Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Though if they gave it to me I certainly wouldn't say no..

Warnings: See original chapter for a complete list of warnings. This particular chapter will contain significant adult language, violence, and mild slash.

Authors Note: Please read and review. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. The encouragement and constructive criticism your reviews provide makes the writing process that much more enjoyable!

Rotation – Chapter 7

It was the way the low light caught them. The way the dust motes and satin rays turned around and around, getting ensnarled in the bright auburn tangles, the soft ringlets and pale limbs that curled starkly around each other that first caught his eye. A mess of bright material and dull misted over eyes…Curves and clean cut lines. The scent of spilt blood and recently washed hair.. It was all there. Melded together..

..Maddening, familiar, and terrible..

His hand came up in a partially aborted movement meant to cover his nose, only to change his mind in mid motion and wipe at the chilled sweat that had broken out across his upper lip instead. He tried to tell himself that it had been brought on by the damp, muggy heat of the root cellar. But that was a lie and he knew it.

..Bloody fuckin' Christ..

The sight should have been entirely unremarkable. No different from the scores of other similar scenes fate had forced upon them since this whole messed up thing had started. But in a way it wasn't. This was different. This was something more. He didn't know how to put it into words, but he just knew.

They lay sprawled; limbs tangled together like an unfinished composition. Like some sort of beautiful, uncontrolled chaos..Two young women, all soft ivory skin, uneven tans, freckles, and blood smeared limbs. Dead dolls.

Their positions hinted that they had fallen together. They had fought back to back, each of them facing a door, one that led deeper into the cellar and the other the very door they were now standing in. Only then it must have been akin to facing the doors of hell itself. They had been surrounded, overpowered, with too many undead and not enough time or bullets. They must have known..

But they hadn't gone quietly.

Bullets holes bit deep into the walls, scaring the thick wood and scoring across the concrete in quick, skipping dents and barely discernable craters. The spent cartridges of shells and shot lay scattered across the floor like abandoned party favours, mixing in together with the unsteady trails of dark, partially congealed crimson and brain spatter. And it was in that jumbled up mess of blood and dirt that the final moments of their story slowly came together.

Because despite the horrific nature of the scene, two winding trails of unsteady crimson marked the way they had dragged themselves out from underneath the piles of undead. The both of them crawling and clawing their way free until they reached the safety of farthest wall, unable to retreat any further.

..The poison must have already been spreading…devilishly quick.. Invasive and absolutely unmerciful. Because scratch or bite, you always ended up the same way.. As one of them.

They remained silent for some time, each caught up in their own restless thoughts. And in spite of himself he took a moment to fully absorb what he was seeing. Glenn wordlessly doing the same, his sad eyes already trailing over their sprawling limbs and lax features, and knowing the kid, already elbow deep in something suitably sappy and morose, a common facet of the young.

But still..god damn.

'Naivety must be fuckin' bliss.' He thought somewhat vindictively. Thinking darkly about that moment in camp, and the way Shane's eyes had gone unreasonable and hard. Uncaring of anything save for his ego and worthless hide. He didn't want to imagine what the man might have said for a moment such as this. And as he looked back, the Korean caught his eye in the low light, all high cheekbones and angular shadows glinting off the sheen of his jet black hair, he was suddenly glad they had come alone.

The women hadn't been dead long, only two or three days at the most. Their eyes empty and misted over, almost lost admist the dancing shadows that played gently across the angles of their faces, bringing the hollows and down turns to life. Their expressions elusive..closed… Yet there was no feeling of finality here. No real ending..

And for one terribly confusing moment, he thought that it was almost beautiful. Beautiful in the way an embrace is between friends or a smile between lovers... Terrible in its death of course, a waste..a shame…But yet, somehow, still beautiful.

It was a shocking and almost life altering moment really. Because god knows he could literally count the number of times he had actually put that word to voice in his entire life on only two hands.

