On the outside, her words sounded cool, calm, and collected. Almost as if she was doing nothing more than reciting some beloved passage from the Good Book. Ah, but on the inside was a whole other matter. Internally, Kat was an amalgam of emotions. A sea of guilt, a never-ending wave of grief, a well of bitter anger, every one of the fears she kept buried down deep intermingled with pain until they were spinning around on a volcanic needle of memories. Each reminder of the people she had lost twisted her into an even more tightly bunched coil of tension. She hadn't managed to simmer down following the traumatic events of the day when the dead-but-not-dead horde decided to show up unannounced and uninvited. She felt... too much. Any minute she expected to explode from the pressure. However, the game of pool currently being played in her belly was nothing compared to the concert going on inside her head. Every ball sunk into some empty pocket caused a bright bite of pain. Bile foamed into her mouth, hot and vile tasting, but was swallowed back. She didn't have time to wallow in her own bullshit.

Not when Rick needed her.

Kat had known what she was dealing with the instant she crept into the bedroom. Boone had had similar nightmares after he'd returned from his first trip overseas, many about a friend of his who'd gotten shot while they were on patrol and who died in his arms. Those sorts of nightmares she could handle. She could talk Rick through that sorta shit. She could get him to see that that was all it was. It was the waking memories that she knew were the absolute hardest to combat. Boone would be seemingly lost in whatever it was he was seeing in the past while walking and talking to them in the present. At first, they'd all thought it was the lingering effects of Boone having lived in a combat zone for close to two years. They hadn't realized-or maybe it was just that we didn't want to admit or accept, she acknowledged silently, just how messed up Boone actually was. Boone had weathered so much of the other bullshit that happened in his life that they hadn't imagined his time in the army would tear him apart as it had. A sea of images from the night when Boone had finally snapped and they'd had no choice but to accept the truth, spun across her visual field, causing her belly to roll over in thick, greasy waves.

If not for Merle managin' to get the drop on him, I dunno what woulda happened that night, she thought as she swallowed back another surge of bile. What Boone had gone through that night went above and beyond a simple nightmare. He'd seen all of them, even his five-year-old son David, as insurgents and responded in the manner in which he'd been trained to deal with those he perceived to be his enemies: by putting them down. No matter how much they'd pleaded, no matter what all they'd tried in order to get through the haze surrounding him, they just hadn't been able to shake him free of the memory holding him in its maniacal grip. If Merle hadn't been driving by, if he hadn't stopped, if he hadn't knocked her brother out when he did, if he hadn't gotten that gun away from him when he had, Boone might have shot her, Jo, his wife Eileen, his kids, Daryl and only God knew who else before finally turning the gun upon himself. It was a scene many families of a police officer, firefighter or military serviceman or woman had gone through prior to the world going to shit.

Not that she needed to tell Rick any of that.

No, Rick already knew, and probably better than she did, about post-traumatic stress disorder. If this world they were living in wasn't enough to teach him about it, well, she was sure that his years as a police officer had taught him enough. One could only see so much bullshit before it finally took a toll upon their mental health. He likely had read many of the newspaper articles and seen many of the news reports about service men and women who ended up killing their family and themselves during a blackout. He knew the criterion for the disorder, what it looked it when it manifested, maybe even internally acknowledged that he was suffering from the disease. Who the hell wasn't afflicted? They'd all seen things that nobody ever should. They'd all done things of which they weren't proud and which would haunt them for however long the rest of their lives were. It was just one more thing that the survivors of this new world got to share in common.

However, just because Rick knew about PTSD didn't mean that he wasn't bugged as hell about it. He was. She could tell by the subtle ways he was moving his body, the nervous switch in his fingers that he didn't like his secret being known. Well, tough, she told him silently. It wasn't like he was the first man to wake screamin' in the night from the shit doing a two-step inside his head. Hell, he wasn't going to be the last for that matter. Way she saw it? Wherever there was bullshit like death and disease? There were gonna be nightmares. It was just another present given to them by this wonderful world in which they lived.

"Rick-" she said at the same time he said, "Kat."

