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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 9 months

Text

Thank you, angel...

What -- Following the events of S02's Chupacabra, you give Daryl a massage. The story begins with some discussion of post-concussive protocol for the poor guy to prep the stage for the chapter after his very bad day.

Relationships -- slow burn, canon-compliant Reader x Daryl and the two of you being closed off about possibly like-liking somebody. I mean, he doesn't even eat peanut butter!

Perspective -- You + Him

Pronouns - neutral

TWs -- some crude language

Length -- 6,000 words (15-20 minutes)

When -- a couple hours after "fondness" LOL. It starts off like nothing serious, then gets more tender, sort of like Daryl's muscles after careening down all those rocks.

Which chapters will provide more context? -- it's always good to check out the most recent chronological chapter, in this case "fondness" LOL. Spell your last name, please would be fun to read alongside this one, too. As well, I recommend reading Invisible tugging strings, Part 2 (also Part 1) and souls stripped bare if you like a bit of confused yearning.

Masterlist? -- Shiny and Official one here and Chronological one here

Him

The door opened, waking him up—the hell, where was he? How long had he been asleep?

“Hey,” the familiar voice he liked said, and his muscled relaxed.

Sure enough, there came Y/N into view, giving him a little wave as they walked around the bed. “Remember where you are?”

His memory came back to him quickly as he blinked the sleep away. He was in the farmhouse.

Still, his sarcastic croak of a response, “In bed,” earned him a tiny huff and a dry “So funny,” from his friend, who carried along a big-ass book.

Ugh, his stomach didn’t feel too hot. He’d, um, half-woken up a little earlier and saw crackers on a plate near him. And he’d been so damned hungry he’d just reached out, grabbed some, and slammed them into his mouth.

That there'd been peanut butter in between them had been a nasty surprise, except he’d already chewed and started to swallow by the time the taste hit him, he was that hungry. He was so hungry that he’d gone and grabbed more, too…dumb sumbitch.

Now the taste was all up in his nose and mouth. He curled up a little tighter, as much as his stiff joints and muscles and the new hole in his side let him. Daryl just wanted to sleep and for his stomach to stop messing with him, he felt ready to puke…

The old man’s voice met his ears next as he came around the bed, too. “I apologize. You have something of an audience. Carol and Y/N will be keeping an eye on you tonight, they’re in here now, as is Patricia.”

Y/N frowned into their massive textbook, flip-flipping through the pages as if looking for a specific section. Carol sat across from the bed on the footstool thing and smiled in her sad way.

Then, the nice twangy blonde lady (he knows her name, it's Patricia) started saying something and helping him sit up, but he wasn’t hearing a damn thing, because he w—he was—no, no, no, he was gonna upchuck—

____________________________

You

Daryl doesn’t look too g—oh, no!

“Carol, hand me that thingy, please!” you squeak, standing up as the book clatters to the floor while you frantically point to the emesis basin on the dresser beside her.

You zip to the bedside and cradle the back of Daryl’s neck with one hand, the small container in the other, and not a moment too soon.

“Whoakay, there you go, buddy,” you coo as the poor guy gets sick.

“Pat, please retrieve the oxygen tank from the boy’s room,” you hear Hershel murmur, and Pat is already up and moving.

They have an oxygen tank?! That, that should’ve been administered an hour and a half ago when he stumbled back onto the farm!

With a final spit into the bowl, Daryl makes a slight groan and exhales. He grunts an apology, gags again.

You lower the basin so it won’t be too near his mouth (and nose), but wait remain for a minute or so with him just in case he’s not done. Lightly, you run your fingers across the back of his neck and up the back of his head as you wait. And not because you have taken a shiney fondness to him, Dale, you would do this for anyone, especially a friend who had a day like this one did.

When he mumbles that he’s fine, you tell him you’ll be right back, and tuck the sheet over his back for him. You then excuse yourself to clean up, being mindful to hold your breath and not look at the basin so you won’t gag or need to use it yourself. Carol follows you into the hall but slips out the front door.

You empty and wash the basin in the downstairs bathroom and scrub your hands and forearms, and find some bleach spray to clean the sink.

Scrubbed good, you're ready to carry the cleaned container back into the room in time to see Patricia accessorizing Daryl with an oxygen mask. The ever-growing dread in your gut sprouts a new branch.

“Miss Patricia, Mr. Greene, what do we do next?”

You hope didn’t sound nearly as worried as you think it sounded. The first pre-hospital guideline for suspected traumatic brain injury is being put on O2.

Granted, ‘suspected’ encompasses pretty much any head bump for safety’s sake—but the man had a very serious fall twice.

The reality that he’s not necessarily in the clear is now sinking in.

How would you fix whatever Daryl did to his skull, if he did something? Drill a hole in his head or something? There’s no possibility of getting proper imaging, y'all don’t even have more sterile gloves.

Daryl’s leaning back, now propped against some pillows in addition to sporting the oxygen mask. He looks miserable. You kneel beside him and place your free hand on the bed. Carol joins you.

“Oxygen will only benefit him, at the moment, even if there’s nothing more serious going on,” Hershel mildly puts it, cool as a cucumber with your EMT textbook open to the head trauma section. But then again, Mr. Greene had the skill to keep himself cool as a refrigerated cucumber while Carl was actively decompensating and dying. “The good thing is, Daryl is negative for any other indication of severe concussion, even moderate, which is surprising in the best way possible. Way I see it, it’s yet another medical miracle among your group.”

Next to you, Carol holds out one of her small tins and shyly says to Daryl, “Ginger?”

The way his eyes got all big like a kid’s was unexpected and rather cute. She pulls the mask away far enough to pop a ginger mint into his mouth. With a grunt, he closes his eyes in acknowledgment and gratitude.

“How do we know he ain’t—” oops, you mean to only use elegant grammar around Mr. Greene. Except, you don’t have a preset sentence in your head so it still comes out messy, but you do use the phrase Mr. Greene used yesterday. “How do we know that it isn’t, um, that h-his concussion isn’t a bigger cause for concern?”

“Pupils are good, blood pressure is good, reflexes are good, and upon examinin' his skull, there are no irregularities beyond two what Hersh and I both would call goose eggs,” Patricia answers first, as chill as Hershel is. “He’s gotta be kept under watch for the next couple days, of course, but that's more a precaution.”

Mr. Greene nods. “Any more vomiting—”

“—I only hurled ’cause of the peanut butter,” Daryl muffles through the mask.

Because of the…

You squint. “How would peanut butter make you sick? You aren’t allergic.”

“Don’t like it.”

Doesn’t like…what? “Dude, you don’t like peanut butter?”

“Don’t even like the smell.”

WHAT.

Mr. Greene resumes what he was saying before you can continue the interrogation. “Do you have an appetite.” It somehow sounded less like a question the way he asked it.

Daryl hums in response.

“Good. Finish up what’s on this plate and we’ll see if you’re able to keep non-peanut related foods down.” Was Mr. Greene trying to make a joke? Well, at any rate, he’s removing the cracker sandwiches to leave just the eggs and spam. Daryl accepts the plate and whips his mask off, prompting you to turn the O2 off for now. A relieved groan follows his first bite and he eagerly digs in to get another forkful. Carol must be pleased.

