous snide little letter.
Why anonymous? Since you're passing judgement shouldn't you do it openly?
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Hah! Thanks for tagging me. So, full disclosure I am Very Old (tm) so the characters that shaped me are not the people I'd like to meet or hang out with now that my frontal lobe is fully developed...
But these are my faves (and I tried not to make them all Jon Bernthal)
Braxton—The Accountant 1&2
Maomao—Apothecary Diaries (she is me and I am her)
James Keziah Delaney—Taboo (I will never forgive them for not making more seasons, Tom Hardy was so fineeee in this)
no pressure tag: @bonkydarnes @retrograderesemblance @death-in-a-tar0t-card
It's a very interesting thing, seeing someone enjoy writing fanfic about made up characters and getting mad about it to the point of needing to leave a passive-aggressive anonymous snide little letter.
Why anonymous? Since you're passing judgement shouldn't you do it openly?
