#honestsurvival

       “you,  uh  —  you run that by lori first,  man?  y’all were havin’ it out,  last i heard,  unless you wanna recant your confession.  reverend shane’s a - listenin’,  brother.”

       he has to lighten the mood somehow,  but rick knows him well enough to see right through it.  they’re parked a stone’s throw from that burger joint they might as well co - own by now,  cruiser idling,  shane’s fingers drumming absently on the edge of the open passenger window.  rick’s giving him the look  —  the  look,  the steady one with a little hitch of his brow that says his bullshit detector’s blaring louder than the radio chatter that’s bound to come through at any second.  shane goes for broke and crooks a quick and easy smile,  lightly backhanding his partner’s shoulder.

       he’s tired,  though.  that much was clear even before he’d told rick that he spent last night sprawled out on the couch,  far from restful,  after jenna locked him out of the bedroom.

       "—  nah,  man.  look,  you ain’t gotta worry about that,  you know how it is.  y’know,  she,  uh,”  there’s a dry chuckle,  the heel of his hand running across his jaw,  “she gets pissed,  right,  she gets pissed ‘n for the next couple days i’m the worst thing that ever happened to her.  asshole,  bastard,  son of a bitch  —  i swear to god,  man,  the shit that comes outta this woman’s mouth,  you’d think she was fuckin’ possessed.  but then,  see,  then  she wants t’ get all sweet on me again,  wants t’  —  y’know,  go back t’ bein’ the dutiful housewife.  it’s like she’s just tappin’ her watch,  just waitin’ on the proposal.  prob’ly should get on that,  huh.”

       a knowing glance is exchanged;  when he’d bought the ring three weeks ago,  rick was the only person he told.

       “’s just  —  i mean,  hell.  women,  right?  least this one knows how t’ turn off a damn light switch.”

     “why th’ hell  wouldn’t  you?”

     she scoffs that line first,  abrasive and biting,  like her teeth couldn’t grit hard enough to hold it back.  what he’s doing,  it’s a kindness.  she isn’t used to that.  kindness is strange,  foreign,  unfamiliar.  she doesn’t know how to trust it,  because every time someone’s ever shown her a shred of it they’ve taken it away just as fast.  ripped out the rug from under her feet.  heart bruised until she’d learned to shield it,  defend it from behind the bulwark of her ribs and the miles and miles of armor built with her bare hands.  armor made of dirt and rock and steel,  leaving her knuckles scabbed and her fingernails torn bloody.  his sincerity threatens to crack through all of that  —  only two other people,  her whole life,  have ever managed to break their way in.

     all that labor,  gone to shit like everything else.

     she doesn’t mean to be cold.  she doesn’t remember how to be warm.  there’s a faint memory of that,  itching under her clothes like the grime of filth and sweat,  but it’s distant.  out of reach.  she thinks it has something to do with her mama.  her mouth presses into a line,  lower lip pulled between her teeth to bite at chapped skin.

     they’re a whole group out of atlanta.  women,  kids.  one of them’s his,  rick’s;  a boy she’d peg at maybe ten years old,  give or take.  they don’t have any more of a plan than she does,  but the difference is that it’s  they.  that they’re in it together.  she’s never had that.  even before the dead started getting back up to eat the living,  she never had that.  and here’s this former deputy,  who might’ve once seen fit to arrest her for possession with intent,  holding out a metaphorical hand and that simple,  baffling kindness:  stay.

     “…  we don’t even know each other.  ain’t but strangers whose paths just happened t’ cross  —  you don’t owe me anything,  ‘n i don’t make a habit outta bein’ in somebody’s debt.  shit,  for all you know,  i could be waitin’ for cover’a darkness t’ make off with your supplies.”  fleetingly,  she glances over at him.  “kiddin’.  but y’ gotta admit i had you goin’ for a second there.”

     the breeze,  hot as the air from a blast furnace,  gives no relief.  but at least the sun is starting to set;  it’s crowning the horizon,  streaking cornflower blue with washes of peach and lavender.  maybe she’s tired of walking.  maybe she’s tired of looking for the closest people she has to a family and coming up with nothing,  coming up emptier than before,  coming up scared and hopeless and completely,  utterly,  bottomlessly alone.

     palms land flat above the bend of each knee so that she can leverage herself into a stand,  sweeping unkempt hair back from her face.  she’s tired.  that’s all this is.

     she levels a steady look at rick,  one that  stays  this time.