Mr. Greene nods in thanks that you turned off the oxygen flow. “To answer your question: if there is any more vomiting, a bad headache, changes to his pupillary response or his blood pressure as well as any alteration to his speech and cognitive function, that would be a cause for concern.”

“And we won’t want him to go unchecked too long a stretch, so I brought y’all our egg timer," Patricia adds. "It’s digital, so it ain’t too loud.”

“Should we wake him every hour?” Carol asks, nodding and clasping her hands in her lap.

“Naw, that’s more myth. Although,” Patricia reconsiders. Sighs. “It ain’t like we have him hooked to a monitor in a ward staffed with nurses breezing in and out. Hersh, what’s your take?”

“You’re the nurse, I’m just the vet,” he reminds her. “It’s your call. What were you going to have them do?”

She sighs again but nods. “Might as well be over-cautious, then. Let’s do every hour and a half to check, but don't wake him. He needs rest.” Patricia breathes deeply, then gives the instructions.

“If you stick the egg timer under your pillow, it should wake you but not him. Sit up and make sure he’s breathin’ normally. If, uh, if he’s awake, ask him his pain level for his head, listen to his speech, see if it sounds normal, check his temp with your wrist. Acetaminophen, that’s Tylenol, that’s the only painkiller he can have right now."

Just Tylenol, got it.

"Ask him a basic question or two, check his eyes like Hershel said. Maybe have him tap his fingers together. And if his BP changes much in either direction, or especially if his headache gets worse than it feels now, which isn’t too bad so he claimed,”a pointed look at Daryl, “wake me. I’m in on the top floor, room to the center-left.”

“Do I gotta wear this shit to bed?” the man himself grates, his mouth full even while scooping in the last bite off his plate. The guy's definitely hungry, which is usually a good sign.

And the look he earns back from Patricia is enough to make you sit straighter and lower your head despite not being on the receiving end of it.

Daryl stops chewing.

“You do and you will,” she states. It wasn’t done in a controlling way, it sounded to you like simple tough love. “Might well save your hide if you’ve got a bleed, Daryl.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles.

Annoyingly, the way he displayed a healthy serving of shame/deference seems to have awoken some of the irrational butterflies in your stomach. The little creeps.

Hershel speaks to Patricia. “You know, I believe I still have a nasal cannula from when my mother was still living. It will be less obstructive to sleep—Pat, will the cannula be adequate?”

“Would be great—but how old is it? Your mama passed over a decade ago.”

“Then it’s well over a decade old,” he answers, and quits the room in such a way that strongly suggests he was eager to do so.

____________________________

Him

Putting him in the nose thing cancer people or old dudes with emphysema have to wear seemed over-the-top, but if Patricia said he had to, he guess he had to. The nose thing was more comfy than the mask. Daryl made sure to thank Patricia and Dr. Farmer—um, Hershel—for all their help and shit.

He’d glanced at Y/N, whose head was just about glued to the pages of the big-ass medical book, and had been scribbling stuff down on a sheet of paper while asking Patricia question after question after question.

“Was supper okay?” Carol peeped when she picked up his empty plate for him.

Supper was more than okay, it was damned tasty. “You make it?”

“The spam and eggs.”

Yo, he couldn’t inhale the stuff she made fast enough, the woman cooked some mean-ass grub. “Ain’t eaten that good in a while.” Not since the breakfast at the CDC that T-Dog cooked up.

When he looked up at Carol, her cheeks looked pinker. Like, red.

For a second, he almost thought it was because he told her her food was good. But nah, must’ve been getting stuffy in the room. He wouldn’t have minded if it got warmer in there, he felt kinda clammy. Probably because he’d lost blood a decent chunk of blood or whatever. So long as he was able to get back to sleep soon, he didn’t care.

He wriggled his shoulders to get more comfortable on the pillows, and felt his eyelids start to sink.

“Can I use it on him if he needs it tonight?” Y/N checked with Patricia.

...Huh? Use what?

“Just don’t go settin’ it too high, you shouldn’t see any muscle movement. Now, you know not to use it on his head, yes?”

Daryl opened his eyes again in time to see Y/N’s lips press together, then twist slightly to the side. “Oh, I was gonna put it right smack on his head then draw him a bath with it on, ma’am, for relaxation and such.”

“Never use a—oh, goodness, you had me goin’ there a moment!” The lady chuckled when she realized Y/N was joking, then lightly swatted at his friend’s arm. “I had to make sure you knew. Some people would try using them units for head pain.”

Grinning the way they do when they’ve acted like a goof, Y/N nodded and raised their hands as if surrendering. “You were doin’ your due diligence.”

“I told you, Hersh, I really want to keep this one,” the woman next said, playful smile on her face.

Daryl couldn’t help but watch how that comment made Y/N’s eyes get all—he wasn’t sure the right describe-y word to call it, but his cat would get that look when he’d be gone awhile then would come back. Y/N’s eyes did just that, but they also looked sad at the same time.

Then, his friend politely smiled and waved in the direction of the door, same direction as whatever that new dragging noise was.

How many damn people were gonna come in? He just wanted to sleep.

Patricia stood up and pulled her shirt down in the back, calling, “Thank you, sweetpea,” at the same time the old man asked, “James, what’s this?”

“Couldn’t have them sleepin’ on the floor. Jimmy filled up the air mattress.”

Daryl had neither the strength nor desire nor any fucks to give to bother looking over to see the action. He needed some shut-eye.

“How’s your stomach, Daryl?” Patricia spoke soft, just to him.

He...felt less annoyed. Eyes still closed, he raised his thumbs from where his hands were holding the sheet up. He wished he could act more grateful, but his tank was below E and he wanted to scream and cuss or just plain cry.

“Very good! Righty, we’ll get out of your hair, now.”

He did force himself to grunt back, “G’night,” in hopes it conveyed at least a little bit of gratitude.

“Y/N will be in here the first half of the night, alright? You’ll be in good hands. Sweet dreams.”

____________________________

You

Sources were true, Dale’s book is kinda ick. Even the title, The Case of the Missing Man, it’s just a bit lame. Hand under your pillow, you thumbed at the prayer beads you’d taken from the family’s house earlier today. You gave Carol a pair, too, you know she used to use them. Today felt like a week, it was so up and down and all arou—what are you doing? Don’t think about today anymore.

If you’re so darn tired that you can’t sleep, thinking certainly won’t help.

Listening to Daryl’s even, soft snores, you take a few sips of water. It’s really chilly tonight. Maybe you should go grab your other blanket and your hoodie.

You peek at the egg timer, looks like you have 70 minutes until it’s time to check him officially. Gonna be a long night. After Sophia comes home tomorrow, or….at least after you check the highway shelter and do a sweep for her, then do the shooting practice thing, oh, and maybe after another pharmacy run—oh, and then chores, you need to help with chores. But after all that, maybe you can have a nap.

It really is nippy tonight. If you’re cold, poor Daryl likely is, too, the man lost a lot of blood today.