Like the time when his mama had come in, sweat streaked and dirty from planting in the back garden and he had told her she was beautiful. His chubby toddler cheeks wobbling with a childish smile as the irritation and frustration melted off her face like a piece of plastic left too close to the fireplace. Even when Merle had glared at him from, calling him "a stupid suck up" from across the kitchen table no one could take that smile away from him. Or the day he had brought down his very first deer, a young, brown speckled doe. It had been the perfect kill, quick, clean, and honest.

The scene before them now was remarkably emotional in the forced absence of words. Without even a single name or testament to the lives that had ended here save for the presence of the women themselves. Didn't seem right..

But they hadn't died alone. And in these crazy days, he supposed that had to count for something.

He wanted to turn around, to just grab the food and leave like they had meant to do all along. But now they wouldn't let him. There was something their sightless, vacant eyes that all but demanded that he stare back. Forcing him to look, and look hard. But most of all, too remember as well. ..Damn them.

The smaller of the two was the closest. She was a short, brown haired thing in cattle hide boots and a dirty cream coloured tank, lying propped up against the wall. Sprawled at a strange angle and slumped half over on her side, leaning up against her companion. Her wound was so far off center it had nearly missed, the dried blood spiking up her short brown hair close to the far side of her eyebrow rather then in the center of her forehead. It was almost as if the other woman had looked away as she had done it, unable to look her friend in the eye as she had pulled the trigger.

The last decent thing they could do for one another.

Her only wound save for the gunshot, was a large, vicious looking bite on her right arm, marring the delicate skin just above her tattoo. A small, tasteful design depicting a pair of aviator wings, a symbol that ironically stood for that of freedom. And in spite of himself he found himself shaking away a sudden chill. Because all he could think was how wrong that was. She was meant to be in the air. Not here. Grounded and left to moulder in this dank, soulless place. It made one wonder, at least for one long, vengeful moment if there really was a God…

Whereas the other one was an entirely different story. She was all long legs, subtle curves and dull hazel eyes that just demanded her due attention. She was a tall, long curled auburn brunette, and had been shot clean through the forehead, no mess, no mistakes. Even the wound itself was mostly covered, sheltered by a layer of messy, crimson stained bangs.

Her thick curls were swept partially off her face, trickling across the arch of her neck and tumbling down to the floor below. The winding salt tracks of long dried tears were still visible on each lightly freckled cheek, despite the gentle blood spatter. Something that seemed all too jarring when set next to the deep tears that marked a large bite in her left thigh, the material of her jeans torn right through, as the other lesser serious ones, scored across her upper arms like bullet ricochets.

Her hands had fallen down into her lap, gun gentled in the small space between her legs, fingers curled inward, already stiff with the onset of rigor mortus. In fact he almost didn't notice the slim band on her ring finger, glinting a haughty, burnished gold in the near light. It was too plain, and far too worn with love to be an engagement or wedding ring, but still, the blood encrusted ring made him wonder who she might have left behind. But worse still was the way her mouth remained slightly parted. Her pert pale lips drawn back, as if paused in the act of speech, silenced when she had far more to say.

As if she had died with someone's name ghosting across her lips..

She was, in the way the dead often tend to do, appearing to look off towards some unknowable point in the distance, her face curved so it looked almost as if she was looking towards the door from which her death had come. Her pale, milky eyes unfocused, but the gaze itself was dead on. She had died watching the door.

And for some disturbingly vehement reason, he didn't think it was for more walkers.. At least not completely. It was almost as if there had been something else there in those last few moments, as if she had been watching something..or someone when death had claimed her. And she had died with her eyes wide open.

He blinked back a suspicious sting, the sensation building like a sudden pressure behind his eyes. He suddenly felt as though he was on the brink of stumbling across some sort of invisible line, a barrier that he knew instinctively that he should not cross. He baulked at the feeling, having no use for things like regrets and sappy, maudlin thoughts about people he didn't even care enough to know.

Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever. It just wasn't who he was.

