#rgr1mes

it's almost as though the world had gone to shit and suddenly he was some random asshole's adopted son. -- less on the random now, as it's been a few years. but no matter how much time has passed, no matter how comfortable he's grown amongst who used to be seen as strangers to him, there's one thing criston has yet to become used to. the fucking lectures. rick's always got a point when he's on some morality kick (in between those stretches of losing his sense of self and other) -- but it doesn't mean criston has to like what the other has to say.

there are moments he trusts rick with his life. then there are moments he could wind his arm back and sock him one right in the jaw. right now ... how he feels in this moment, criston would love to give into the rage bubbling within. if they had just waited five more seconds ... they would not be listening to the blood curdling screams outside the garage door accompanied by bodies pressing up against the metal.

barely even minutes ago and the vision of his arm extended reaching to aid the other replays. their fingers had almost made contact when criston was pulled within and that garage door slid down and secured before the walkers (or that poor soul) could make it in. he didn't know that guy all that well. they broke bread once -- a kind gesture on their part. and he couldn't even offer the same kindness by saving his life.

' keeping ourselves alive is our duty. '

criston knows those words were aimed at him with the way rick had been pacing. probably could sense the anger radiating off of him. he didn't need the reminder -- he knows this to be true. but if they had just waited a moment ... the screaming had long since died out, but it didn't leave his ears. ringing ... replaying ... haunting.

they're  supposed  to  be  safe  here  -  supposed  to  jump  back  into  a  semblance  of  normalcy,  of  what  the  world  was  before.  all  of  this  would  be  well  &  good  for  anyone  craving  survival  &  reprieve  except  ...  there's  always  something  lurking  around  the  corner.  the  pitfalls  and  uneasiness  of  a  life  blissfully  unaffected  by  their  new  normal,  or  the  all-encompassing  paranoia  that  has  stung  in  her  lungs  since  the  whole  world  fell  apart:  both  of  those  realities  now  pose  in  a  paralyzing  stand-off  at  this  newfound,  white-picket-fence  life.

eliza  feels  the  feather-light  touch  of  lips  against  her  forehead  in  an  instant.  the  calming  realization  of  who  is  behind  the  gesture  is  what  soothes  her  initial  panic  -  eyes  flutter  somewhere  between  grogginess  and  slumber  as  her  hand  extends  towards  rick's.  eliza's  index  finger  finds  his,  hooking  there  -  a  silent  pleading  for  him  to  join  her.  rest  together.

nightfall has hit and while it still feels hot, at least the heat of the son isn't beating down on them. criston has chose the opposite side many feet from the other. sat before the crackling fire that was cooking squirrel while most whispered amongst their little groups. ❝ next time, hands best remain off of me. all hands. ❞ a quiet threat, meant for any ears nearby. if being punched hadn't been bad enough, it was being restricted that kept him internally seething.

the emperor's new groove prompts ( not accepting ) / @rgr1mes

"i'm  not,"  simple  as  that.  the  way  that  she  holds  rick's  hand  in  her  own  is  tender  and  careful  as  a  dove  -  eliza's  fingertips  graze  the  skin  around  the  wound  on  his  palm,  carefully  examining  it  before  reaching  for  the  bottle  of  whiskey  set  out  on  the  table  beside  them.

she  opens  the  bottle,  taking  his  arm  by  the  wrist  and  holding  it  over  the  floor  -  her  thumb  gives  a  quick  squeeze  to  his  skin  to  warn  him  before  pouring  a  gentle  stream  of  the  alcohol  over  the  marred  gash.  "i'd  ask  you  to  try  an'  not  get  into  as  much  trouble,  but  ...  i  dunno  what  i'd  do  for  fun  anymore."  the  smile  she  offers  is  not  heavy  in  weight,  but  it's  honest;  small,  flushed  &  kind.  she  blows  on  the  cleaned  wound  before  beginning  to  fold  spare  fabric  over  it,  gentle  in  motion.  “that  hurt?”

"what,  y'wanna  set  this  whole  place  on  fire?  you  got  a  bomb  in  your  pocket?  fuck  if  i  know!"  the  irritation  turned  panic  in  her  voice  is  unintentionally  poised  at  rick  -  with  good  reason.

they're  stowed  away  in  the  loft  of  an  abandoned  barn,  looking  down  on  the  last  standing  walker  roaming  around  the  hay-covered  floor  below  them.  eliza  is  incredulous  as  she  takes  a  violent,  hushed  tone  with  rick  -  though,  in  really  looking  at  him,  the  wild  look  in  her  eyes  soon  diminishes.  she's  misplaced  heavy  emotion  -  expelling  it  in  his  direction  isn't  going  to  get  either  of  them  anywhere.  there’s  a  sickening  rationality  in  all  this  humanity;  the  heart  perseveres  through  every  tragedy.

a  beat  passes,  and  she  sets  her  jaw  on  edge  as  she  looks  down  at  the  reanimated  corpse  dragging  along  below  them,  exhaling  a  resigned  grunt,  "listen  -  we  both  jump  down  there  together.  i  go  in  front,  get  it  t'come  at  me,  an'  you  take  it  down  from  behind."  ever  the  martyr,  and  all  too  willing.  distress  remains  present  behind  wired  brown  eyes,  but  that  hardly  stops  her  survival  instincts.  (that,  and  ...  she  trusts  him.  that  makes  this  all  a  bit  more  palatable.)  "we  need  shelter  -  we  gotta  do  this.”

so much loss experienced in a short amount of time. dynamics had shifted. once more, they are the underdogs and the chain of command lie with a sadistic asshole who swung a bat. it wasn't just the loss experienced that hurt. it was the constant salt being thrown into wounds not yet healed and one's humanity being stripped from them until they were no more than a shell of who they'd once been.

michonne has always admired rick. even after their initial start, she was able to understand he was a man who did what he thought was best for his people. and now she is included in that. she has seen him at his highest of highs and lately ... the lowest of lows. but one thing has been constant: when he is knocked down, he gets back up. even if this time it's taking just a little longer.

found him resting on the pile of blankets of where their bed once had been. he seemed tense; stressed. hell, they all were. everytime those saviors fuckers come around, even if there's no bloodshed, everyone's left on edge. you have to hold your breath and pray not a single stone turned over doesn't hold some surprise beneath that leads to more pain and loss.