Your side and shoulder pinch and burn as you scooch upright. Quietly as you can, you move to peek out the window, trying to gauge if you’ll be able to walk to your tent without Shane noticing.

It’s gotten chilly enough that there’s condensation on the windows.

____________________________

Him

He woke up for some reason. Thought he heard a creak.

The room felt colder than a metal toilet seat in winter. He had the sheets bundled around him as much as he could get them. He knew if he stayed still enough he’d feel warmer and not notice the cold as much, but, shit, he felt so damned miserable.

He didn’t even bring Sophia back yet, all he found was her doll! like, his dumb bitch ass couldn’t even climb right, and even monkeys know how to climb. Yeah no, instead of finally bringing that little girl home safe, he flopped his way down the ridge twice and got a bolt hole in him.

And yet, the same people he’d stolen a horse from to get it done faster legit set him up in a room and patched him up.

As he was wallowing and moping about all the day's shit, feeling like a useless nobody, something warm—a blanket?—was pulled over him and tucked in gently around his shoulders.

The angel? person who placed it on him rested their hand on his upper arm a sec, and he felt their thumb rub back and forth once. His chest and stomach felt a little funny when he recognized the minty smell of whoever just gave him the blanket. The muscle-rub Y/N had on.

There was another creak in the direction of the door behind him, but he fell asleep too fast after the blanket was placed on him to mumble “thank you, angel.”

____________________________

You

Glenn had stayed late playing board games with the others, he was still on the porch. He and Jimmy are playing cards, probably spit judging by the thunk you just heard on the table along with some muffled laughter. Beth is barely awake, but she waves when she sees you. Maggie is dozing.

Andrea is awake, too, and once seeing you, she rushes over to ask after Daryl again. You assure her that he’s fine, took down his dinner well, and no, she should get rest instead of staying awake just in case. Shane’s in his tent, and you go to yours without incident. At least he knows to stay away right now.

Blanket now in-hand and hoodie on, you head back inside after remembering to grab the icy-hot rub you’d left in your tent, too. Shoot, you’d also meant to borrow Shane’s sweatpants, but he brought his stuff with him. T-Dog has a pair, but he wears them to bed…Daryl can borrow yours, they’re baggy with a drawstring, anyone could wear them.

Tiptoeing and avoiding the creaky spot by the door, you listen carefully and can hear that Daryl’s still sound asleep. You’d been worried you would either disturb or even frighten him when you pulled the comforter over him, but to your delight, he’d begun snoring.

It is strange seeing him so helpless. Dude literally chews on bark sometimes, he’s a survivor down to his bones. Him getting all the help must feel very humbling to say the least, you know he likes to keep to himself. After seeing the scars on his back, you imagine he might feel unworthy of help or care, too.

With a prayer, you hunker down onto the air mattress and hope for dreamless sleep.

____________________________

Him

Y/N and he were sitting in the dirt because the horse bucked them off. They’d just buried Sophia.

The old Mexican lady from the house was holding those prayer beads and sitting in a rocking chair outside, chickens pecking at the grass near her. Carol was crying somewhere but he couldn’t see where.

Y/N rested their head against him and squeezed his hand tight, apologizing that they had to get the bolt out of his side.

Stuck to his chest, there was a thick, twiney string that connected to Y/N’s. It was getting in the way and pulling whenever he moved. When he went to tuck it over his shoulder, it was the plastic tubing from the oxygen tank.

Merle sat across from the two of them, holding a sponge and telling him to get up.

He tried to. He kept trying to get up and follow his brother, but when he did, he started to fall down the ridge again to where the geeks were waiting to gnaw his feet off.

Y/N’s voice called for him from the walkie, and when he looked up, he saw them ripping their sling off to help him despite them bleeding through their shirt again.

____________________________

You

The timer went off, so you move in order to see him. His breathing pattern is normal and regular.

You can tell he’s dreaming, the way his eyes are moving under his closed lids. Hopefully, it’s a good dream. Best not wake him if he’s still sleeping.

____________________________

one hour later

____________________________

Him

“Baby, is your head worse, too?”

“No, it’s—” he hissed when he breathed too deeply and it hurt his ribs. “It’s goddamned everythin’ else.”

Y/N had heard him when he accidentally groaned, so then started to do a check-up thing. All he’d been trying to do was move to try to make it hurt less and he could get back to sleep! It’d hurt worse, instead, and he yelped like a little fox kit. Pansy-ass little Darylina. No wonder they just called you ‘baby’ again.

“I’m going to check your pupils again, bear with me.” Y/N spoke softly as their hand made a wall between his two eyes again. “Spell my last name, please.”

“D-I-X-O—oh wait, no, that’s…” They’d asked for their last name, not his.

“Ballsy offer,” they joked. The little flashlight shone in one eye, then the other. Y/N was trying not to crack up. “It’s good you caught the mix-up, real good sign. Okay, you can rest your eyes now if you want, but please stay sittin’ up, okay?”

He did shut his eyes, and tried to call to mind what Y/N’s last name was…

Got it, Sophia called Shane either ‘Mr. Walsh’ or “Welsh” a few times. “W, um, W-A-L-S-H?”

“Yes,well remembered.” There was the rattle of a pill bottle. “What year is it and what’s the next season we’ll be in?”

“2010. It’s, uh, it’s gettin’ to the end of summer. Gonna be fall.”

“Mind’s still sharp. Here, you can have one more acetaminophen. I got you some water. Take, swallow.”

He opened his eyes to see them holding out a single, white cylindrical pill and their water bottle.

“Are you able to tip your head back,” they checked, “or might should we use the cup with the straw?”

The warmth from their hand lightly supporting the back of his head felt nice even though they were acting as if he would fall apart like a china doll at any second.

After he took the one, dinky little painkiller, Y/N gently moved his arms around, then had him wiggle his toes and fingers and turn his head as much as he could. Halfway through is when he noticed the sheet was tucked all the way over his shoulders and thighs where he sat.

Y/N had been making sure it stayed covering him as he moved?

The strange feeling of unbearable closeness came back and he didn’t know what to do with it.

It was something so little and stupid but so damn big at the same time, to make a point to keep his, what, his modesty? When there were so many other things to worry about?

A lump formed in his throat.

Y/N looked uncertain after doing something with his left arm again. “Daryl, have you had broken ribs or a broken collarbone before?” they asked him quietly.

He swallowed down the lump so he could answer. “Yeah.”

“Does it feel like that might could’ve happened again?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh buddy,” they sighed. “We’ll have Miss Patricia check tomorrow. What a day you’ve had.”

“It was somethin’ else,” he grit. He just wanted to lay down again, but laying down hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.

Y/N brought over a pair of sweatpants. They helped him put them on, too.

“Can stand on my own,” he had to snip, mainly because of the way his body started reacting to having them so close to him. He was only human—half their chest went up against his again as they helped, all warm and soft and—yeah, he needed them to stop. He was in just his boxers, first off, second, he didn’t want to be a creep. And third, he could damn well stand on his own.

When he had pants on again and sat back down, he felt the heat from his friend’s hand hover around the back of his neck and shoulders. “I’m gonna put the TENS unit on first, then I’ll do my thing starting up here, okay?”

