A/N: This is a theory that came to me in the wee hours of the morning after watching this scene incessantly. This is the only theory that gets me past my WTF reaction to the moment. It personalizes Shane, I think, and I hope all will enjoy.
Tell Me I Did Good, by MissMishka
DISCLAIMER: The usual warnings, I claim no ownership of these characters, they are simply borrowed with love and adoration from the original creators to have their stories embellished on a little more than the show may do. Not for any profit.
Shane scrubs at the sweat and dirt on his neck, wishing that the work of the day were over, but knowing there was a long haul ahead of him yet.
The snap and rustle of twigs draws him to immediate alertness, any fatigue dissipating at the threat of danger.
He sees movement, a body, and steps away from the pump, drawing his weapon and eyeing the woods intently for the person or Walker to appear in the open.
It's rather like that moment days ago when they had run up on the supposed zombie Andrea had sighted breaching their perimeter and found Daryl staggering from the woods instead.
Seeing Carol break free of the brush does little to ease his finger on the trigger, just as seeing Daryl beneath that blood and dirt hadn't automatically meant they were without danger of having a Walker among them.
He tucks the gun behind him, out of her sight, and moves into her path as she walks away from the woods.
She's shocky and doesn't acknowledge him and he feels the sting of old memories at that hurt, haunted and vacant expression on her face.
"Hey," he calls quiet and carefully, "Carol."
She doesn't respond, only giving him a dismissive glance, if that flick of her eyes had even acknowledged his words or presence.
He quickly sets the safety on the gun and tucks it back into the waistband of his pants before moving closer.
"Carol," he tries again to reach her with words. "Hey, hey hey hey," he chides, moving in front of her and refusing to let her go when she would have gone around him.
He touches her arm, trying to snap her out of the daze she's wandering in and he sees the blood.
A knot twists in his gut at the angry red scratches he sees on her flesh and his eyes flick toward the woods, wondering if a Walker will stumble out after her, wanting the rest of its meal.
"Are you alright?" he asks, gentling his instinct to demand if she'd been attacked or bitten.
"She's dead," she utters the words so soft and brokenly as she jerks away from him that he almost doubts he heard them.
But something tells him that he had heard her, heard her correctly and her grief pulls at him.
He puts a gentle but firm hand on her back and steers her toward the pump, settling her on the cement base before plunging his hands in the bucket of water that he'd drawn.
Her pliancy as he begins to scrub away the dirt on her skin is no surprise to him. He's dealt with this kind of shock and hurt more than he cared to think about, but Carol wasn't his mother and this wasn't the same as cleaning up after his father.
He has to be sure that she hasn't been infected. Has to be sure that she doesn't need put down. He looks at her stooped shoulders and downcast eyes and knows that if he has to put a bullet in this one's head that there would truly be no going back for him.
He sees thorns and brambles in the rough edges of her scratches and feels relief course through him at evidence that she had apparently only tangled with the woodlands.
"I want you to know that I'm real sorry for your girl," he offers, the words as ineffectual at consolation as his filthy hands are at getting the dirt from her skin.
"Thank you," she says after a moment, the hesitation all he needs to know that she doesn't mean the words as much as he wished she would.
"When I opened that barn I had no idea," he continues, finding thorns in her arms and picking them out as gently as possible. "If I did…" he can't imagine what he would have done differently had they known Sophia was in that building.
He couldn't and wouldn't undo the killing of those Walkers. It had had to be done. An evil that had had to be purged from this place they were calling home at the moment.
But that little girl…
He scoffs at himself, remembering how gutted he'd felt when that torn up little body had faltered into the light through those gaping barn doors.
He'd thought this world held no surprises for him after learning that Lori carried his child yet denied his paternity, but this woman's lost little girl had managed a decent blow to his defenses.
"Everybody thinks that I'm un…" he breaks off, not wanting to be bothered by what he felt in the gazes of the others upon him now.