But what was really getting to him was the absence of what remained here. There were no notes, no wishes for things to have turned out differently. No names, dreams or final words. It was only them. Heart stoppingly brutal in that final honesty and stripped bare of everything they had once been. Everything they were, everything they could have been.

Shit.

And as if mirroring his thoughts, Glenn blew out a long, pent up breath from his place beside him. And after all the silence the sound was almost startling, prompting him to turn around a simply stare. The younger man was just standing there, arms limp from the shoulders, and looking down at the two women with an expression that twisted his characteristically open features. Guilt. As if the kid could have one god damned thing to prevent it!

He didn't like that look. Not on him..

"We passed this place only two days ago." The man started, the words coming out thick and almost halting as his thin fingers swiped through the length of his sable, sweat slicked hair, the movement almost violent in its frustration. The kid's mood was palpable, even to him. It was oppressive and thick, vibrant only in its starkness, and echoing through the close space like an admission of guilt.

"Daryl, I saw that truck. They must have just..What if we had.." Glenn began. His words tapering off into nothingness as the kids eyes trailed back to the two prone women, seemingly at a loss for words. He couldn't blame him.

And as he eyed the kid down through the messy, sweat soaked fringe of his hair, he realized that he didn't even know what to say to that. He wasn't going to lie to him. That never did anyone any favours. But the kid was right. He had noticed it too. They had probably missed passing them on the road by only a few hours hours, maybe even minutes, out hunting for food and supplies just like they were. Only these young things had been a team of two, and two only. By circumstance or choice they'd never know, but the trust…the camaraderie that had existed between them was as plain as day.

But perhaps when it all came down to it, he figured that the reason it was still sticking with him was the principal of the thing. It wasn't the emotion of the scene…at least not wholly. It was something intrinsically more then that. Deeper. Hell, even something philosophical in nature that he found that he could somehow connect to. Like it was the one thing left in this crazy, fucked up world that he could still understand.

It was the fact that even in death, it was the way in which they had ended it that had made it their own. They had made it into a choice rather then a mere dictation of fate. All but spitting in the face of fate herself. And above all else, he found that he had to respect that. They had chosen to die, chosen to end their lives rather then to risk the alternative.

But he swallowed those words. Taking them by the tongue and shoving them so far down his throat that he nearly choked on them. Instead he ran a thumb over his lower lip, clicking his teeth in frustration as he moved a few paces away, putting some space in between them as he made to speak.

"…'Aint no use in thinkin' about 'what ifs' kid. Just let it go." He advised. All too conscious of the passing minutes, time spent cooped up with the dead rather then the living. They hadn't survived this long by moping over spilt milk. Life is life. Death is death. You can't get lost in between the two.

"Now com'on, daylight's burning." He finished, hiking his crossbow more firmly onto his shoulder, before reaching a hand back to his quiver. Finger counting the arrows like a normal person might repeat a daily prayer. A force of habit that had suddenly become a necessity.

But as he stopped, standing shoulder to shoulder with the man, he could practically smell the kid's unruly thoughts. And standing there, unexplainably caught up in complexity of the moment, he stalled. Stuck in between wanting to turn away and inexplicably move forward. Both of them drawn to the scene through a means they couldn't even begin to explain.

He supposed it was because he too could imagine the moment. How it had all gone down. How everything had suddenly gone so south of sour in less time then it took to blink. He could imagine it because if it were him, facing death at the hands of them, this..virus, this disease…he knew he would have done the exact same thing. It was true, in a weird and really quite twisted way, there was no such thing as mercy or second chances these day. No do-overs either. Not in this life. It was what it was. Fate and circumstance ruled here. Not fairness and certainly not mercy.

Still, the point remained, that was then, and this was now. And it didn't help anyone to dwell on what might have been. Either way these women were certainly beyond caring. So nudging Glenn with a firm but gentle shoulder, he motioned toward the scattered backpacks of supplies.

"Come on kid. They 'aint gonna be using this stuff any more.." He stated.