Not knowing what that meant, he hummed by way of an answer and shut his eyes. He figured it was for another check-up thing, so steeled himself to get through it.

Their footsteps sounded around the bed, and they ended up behind him.

The mattress dipped when they knelt down on it. This time, the heat from their body warmed his whole back, but the closeness felt okay.

Then there was the sound of a container clicking open, and two, three, four soft things were pressed to his muscles on the uppermost part of this shoulders.

“These are electrodes. Tell me when you feel a tingly or prickly sensation.”

When he felt it, he inhaled in surprise.

“Now tell me just as the feelin’ goes away. These things are supposed to disrupt the nerve signals and reduce pain. I ain’ sure if it’s immediate or over time, but…”

The next part is what threw him.

And Y/N did it just so damn gently that he didn’t flinch at being touched, the way they cupped one hand over his forehead, and with the other, gently brushed their fingers along the back of his neck. They directed him to let his head and neck into their hand.

The angel Y/N next began to apply light pressure in circular motions, starting in between his shoulders and up to the base of his head. “Let me know if what I’m doin’ worsens it, or if it gets to be too much, okay?”

Best Daryl could do was hum in the affirmative; he couldn’t speak at that moment. The damned lump in his throat had bulged up again and then some.

It was the first time something like this was done for him, and he felt…he didn’t know how or exactly what he felt except that the pain was lessening.

So why in the hell was he about to cry?

The neck rub soon turned into a shoulder rub. And try as he might, tears started spilling out of his damn eyes. He was grateful Y/N couldn’t see them.

After however long it was that they eased his pain in silence, his friend then began to quietly give him the summary ofwent on while he’d been conked out.

It was something, that Y/N cared enough to share boring stuff with him. He wanted them to didn’t mind hearing them yammer on and was grateful they

Apparently, the next prayer service thing was gonna happen tomorrow morning. “Maybe the Greenes will come, that would be nice. Patricia and Jimmy are comin’, I know that much.”

Carol wanted to cook dinner for everyone, maybe tomorrow or the next day. “Tomorrow, if Sophia’s back tomorrow, maybe the day after if she comes back the day after. W-We’ll see,” they told him.

A mixture of guilt and worry fought for dominance in his brain when Y/N snorted and shared, “Dude, not only did we both get stitched today, we both fainted. High-five for fainting twins! I forgot to drink enough water, can you believe?” They hummed and figured, “You prolly can.”

Y/N next told him how them, Glenn, the teenage boy Jimmy, the short-haired chick Maggie, and Baby Spice Beth played some board games together before heading off to sleep. “Beth won at Scrabble, she killed it. Babygirl knew how to use them tiles.”

During this part, they used both hands to do a swirling motion at his neck, and it was all he could do to not let out a sob of relief. “I did win the highest word score, though,” they sighed. “I kinda had to. Glenn started, um, earlier he decided he’d charge a quarter for whenever I talk too ‘hillbilly,’ so I felt like I had to prove a point.”

He was told that there were some new toothbrushes and shit from the pharmacy run the other day. “I cracked mine open today, ohh a new toothbrush feels so nice. Nothin’ like clean, flossed teeth.” Naturally, they next worried: “Dude, did somebody bring you your toothbrush? I’ll grab it for you tomorrow morning, just tell me where it is. I’m sorry, honey, you’re at our mercy and we forgot the basics. Wait, we gave you clean boxers, right?”

He was able to snort at that, hiding the fact that he was still blubbering like a colicky newborn.

Somehow, their talking about toothpaste veered into peanut butter, and Y/N, of course, made sure to knock him for not liking the stuff.

“That means you don’t eat peanut butter tomato sandwiches, Dary-bear. What on earth did you eat in the summertime if not those?” Which sounded like the nastiest combo, but their voice and their little chuckle was so goddamn soothing and warm. This was right when they’d started to use that minty muscle rub stuff and it felt so damned nice.

But when Y/N next hit the spot in between his shoulder blades that had been killing him, he finally and most definitely accidentally let out a sob like the little sissy lil bitch Darylina he was.

Y/N gasped and immediately stopped rubbing his shoulders, then bent around to look at his profile. “Hey,” they soothed.

“M’fine,” he croaked back, sniffling and wiping his eyes as he accidentally knocked off the oxygen tube.

He really didn’t know why he was crying. It was just a lot of touch he wasn’t used to, and a lot of…for fuck’s sake, he had friends who worried that much about him, went the extra mile, who goddamn massaged him now, prayed for him and all that? Even after he again didn’t find the girl today, after he’d made things worse by stealing and losing borrowing a horse without asking first. After he’d flat-out yelled at them earlier, scared them when they were injured and hurting.

The world had ended, yet here he was being treated better than when it was up and running.

It was a lot to take in, it was…fucking weird, for one thing.

Not that it was a…bad kind of weird, though, not at all. It was a good kind of weird, and it made the lump in his throat get even bigger.

When Y/N moved to get off the bed, he was urged to blurt out, “Don’t—please!” The feeling from earlier, the one where he felt naked, came back. But because Y/N felt safe, it didn’t stop him from all but begging, “Stay just for a little longer. Please. What you were, w-what you were doin’ helped.”

Please, angel.

It took several long moments of quiet before Y/N, sounding nervous, asked, “The spot between your shoulder blades, that was helpin’?”

“Mmhm,” he gulped.

They stayed quiet for several long moments, tucking the oxygen tubing behind his ears for him once he got the nose part back in. “Do you want quiet,” they hesitated, “or, um, f-for me to keep talking?”

Please talk, I like it when you talk. “Talk.”

____________________________

You

You adjust the sheet so it makes a U shape on his back, giving you access to the spot between his shoulders without uncovering his whole back. Just because you’ve seen it before doesn’t mean he’ll want you seeing it again.

With a little more muscle balm, you press both your thumbs on either side of his spine and fan them out. Up and down the edge of his shoulder blades you rub, then down and around the curvature of his ribs.

The trick is not straining your injured shoulder, so the angle has to be just right as you’re using it (or sticking to only using your good side). This was worth it, that mangy hick went against death way too many times for him to be left alone and in pain, awake by himself.

“I read in some article once how massages and stretches and stuff can release ‘buried emotion,’ they called it. I reckon it’s more the atypical stimuli, maybe some endorphins. Probably the simple relief of tension gettin’ undone, too.”

The intimacy of this is not lost on you, even is there’s nothing sexual about it. You are kneeling on a bed, giving a shoulder and neck massage to somebody in their underwear. A somebody who, earlier today, made your stomach flutter and your chest tug in his direction. You’re also very aware of the warmth coming off hs body and how physically near he is, but then again, this is a new experience for you, being so close to a guy like this. You’re gonna react more to the unfamiliar and the new.

But this is innocent, and it is helping him, so you’ll help.

____________________________

Him

The spot they just hit was so sore, a groan escaped his mouth before he could choke it down.

“The stuff I’m about to use on that area is peppermint oil, it’s different than the muscle balm,” Y/N murmured.

The small noise of a cap being twisted off came before the strong minty smell of it, and the spot that was so damn sore was slowly replaced by a smooth cooling sensation that eased the worst of the pain.