     “—  put me up for tonight ‘n i’ll help you clear out that traffic jam ahead.  whatever we find,  i get a third.  then we’re square.”

       "seems as good a time as any.  hell,  that’s what y’all wanted,  right?  c’mon,  rick.  what’chu think,  man,  what  —  you think hershel’s just gonna change his mind,  start listenin’ t’ reason,  what?  there ain’t no  reasoning  with these people,  rick,  he  —”  the pitch of his laugh is sharp,  hollow as a reed without any amusement behind it,  and his mouth stays twisted in a near - grimace of derision.  “he thinks they’re  sick,  man.  he thinks they’re sick ‘n he’s got you out there roundin’ ‘em up like fuckin’ cattle,  keepin’ ‘em right next door to where we  sleep  —  that’s right next door to your  son,  rick,  that is your  family.  carl,  and  —  and lori,  man,  that is your wife,  your  child,  livin’ right next to a barn full’a walkers.  you think that’s best?  think that’s the best way t’ keep them alive,  keep this group alive,  helpin’ that twisted son of a bitch keep walkers right where we are?  you’re smarter than this,  rick.  this ain’t the right call,  i know you know that,  man.  i know you do.”

       he can read him well.  they have too many years under their belt together for it to be any other way.  shane takes a step closer,  watches that tic of jaw muscles and doesn’t break focus until rick looks at him full in the eyes.

       “look,  i  —  i get that you’re tryin’ to do right by him,  i get that.  but tell me i’m wrong,  man.  tell me  —”  features twitch a little,  then try to settle again.  “tell me that you’re okay with this.  ‘cause,  i’m just,  i’m strugglin’ here,  i’m strugglin’ t’ understand where your head’s at right now.  where’s the line,  rick?  where does it end?  y’know,  we  —  we give up our guns,  we keep playin’ house,  keep actin’ like there’s still a  before,  like the world we knew is comin’ back someday,  ‘n then what?  where does it end?”

       there’s more,  simmering beneath the surface,  but he shoves it down with a hard breath.  what he says next is low,  in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

       “you’re just gonna have t’ swallow your pride on this one,  rick.  you’re just gonna have to.  ‘cause i’m tellin’ you right now,  outta respect,  man,  and i’m only sayin’ it once  —  either you do what needs to be done,  or you step aside ‘n i'll do it myself.”

     “peachy keen,  officer.”

     quick as her smile forms,  bright and innocent and distinctly fake,  it drops again.  she isn’t glaring,  isn’t scowling;  really,  the most noteworthy part of her expression is the lack thereof.  it’s been half a day since frank left with shane to scout for supplies.  half a day isn’t much.  she’s antsy regardless,  jitters that show in the twitch of fingertips against denim and the restless tap of her boot.

     she’d wanted to go with them.  that much was obvious.

     rick’s okay,  objectively speaking.  doesn’t press or pry or overstep,  doesn’t give off the kind of vibe that’d have her reaching for the blade at her hip.  it’s military - grade,  a gift from before.  from frank.  something to which she’s sentimentally connected,  a utility she understands.  the look he’s leveling her with,  it tells her that he’s not pushing for an answer,  maybe not even expecting one.  that she can choose to say nothing and that’ll be the end of that.  and maybe  that,  in itself,  is why she chooses the opposite.

     “don’t much care for warmin’ the bench,  is all.  ‘m sure they’ll be pullin’ up any minute now,  no worse for wear.  well,  maybe some.”  her mouth twitches.  “frank’s got a real knack for that shit.”

     she pauses to look up at him,  eyes at a half - squint,  shielded from the sun’s glare with a lift of her hand.  mid - afternoon means the hottest part of the day;  in the shade,  of which there’s precious little,  she’d wager it’s easily over hundred degrees.  growing up where she did,  she’s used to it.  most of these people are.

     a second’s consideration tempts her to leave the conversation there,  but she was getting tired of listening to nothing but buzzing insects and rustling leaves.

     plus,  loretta’s kept worse company.

     “so you ‘n shane,”  she starts,  gauging the reaction,  “y’all close?”