The women must have just picked the cellar clean before there were attacked. With two bulging packs stuffed to the brim lying abandoned beside the both of them. Almost made it.. He reached for the taller woman's sack, a hiking pack with a wide mouth and expanded space, perfect for gathering supplies. And he couldn't help but notice that it had a Canadian flag sewn onto the front, a crumpled airport sticker still fastened around the side handle. The tag too blurred and weather beaten to read the name. And for reasons beyond even himself, he was absurdly grateful. He didn't want to know.

Adjusting his crossbow, he bent down, quickly scooping up a number of cans that had fallen out of the top in the struggle, shoving the mish-mash of canned food, packages of crackers, and home made preservatives back in with little ceremony. Refusing to let himself think too much about the hands that had initially gathered them. Nothing good ever came out of thoughts like that.

When he had finished he bent down, gently unhooking one of the straps that had gotten tangled around the woman's heel. Biting his lip between his teeth when despite his care, the movement caused one of her hands to fall from her lap; fingers skittering hollowly across the barrel of her gore encrusted Lady Smith.

The sound was startling as the echoes chased one another through the silent room as her filthy palm came to rest, splayed cheaply across the grainy concrete. Careless and macabre. The second causing even Glenn to look up, head tilting towards him from his place beside on smaller woman, the dark colors of his jersey contrasting strangely with the soft crème of the woman's camisole. But the kid said nothing.

And he found that there was nothing he could say, nothing to sum up the moment and certainly nothing to ease the burden of knowing for the kid. So he kept to character and said nothing at all. Instead after a long introspective moment he knelt down, gently replacing to her hand in her lap. Thanking every deity he knew to pray to that the kid chose not to comment on it.

And as Glenn did the same, bending down to grab the smaller woman's bulging pack. They both caught the flash as the glossy sheen of a photograph fluttered through the air between them, dislodged from the smaller woman's pack with the movement. Feathering through the air like ash from a growing fire, understated but undeniably present.

He remained silent as the kid bent down, snatching the thing off the floor with one quick, selective movement. His ivory fingers gently brushing it clean as he brought it up to the light. It was one of those novelty Polaroids, like the kind you could get at those trendy booths in the local mall or drug store. Echoes.

They were almost at the stairs when the kid suddenly turned around, practically bumping him in the chest as he turned to face him. The abrupt movement forcing him to do a quick back step when the kid did nothing to avoid the imminent collision. Upsetting the hang of his crossbow entirely, causing it to score uncomfortably along the hard plane of his back, the metal edges digging into the flesh of his shoulder as he brushed up against the cheap stucco walls. Feeling inexplicably boxed in and caged.

..Christ, he needed the open air again. It felt almost like being back in the CDC, all close walls and false security…

"We can't just leave them like this.." Glenn suddenly blurted, effectively halting their progress towards the outer door like it was some sort of after thought. His mouth twisting visibly when the words came out sounding more like a question then an actual statement.

The kid was learning.

He was tempted to point out that these two women were not so vastly different from the half a dozen walkers that littered the floor at their feet. But this time he held his peace. As despite himself, he found that he too was close to agreement. This went beyond a simple respect for the dead. This was about two women. No, two human beings that were somehow more then what they appeared. They had been survivors.

They had been them.

So, instead he crossed the room, plucking two, musty smelting blankets off a set of long abandoned shelves, throwing one at Glenn even as he set about he unfurling his own. And as her face became lost under the edges of that dusty old blanket, he couldn't help but turn, catching an unwitting glimpse of the woman as he straightened. And even then, caught right there in that very moment, he knew he would probably remember that face for the rest of his natural life. There was something familiar in those eyes, something emotive. An oddity that he just couldn't seem to shake..

And damn her for it. He hadn't asked for this! Any of it!

In fact it made him wonder just when the hell he had gotten so god damn sentimental. 'You're turnin' into a fuckin' bleedin' heart Dixon.' He spat at himself, inertly waging a war against his own elusive physique as he sought for somewhere to cast the blame. It wasn't like him. Christ, he was thinking this through far too much already! He was tempted to blame the kid. But for some reason he didn't think it would make him feel any better.