He sniffed as his tears finally began drying up. The soft lulling of Y/N’s voice telling him about a book calmed his thoughts, helped him zone out. Soon, his muscles began to feel heavy and tired instead of exhausted and aching. Y/N gently bent his head forward to stretch his neck muscles, slightly turning his head side to side.

And by the time his friend began to tell the story about how they learned to ride on their best friend’s motorcycle, Daryl was nodding off even though it was funny and he wanted to hear more.

Next thing he knew, the squishy things were being pulled off his shoulders and the mattress lightly jolted because Y/N had got off and was walking back around the bed. He heard them fussing with his pillows, and his chest tugged again.

First, they asked him if he needed the bathroom. He didn’t, so Y/N started to help him recline back, but that just made him freeze. “Gonna hurt yourself worse,” he muttered, eyeing Y/N’s upper arm wrapped to their torso. He tried settling backward by himself.

“Careful, careful,” Y/N hushed, using their good side to cradle his head and neck. The warmth from their body hovered over his chest when they laid him propped against the pillows. Especially warm was where his fingertips had grazed his friend’s forearm and waist as they helped him lay back and get comfortable.

After drinking water at their bidding, the sheet and quilt were pulled back over him. Almost immediately, his body grew heavy and his eyelids drooped.

____________________________

You

Daryl fell asleep faster than a milk drunk newborn after you pulled the comforter on him. It’s been so chilly all night, yet now you’re warm enough that you’ve unzipped your hoodie.

Massaging him was a small workout in itself so that warmed you up comfortably. But it was when you’d, y’know, supported him with your good arm to lay him back that you got a very warm flush. Now, it’s as if you can still feel the spots where his fingers bumped against you. Your forearm, your waist. It was unfamiliar touch, is all…well, it warmed you up, now you can sleep easier. A long night ain't so bad if one's warm and cozy.

Even if your mind is unnecessarily mulling over the veins in his arms, but maybe that’s just the phlebotomist in you. He has very…patent veins.

You tiptoe to your sleeping bag to check the timer under your pillow.

There’s another hour until it will go off again, meaning two and a half hours until you’ll switch with Carol.

You look back at Daryl. His breathing is regular and steady. It’s sweet, he’s got a foot sticking out of the bed. Though, you don’t have to look hard to make out a purple bruise on his big toe in what light there is in the room. You consider something: if your own feet are tired after today, imagine how his must be after climbing the ridge, falling, and climbing again.

And it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do, you’re not gonna fall asleep anytime soon…

So, you take the peppermint oil and carefully sit yourself once more on the edge of the mattress. He stirs, but doesn’t wake. With some of the oil on your hands, you take his foot and begin to massage it.

He stirs again, and you’re thinking he’s about to protest.

It’s not what you’re expecting at all to hear him mumble, “Thank you, angel...” before promptly drifting back asleep.

------------------------

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 8 months

Text

Redemption Arcs

What -- Nobody is past hope and everyone deserves a redemption arc. You finally talk with big brother Shane following you catching his flirting with unreceptive, scared Lori.

When -- in between season 2 episodes Chupacabra and Secrets. In the Slowpoke Series, after Thank you, angel

Relationships -- You and Daryl are the canon compliant slow burners of the series. In this chapter, Shane gets vulnerable.

Perspective -- 2nd person

Pronouns -- n/a

TWs -- some language

Word count - under 5,000

Masterlist -- Shiny and Official one here and Chronological one here

What small but good news do you have? -- been wanting that maturity label off Invisible, tugging strings Part 2 since April, and it was finally successfully removed without glitching back again! (took about 9 removals to stick)

If you are a new Slowpoke and haven't read any other stories in the series yet, I recommend reading He hasn't been himself before this one!

..........................................

Carol first takes another sip of tea, holding the mug by the base to heat up her fingers. “It sure got cold last night.”

She says this with one of her smiles she makes to try hiding her upset. It got very cold last night—and her Sophia didn’t even have long pants on when she was chased off.

This’ll be her fifth day lost, if she’s still alive.

Echoing Daryl’s insistent belief that she can be found alive, you voice the possibility that “With all the farmhouses in this area, she’d know to head up to a barn loft to keep warm.” A barn is probably where she’s been this whole time, you’re thinking. Provided there was nothing dead in one, that’s where you’d want to hide.

Carol reverts back to the original subject, finishing telling you, “But, um, to answer you, no, he stayed asleep the whole time I was there.” She’s blinking tears away. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything about her daughter.

You’d woken up later than usual, on the Greene’s couch, after Beth and Maggie began coming downstairs. Following a flurry of good mornins during which you remembered where you were, you blindly stumbled in your blanket toward Daryl’s room, met Carol coming inside with a steaming mug of tea, and you intended to check with her how Daryl’d slept after she took over monitoring him last night.

As soon as you opened your mouth to ask—lo and behold, the man in question wobbled out of his room, wrapped in a blanket like you were and citing the need for a toilet.

You hadn’t been sure if he was okay walking without a chaperone, so you hooked your good arm under his and started to help him.

He got all grumpy at that, then told you how he remembered throwing up yesterday right after his first fall and wanted to know if it was bad.

Well, he got more grumpy after you asked him through the bathroom door to tell you if his boxers had blood in them or if there was any red or brown coming from the front, red or black coming from the back.

Really, you’d changed babies with diaper rash who complained less than that mangy hick did over a simple medical question. Lucky for you, Patricia overheard and took over.

Now you’re inwardly making fun of yourself over having felt so silly with those butterflies in your stomach last night when Daryl accidentally ca—

“—As she headed in there with him a few minutes ago, the first thing out of Patricia’s mouth was how minty the room smelled,” Carol softly giggles, taking another sip of her tea. “I think the smell is stuck in my nose.”

“Mine, too. I like it.”

When asked about the mint, all you’d told Carol was that you’d given some of the muscle rub and the peppermint oil to Daryl to help. You just didn’t specify that it was via…massage. You felt that detail might could’ve been misconstrued.

Especially given that poor dude was so out of it that: he accidentally called you ‘angel.’

It’s not deep. At most, Daryl was having a temporary bout of Florence Nightingale Syndrome, but the highest likelihood is that it was simply an injured person (him) being exhausted and loopy, therefore misattributing the giver of pain relief (you) to an angel.

You never thought you’d feel glad he went back to normal today, all grumpy and grating. It’s a relief that the butterflies in your stomach who plagued you yesterday are all gone now.

Carol calls your name and jiggles your wrist, and you blink. “Sorry, what?”

“Your brother’s coming over,” she repeats—and you’re already hightailing it.

See? Not angelic in the slightest, you can’t even face your own brother without wanting to cuss him out or shove him.

Kudos to you that when Shane calls your name and adds a, “G’morning,” with it, you respond neutrally with “Mornin’. Gonna grab my mp3, be right back.”

“You comin’ with us to the highway today, check for our girl?” Shane calls before you’re inside.

“You know it.”

“We leave in 10.”

“’Kay.”