His eyes flick upward, but Carol isn't looking at him. Her eyes aren't judging him. Her posture isn't hating, fearing or rejecting him.
He remembers his mother, sitting cowed and broken at the kitchen table as he tended her wounds. Not really seeing or feeling or even appreciating his efforts to care for her in the aftermath of his father's assault.
"I was just trying to keep everybody safe," he said, seeking this woman's understanding. "I had no idea she was in there."
Carol's eyes meet his and he sees her confusion as he presses that issue. She doesn't seem to understand how important the point is, but for him it is vital that she accept that he meant her no harm with his actions.
He can't explain it himself. He just knows that he needs her on his side. He needs Carol to support him.
He needs someone to tell him he did the right thing.
That he had done good, despite the gore of the day.
Shane runs into the house and shrugs off his heavy gym bag, energy still pumping through his veins at another win on the basketball court.
"Hey, ma," he calls out, feeling the first ominous chill of the silence in the house at his entrance.
He gets no response and looks toward the living room. The television is off and his father's recliner isn't reclining, so it's evident that the old man has gone out, but his mom was always home to greet Shane after school.
He looks up the stairs, but doesn't sense anything up there and he begins moving down the hallway to the kitchen, thinking she must be making him a snack. She often did that after his games, saying how he was such a growing boy and needed feed next to constantly with all the energy he burnt off.
He finds her there.
She's standing over the sink, staring out the window, oddly still in her stance.
He immediately sees the hand she has raised and the towel she has bunched up and pressed against her cheek. He's sure there's ice bundled in that cloth and his body tenses in anger as he bites back a curse at his father.
Shane says nothing as he moves slowly into the room, approaching her with caution, because she's often skittish after one of dad's episodes.
"Mom," he says quietly, gently touching her arm as he comes to a stop beside her.
She starts, jerking at the touch as if electrified and gasping as she turns away from him. Her hand releases its hold on the dishtowel, sending melting ice cubes clattering to the floor as she backs away from him.
He knows she doesn't see him with those eyes widened in fear, she sees her husband, the man Shane takes after all too much in looks.
"Ma, it's me," he raises his hands to show her he means her no harm and steps carefully over the slickness toward her.
She backs away from him until her hips hit the counter and he sees the flinch of pain she can't hide. He wonders if he'll need to call the ambulance again, how many bones may be broken under the pants and long sleeved shirt she wore.
"Shane," she blinks as the jolt of pain seems to snap her out of her fearful daze.
"Yeah, mom, it's me," he grins in weak reassurance and lowers his hands.
"Oh…," she blinks again and looks around the kitchen. "Oh. I …I must have lost track of time. When did you get home? You must be starving. I should fix something-"
"Mom," he reaches out with a gentle hand to stop her fidgeting outburst of words and motion as she moves toward the refrigerator. "I'm fine. Why don't you sit down."
He takes her arm carefully, not knowing if bruises lay under the sleeve he touched, and urges her toward the table. He kicks out a chair and settles her into it.
He brushes back her shoulder length brown hair and surveys the swelling of her eye and cheek. Her lip is busted and caked in dried blood and he moves to the sink to soak a rag in cold water. He takes a moment to wring the cloth of excess moisture with a little more vengeance than required, wishing it were his father's fool neck.
Striving to not let his anger show, he turns back and kneels at her feet to begin daubing at the dried blood.
"We won," he began telling her of his day as he often did after school. "One more and we're going to states. I scored the most. Coach says he's never seen such promise in a freshman."
He knows not to talk about her injuries or question her about how bad or what happened. Such queries were always met with tears or anger or dismissal and he'd learned to stop trying to understand the hows and whys of her going through these scenes.
She smiles at him fondly and the small curl of her lips cracks open the cut and he winces as fresh blood wells up.
She looks proud of him, but doesn't say it.
She never tells him that he had made her proud or that he'd done good.