He didn't even have the heart to complain about the delay when as they closed the connecting door, Glenn took a moment to carefully wedge the photo into the wood where the frame met with the wall. It was the only gravestone these women were bound to receive. There was simply no one left to mourn.

But for better or worse, those women's troubles were over. Theirs were not.

And despite his attempts to shake it off, he felt the weight of those happy, carefree smiles all the way up the cellar stairs. He could feel it, them, all but itching between his shoulder blades. Their smiling eyes bidding him not to waste what they no longer had, insisting in a strange and rather foreboding way, not to make the same mistakes they had. Dead talking…

..Christ, that was dark.

Clearing his throat he shook his head almost imperceptivity. 'God what he wouldn't give for a cigarette right about now…' He grunted internally, fingers all but itching for the harsh tang of nicotine and the subtle warmth of a lit filter between his ragged, chewed up nails. He missed it, craved it even. He missed the slow, almost sensual drag as he lit up, the sensation of his lungs expanding and contracting as the smoke crept past his tongue, dissipating as it met with the open air. It had been one of the only indulgences he had ever allowed himself. Back in the days when a pack of cancer sticks and his questionably healthy liver were the only two things he ever had to worry about.

Because given the nature of these days, he bloody well hoped it would be the cigarettes that would get him. Sure beat the alternative, that's for sure.

Com'on." He finally urged. Effectively rousing them both from where they had coasted to a stop, caught up in the complexities their own thoughts. His voice sounded out far too loud in the stillness and his eyes didn't miss the small wince Glenn fixed him with as they moved forward.

His gaze automatically fixed on the horizon from his position at the base of the cellars stairs, mentally calculating the amount of time they had before dark. They had to get moving. Even now they'd be lucky if that made of back to camp before dusk.

He was already thinking vague thoughts about seeing if he could get the girls truck started, not keen on the idea of walking back to camp in the dark, as he let Glenn precede him up the stairs. Saying nothing when the younger man brushed past him, narrow shoulders ghosting along the length of his bicep as the man moved forward, throwing a small, but rather intense looking smile over the arch of his shoulder as he took the stairs two at a time, using the metal banisters to catapult himself upwards.

..Except the whole thing left him half thinking he might have missed something blatantly obvious in the whole exchange..Something they were skating the edge between. Something just out of his reach. ..Damnit…

Even then he tried to put it out of his mind. Not even really noticing when his dirty hand came up to scratch across the patch of skin that was still inexplicable tingling from where the man had brushed against him. Getting' soft Dixon. Just what kind of thoughts where those anyway? Idgit.

He was halfway up the stairs when the dawning streaks of the coming dark first became visible. Shit. It had already turned the skyline a unique, metallic rose. Even now the horizon was literally melding together to create the diluted, crimson and orange hue that was now spread across the horizon like some sort of cacophonous stain.

He cocked his head, working the sensation through his mind again and again. Like a old school record caught on a continuous loop, the turn table sluggish, but still refusing to let the needle stray..

Something wasn't right. Something wasn't-

He had the back of Glenn's retreating jersey in his sight even as his steps quickened, slamming down across the harsh metallic grating as the muscles in his legs began to burn, rocketing him up the last few stairs as his crossbow rose, arrow already notched back and quivering in the sights.

What was that? Shit. Where was it?

The scuffling click of expensive Italian leather shoes dragging themselves across the pavement on the other side of the hatch was the only thing he heard before the kid's surprised cry echoed out in his uncomprehending ears…

A/N: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! There seems to be a notable lack of interest lately, despite the new chapters. Hopefully those that are reading are still enjoying. Please let me know if I should continue this story or not, it is hard to gauge your audience's reaction when you read, but do not review. 3.

Glossary: A Lady Smith is a Smith and Wesson 3913. Generally a small, silver barrelled gun. A double action revolver or pistol.

"Although prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it be postponed." - Winston Churchill