He starts chatting with Carol as far as you can tell as you stride into the house. You suppose you have to get the music player, now, so you won’t be a liar like him. You know he's trying to get on your good side, what with his "our girl," stuff.

Knocking three times on the door to the room Daryl’s in, you await a response.

“Yeah, s’fine, come in,” he answers on the other side of it.

Opening the door, you’re met with the strong smell of mint and find Patricia still there with him, checking his pupils again as she greets, “Hi, sweetpea. I’d ask how you slept, but seein’ as you’re yawning and were still asleep on the couch 15 minutes ago…” She grins where she’s crouched in front of Daryl.

“Might will nap later,” you admit. “I’m just here for my music player.”

You just now recall that you’d meant to bring Daryl some of his stuff this morning. Toothbrush, pillow, PJ pants, that sort of thing.

Which means you’ll have to go back outside sooner, which means you’ll need to face your brother sooner.

You make a quick prayer for guidance, slip the mp3 into your pocket, and make for the door.

When you think you feel Daryl looking at you, you snap your eyes up in challenge.

He looks away so quick you nearly miss it. And the really nice nervous thrill that shivers through your belly is hopefully the last of the irrational butterflies. It’s one more thing to deal with, and toward Daryl of all people?

Mp3 in your pocket, you exit the house and begin to walk quickly toward Daryl’s tent. Your brother leaves Carol and follows at your pace despite his slight remaining limp.

He asks how you slept.

You shrug. “Could use more. You?”

“Better than I thought I would. Still up for target practice when we get back?”

“So long as I ain’t the target.”

His steps slow, and when he goes to speak, there’s hesitation. “Been talkin’ to Dale or was that one of your jokes?”

“I think it was a joke. What’s that about Mr. H?”

“Ain’t nothing, Y/N.” He stops walking altogether and puts his hands on his hips, moving his hand to muss his hair and instead meeting with the new buzzcut.

“What do you want, Shane?”

Your brother licks his teeth. “For you to just listen.”

Grimacing, you resume walking. “What do you possibly have to say to defend yourself?” you curse under your breath, even though you know you shouldn’t.

Continuing to follow you, he insults, “High and mighty today, are we?”

Your throat goes tight either from offense or because you’re so upset at what he did. Then, eyes growing moist, the anger turns to a type of sadness you can’t place. “I’m scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel here, Shaney, help me out.”

Your brother doesn’t say anything other than an apology until you two finish the walk to Daryl’s tent.

“Why we here, anyway?”

“Gettin’ Daryl his toothbrush and things,” you mumble.

It’s when you bend to unzip the door that he crouches and puts his hand on your arm. “Y/N. I meant what I said yesterday. The three people I care about most in this world are you, Lori, and Carl.”

Your turn to lick your teeth. “And Rick.” You unzip the door flap and look for Daryl’s stuff to bring him. His pillow isn’t very clean-looking.

Shane doesn’t seem to acknowledge what you said when he goes on, “And I’d do anythin’ to keep you three safe.”

“And Rick,” you say again, more pleading. “Please help me understand what’s going on with you and him.”

He starts looking not quite at you, then at anyplace else.

“Tell me the truth,” you warn. “You’re lookin’ all around the way you do before you lie.”

“Rick nearly got Carl killed and nearly got you killed. Because of that, nearly got me killed, too, if it weren’t for Otis. And Otis’ death is ultimately on his hands, too, not mine.”

After saying Otis’ name, he has to swallow and close his eyes. He probably won’t ever shake the guilt that Otis sacrificed himself so Shane could get the respirator back.

And now, opposed to seeing in your brother someone unfamiliar and scary, right now you see him clearly, and see that he’s broken in two.

You want to understand better, but you don’t yet. With only a light stress-stutter, you ask “Why are you saying Rick did all that?”

His nose twitches. “I’ve learned that Rick can’t make the tough decisions. Tough decisions save lives.”

“Tough decisions?”

“If we had gone to Fort Benning, instead of the—the CDC?” His anger bubbles up. “C’mon, Y/N, what the hell was he thinkin’? Going to a government building in a city the feds themselves napalmed, to the goddamn Centers for Disease Control,” he mocks, smiling in bitter disbelief. “A place what had mile-high security even before the world fell apart.” He rubs his head again as he coughs, “Y/N, he took the whole group, he took his family, his wife and child, into Atlanta? He knew what the city was like, yet he chose that, risked us all, instead of someplace we knew would be safe.”

You stare at the ground and don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything or not, so you don’t.

Shane sounds less angry, but more disgusted. Jealous, too. “Lori ain’t my wife, Carl ain’t my son, but I kept them alive for Rick, in Rick’s honor.” Then, he quiets. “And because we loved them. I love Lori and that boy so m…” he trails off, knowing he’s just been very honest. The hard lines on his face soften, and his posture sinks just enough for you to notice. “Then, this asshole waltzes back alive, takes ’em on back.”

He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “And now Jacqui, Sophia, and Otis; now three people are dead because of him and his choices. And look at you. After comin’ that close to getting shot as bad as Carl was, you’re out there breakin’ your body more and more every day on this goddamn wild goose chase for a dead little girl—you think I’m stupid enough to believe your stitches had to get ��redone?’ I saw Carol washin’ your bloodstained shirts, Y/N, it—hell, and now, even Daryl almost died from this bullshit. All because of King Rick, his-his inability to—” He cuts off, finally exhales, then sinks his head in his hands and rests his elbows on his knees where he sits in the dirt across from you.

There’s an uneasy, sick feeling in your stomach, and your body feels weighed down.

“Please say somethin’, Y/N, anything.”

Unprepared, you stumble through, “I-I’m happy you, uh—it’s good you unbottled that.” You stare at the grass and wipe your eyes. “M’happy that you told me.”

“You’re happy I dumped all this shit on you?” he says in attempt to make light of something heavy.

You copy his attempt. “Better out than in.” After a few moments of silence, you then murmur, “I’m happy to share the weight, I love you.”

“Y/N.”

You raise your eyes to where he sits. He’s got the same lost look on his face you’ve seen a lot of in the past handful months after the world fell apart. Like that night at the CDC, when he’d broken down crying. When he’d escaped the hospital after trying to rescue Rick and thinking he’d died. When he’d come back with a respirator but without Otis.

“I know it’s wrong, blamin’ him.” He rubs the top of his head the way he does whenever he’s upset or thinking too much.

“That you know it’s wrong is a good thing.”

“I know I’m wrong,” he whispers. “But I don’t think it matters. Or that I care.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we wanna survive, we need to make hard choices.”

Your tone of voice bites. “Like Lori told you yesterday, it’s easy to cut losses and not help. Easiest damned thing, Shane, so that’s enough about ‘hard’ choices.”

He doesn’t snarl back. He barely reacts, in fact.

Voice gruff, he mutters, “I’ve slid, Y/N. Real far down. Done some awful things.”

“You can choose good ones next time,” you offer simply.

“Sometimes the good ones are awful things, if they mean savin’ lives.”

A twinge of dread roils in your belly. “Justifying wrongs make them worse.”

“You sound so damn naïve sometimes, kid.” He rolls his eyes before tucking his head between his knees. Yet, he next asks, “When does somebody get too far gone?”

“That limit doesn't really exist. Nobody’s past hope.”

You see his chest expand and deflate with controlled breaths. And you’re about to stand up and bring Daryl his things when he says in a low voice, “Y/N, tell me about the rope thing again. And the drowning thing, too?”

Your brow creases. He wants you to repeat those two scenarios?

“Okay,” you answer, even if uncertain why he suddenly wants to talk ethics.

First, you call to mind the details... “There are, um, people on a rope that’s hangin’ off a cliff. The rope is breaking and will break, and those clingin’ to the rope will all fall and likely die unless the person on the bottom drops off. Now, the person at the top of the rope or in the middle can’t drop off in the bottom person's place, ’cause that’ll knock off those below them anyway and lead to more death. And it ain’t fair, but for the person on the bottom, is it their moral obligation to let go. And it’s…” your throat goes tight again. You think you’re starting to understand why he asked you to tell him this.

Still, you go on: “It’s morally acceptable and, and even the duty of the person directly above the lowest person to get them off the rope in-in-in order to save lives—Shane, I don’t wanna finish.”

“The person above them can sever the rope, they can even kick the person off,” he says for you, but not in a prideful way. He’s quiet and somber, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. To you, he says, “But this thing with Sophia, I ain’t saying Sophia was at the bottom.”

His demeanor lowers your defenses, and you finish the scenario. “Only because the rope will break and lead to more death unless the weight is lessened is why it's permissible for the bottom person to let go or even get pushed off, but only because the rope will break and this is known. What the other people or person above them on the rope cannot do is directly kill the person on the bottom in order to make them let go, even though the end result might will end up the same. To directly kill a person is not right and is always evil, even if the end result will be the same.” You try to remember the exact wording that you’d learned. “‘Direct killing is morally permissible only for cases of self-defense against a direct, real-time aggressor who is intendin’ to kill or grievously harm you or another.’”

Shane’s eyes are glassy, the lost, scared expression still clouding his face. “Repeat the drownin’ one, too? Please.”

He looks so sad.

“Two p-people are drowning, but one is, uh, climbin’ onto the other to keep their own head above water. The person being used as a life raft can and should fight off the person, because otherwise they will accidentally be drowned. What they can’t do is, y’know, like, shoot the other in the face or shove them into the jaws of a hungry shark.” Which was your inappropriate grasp at making light, ugh, that was in really bad form. “Sorry,” you apologize, then speak like a grown-up: “The person bein’ unwittingly drowned cannot hold the other guy underwater to drown them instead, even if it’s to get them to stop. ’Cause again, to directly kill is evil. Unless the other person is a direct aggressor because they want you dead or harmed bad, in which case it’s self-defense.”

He sniffs and takes a deep breath. Shane’s eyes don’t have that thousand-yard stare anymore, now they simply look pained.

“Y/N, I don’t feel like myself,” he admits under his breath. “I haven’t. Can hardly recognize myself sometimes, but it’s as if I…” He throws his hand up. “I know I’m wrong but still don’t think it’s wrong.”

“This about Rick, Sophia, or Lori?” you ask. "Or Otis?" pops into your mind and out of your mouth.

“All of it, I reckon, I-I don’t know, I can’t…” His hand cups his mouth and trails down to his chin. “What I want with Lori I know is wrong. Y/N, I keep tryin’ to convince myself she wants me, loves me. That I deserve them ’cause I’m better for her and him.”

The news about the new baby tears through your insides and scatters your thoughts. “She does love you, just not in that way. And that thing about ‘deserved,’ that’s gotta go, man,” you respond, not that it’s helpful.

Nodding, he grunts, “I know.”

“Not that that helps much,” you apologize. Shane used to go to your eldest sister for this kind of thing. They were closest with each other. But that line, that idea about ‘deserving’ them because he’s better for them…that’s bad, it’s very bad.

Then, from the campsite, you hear Andrea shout “Five minutes, Walshes!”

Neither of you speak as a warm breeze sweeps over the field and across the yard.

Your big brother looks to you as if he’s a small, scared kid.

“Y/N, what do I do?”

So, you tell him the most concrete advice you can think of. “You go check the highway. Do a quick sweep of your grid. Host target practice like you and Ricky have planned, teach me more fightin’ moves like you had planned.”

He’s nodding, lost in space. “What about tomorrow?”

You lift one corner of your mouth sadly. “Check the highway. Do a quick sweep of your grid. Target practice, chores, work out. Normal stuff. Take it one day at a time. Things’ll get better, or you’ll get stronger. Either way.”

Shane wipes his eyes and blinks away any trace of having gotten emotional. “This what you had to do all them times you wanted to die?”

A cold spreads from your middle. “Do you want to die, Shaney?”

“No. I don’t wanna die, hell no, I just—” he inhales, holds it, exhales. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on with me.” He massages his neck with one hand. “Y/N, it feels like I’m either another person or I’m going batshit.”

That he’s suffering isn’t good, but hearing him say that is, because it means that he sees the problem, too.

“I’d be more concerned if you didn’t think there was somethin’ off.” You swallow and make yourself say, “I trust you.”

Now he’s shaking his head. “I don’t even trust myself right now.”

“That’s why you have me, loser.”

Shane smiles a little when you tell him that. Next, he stands, and appears to lose himself in thought again as picks up what you grabbed from Daryl’s tent. Then he freezes.

He puts the things back down, and sits again. “Y/N, I may have to go for a little while.”

“Where, a fuel run?”

He clasps the back of his head. “Away.”

Away? “Where’s away?”

“Away. For just a while.”

Away as in…leaving?

“Because of this Lori thing? Shane, there’s—”

“—It’s…more complicated than that—” he interrupts, but you interrupt right back, “—B-Because of Rick, then? What?”

“Kettle off the burner, Y/N.”

You hold in what you were going to say and count to five.

It doesn’t do the trick. “Man the hell up and get it out of your system.We can’t leave them!”

“Not ‘we,’ me. I can. It’s just for a little while, honey.”

Now he’s calling you ‘honey?’ He only does that when it’s serious.

You try to smile and play it off as if he’s just confused and needs encouragement. “Don’t act so dramatic, loser,” you tease. “We don’t have to go. Things aren’t good in some ways right now, but th-they will get better.”

“Not ‘we’, ‘I’. I think I do. I’m serious, kid.”

“Well, I, if-if you go—Shane, come on, I can’t let you go without me.”

“You can.”

“Shane. Stop, I don’t like this.”

He doesn’t stop. “If the person on the bottom has get cut off or drop off so the rest won’t fall—”

“—That is not what that means and you know it!” you push back. What is going on?

He appears to check himself. “I’m sorry, I—” He holds up a hand. “Y/N, I think me leavin’ awhile is what needs to be done. Lori does, too—no, don’t say anythin’ else about it, we won’t get nowhere.”

“You don’t need to cut yourself off. We don’t need to cut you off. That, that scenario was for a literal life or death situation, not whatever’s goin’ on here.” It’s like you can’t inhale enough.

“Y/N, I’m sorry, you’re right,” he soothes. “But I do need to leave—”

“—No, if you get ‘cut off’ or, or jump or whatever, I’m jumping down with you. You get that, right?” you almost shout.

He shakes his head as if he pities you. “This is why I didn’t tell you before.”

“You’re fixing to blame me for my reaction to my brother deciding to cut himself off from his family and risk his neck, goin’ off alone,” you pause to inhale, “because of a bad breakup, when now dead people walk and eat the living?”

Catching your breath, you watch as your words hit home.

Briefly, he covers his eyes in what looks like shame, he winces, then makes a quiet apology and says, “I’ll give it time. Ain’t like I was planning to leave tomorrow.”

Your shoulders slump. “How long you been considerin’ this?”

The way he opens his mouth and closes it without speaking is the first warning. The second is how he begins by softly calling you,“honey,” again.

“I was plannin’ to leave…over a week ago. Been planning it awhile,” he confesses.

The words sink in while you sit and blink.

It’s the next thing he says that feels like a sucker punch.

“It got cancelled when Carl got shot, but now I think I gotta…anyway, Lori knew. Dale knew, too. Andrea.”

Noises turn fuzzy and your brain grows quiet. You exhale the breath you forgot about and cover your face with your hands. They all knew? Lori knew?

You regain yourself when your brother goes, “Honey, I’m sorry.”

“Shaney, you ain’t serious.” Not one of them mentioned this to you. Did they not care?

“I don’t think they knew you were in the dark about it,” Shane assures you as if he could read your thoughts. “What’s more is I don’t reckon they thought you’d come with.They wouldn’t want you to go.”

You force yourself to exhale again, you keep forgetting to breathe.

“I’m sorry.”

“I forg—no, this is too much, this is so much,” you finally burst into tears. “I’ll forgive you, but I-I need a few hours.” Inhale, exhale. “Shane, I am so fuckin’…hurt!” Stupid. You feel so stupid. Blind and naïve and stupid.

“Take your time. God knows I took mine in fessing up.”

You sniff as much as you can, seeing as Daryl most likely doesn’t have tissues in his tent.

Shane was planning to leave, and at least three people knew about it. But not you, his own family.

The man has fallen low. Betraying Rick and Lori wasn’t enough, not caring about Sophia wasn’t enough; turns out you’re also somebody he doesn’t care about.

Maybe him going away is best, the hurt part of you shrieks. Good riddance!

And once he learns about the baby, this whole Lori thing will blow up if you can’t defuse it, and you don’t think you will be able.

The question he asked you earlier replays in your mind.

“When does somebody get too far gone?”

“I don’t believe that limit exists, man. Nobody’s past hope.”

Goddamn, you’re so tired.

Head against your bent knees, you don’t care why he’s going into Daryl’s tent. You don’t care about what he’s holding out to you, either, and you move away from whatever it is.

“All he had was damp paper towels,” Shane murmurs. “Please, take one.”

“I’d rather blow my nose on your shirt, for all I care,” you hiccup.

Andrea calls your names again. “Y/N, Shane, time to go!”

You don’t move.

Shane doesn’t move, as much you can tell from where your face lies hidden on your knees.

And, like much of this past week, you didn’t see coming what would happen next, what Shane would do. That your big brother would be so...penitent? toward you that he quite actually would remove his shirt and hand it to you?

You blink in disbelief, then find yourself close to smiling. “I can’t actually blow my nose on your shirt, you goon.”

The chicken noises he makes change your mind.

“You dick, I’m gonna actually do it. Then I’ma burn it, I ain’t makin’ nobody clean up what’s in my nose.”

“It’s cool. I deserve worse.”

The word still rubs you the wrong way. “What you deserve is a redemption arc,” you sniffle, and then cannot help but add this minor dig, “And a week without a razor might would do you good, so you’d have to suffer through havin’ chest hair again.”

Shane quietly cracks up, then, yeah, you really need to wipe your nose, so you really use his shirt after he adds how it’ll help his guilt.

When you’re good, you twist your mouth at him. You’re still hurt to the bone, but it’s easing. “You were just aching for an excuse to strip, weren’t you?” you rib.

“Mmhm. Just need me an audience and some Boyz 2 Men in the background, and I’ll be all set.” Grinning at your gagging reaction, he holds out a hand to help you to your feet. And, once he’s picked up Daryl’s pillow and begins to walk back with you, he calls you by your nickname.

His expression looks sad again, and the way he asks makes it clear he wants advice. “What else can I do to get whatever this is out of my system? Do better?”

This is also unexpected, so you bend to pick up some wildflowers. Clover, Queen Anne’s lace, and some smaller yellow ones and some daisy-looking ones. Standing up, you lift your good shoulder in a shrug. “You know how it is, sometimes we gotta fake it ’til we make it.”

He’s asking you advice. His square little sibling.

“What’re the flowers for?”

“Otis. Gonna pop them on his cairn on the way back.”

A cloud seems to pass over him. There are a few moments where nothing is said as he follows you to the rock pile.

“I’ll act right about Sophia,” he promises softly.

Even though he’s admitting his wrongs, the upset flicks on again. You reimagine pulling a tea kettle off the heat before it starts to whistle. “And you’ll give Lori space, and get her out of your head.”

Your brother grunts in assent. “I will.”

“A lot of space, hear?” you mutter while plunking the flowers on the memorial and picking up the pace to get to the SUV. “And stop flirting when you see you’ve upset somebody, that’s the biggest part I didn’t get. She looked frightened, Shane, you had to have seen her back away and cower. Is that who you are now?”

“No,” leaps from his mouth, followed by a sober, quieter, “No.”

A loud clash that was most definitely the cooking pans that were stacked to dry on the chair sounds from the campsite. You hear Lori and T-Dog laugh as you get closer.

“When you used to get all sad, what did you have to do?” he wants to know next.

“For me, it was more of a wait until things leveled out. I had to go through the motions a lot, kept myself distracted. Got help, which was the key part.” You toss his old shirt into the campfire as you two pass it. Glenn stares at you very confused, prompting you to mime him taking off his shirt and tossing it into the fire, after which you look back at him as if questioning why he isn’t also burning his.

“Distractions, okay.Guess I’ll, um,” Shane thinks aloud. As you two pass the clothesline, he takes one of his off the line and pulls it on. “Guess I might will start doing daily runs again, while we got a safe place.”

You smile politely. That advice used to annoy you a bit, too. Exercise does help, though. “Nothin’ gets it all out of your system for a while quite like a run.”

“Mm, literal and figurative, dependin’ on how hard you run.”

You scrunch your nose and pout. “Ew.”

“As if you wouldn’t have made that exact joke if I hadn’t first, weirdo.” Shane lifts a corner of his mouth before he lets himself smile big. It looks like a real one.

The words replay again.

“When does somebody get too far gone?”

“That limit doesn't really exist. Nobody’s past hope.”

You let yourself smile a little, too.

“I’ll run these inside to Daryl, you and the girls hop on in the car, then we’ll roll. And,” he says loud enough that Carol can overhear from where she stands holding the ragdoll. “Ground rules: Sophia gets shotgun if we find her there today. Cool?”

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