They both stopped, staring at each other in amused surprise. Then they both breathed out one soft, embarrassed, "ha," that got smothered by an angry roar from the sky. Kat shuddered as the roof and walls vibrated with the force of the storm. Silently, she prayed the inhospitable weather would stop the walkers creeping around outside the house. If there wasn't any threat to contend with, well, then the members of this little group could remain safely inside. Where we all belong.

"What is it?" Rick asked in that tone that was soft as a marshmallow on the outside, but which was hard as an almond on the inside. "Hear something?"

"I ain't a real big fan of thunderstorms," she admitted with a small, rueful smile. "Ain't liked 'em since I was little."

"A lot of kids don't like thunderstorms." His tone was sympathetic and kind. "Carl didn't like them when he was younger. It's a normal fear."

Normal fears, she thought as another bright bolt of light filled the room. Who thought such a thing was even possible given the abnormal hellhole we livin' in?

"What about Little Ass Kicker?" she lightly questioned as another rumble shook the shingles on the roof. "She afraid of storms? Or is she livin' up to that nickname Rambo went and hung on her?"

Rick made a soft sound of amusement, but whatever he might have said was muted by the wind slapping the glass against the wood panels blocking it from entering the house.

"Judith hasn't shown a fear of them," he said once things got quiet. "Well, she hasn't shown a fear of them, yet," he added with a quick smile. "That could change as she gets older."

"Bo ain't afraid of storms. Neither is Jackson, thankfully." More lightning flashed. "Good thing, too," she managed to say without shrieking. "I'm a big enough baby about 'em for all three of us."

"It's okay to be scared."

"Hell, I know it's okay to be scared," she said as cheekily as she could. "But I don't just get scared whenever there's a thunderstorm."

"Oh?" He glanced at her. "And what do you get?"

"I tend to get squirrely whenever there's a storm like this. Even regular ole everyday thunderstorms make me wanna hide underneath my bed."

"And here you live on the side of the country that is plagued by them," he teased. "I'm thinking you should have moved somewhere that didn't get storms like this often."

"I know," she sighed in dramatic fashion. "I kept tellin' Rambo how we needed to pack up and move the hell out to California or somethin'. But you know how pigheaded that jackass is."

That made Rick laugh. Not one of those rusty sounding laughs that hurt to hear because it wasn't really a laugh, but an honest to goodness one that came from deep in the belly. Hearing it soothed her frazzled nerves and filled her with a familiar warmth she'd thought lost years ago. It's a real kick in the ass, she thought as rain slammed against the side of the house, when you realize how unpredictable this stinkin' world of ours actually is.

"I think," she said quietly; slowly. "I think I finally get why it is that I find myself trustin' you so easily, Rick."

His teeth shone for a brief moment in the dark. "It's because of my handsome face, right?"

She snorted a laugh. "You wish."

"My Southern charm?"

"'Fraid not, honey." She smirked. "I happen to like my men belligerent, surly and sarcastic."

He chuckled. "Carl would say you just haven't seen me at my finest."

"I'm thinkin' I saw you at your finest earlier today."

"Kat-"

"I'm also thinkin'," she continued right over him. "That the man in front of me right now is an honorable and decent one who took on my nightmares despite havin' more'n enough of his own to deal with. I like that man." She paused; smiled. "I respect that man."

"That's it," he tried to joke, but the wealth of emotions in his voice stole the lightheartedness he intended. "I'm telling Daryl you're leaving him for me."

"Go ahead and tell him," she teased back. "See what happens."

"No, thank you." He rubbed his jaw. "I have already been punched once by him. That was more than enough."

"Hell, honey, that was just a love tap."

Rick chuckled. "It didn't hurt like one."

"Rick, you done got off lucky. Anybody else left his brother cuffed to some pipe would still be lookin' for his teeth."

"Anyway," he said on a long, drawn out breath. "Why is it that you find yourself trusting me so easily?"

She flashed a saucy grin at him. "Didn't I answer that when I said I liked you?"

"No," he whined. "You gave me false hope when you said you liked me."

She snorted a laugh at that. "Right." Then she winked at him. "Course, I ain't ever been fought over..."

"Well, if that's the only way," he sighed. "Guess I will have to fight him for you then."

"My money's on Rambo."

"Your vote of confidence in my ability to lose is very much appreciated," he drawled.

"Hey," she said cheekily. "What're friends for?"

"If that's being friendly, I hate to see what you're like as an enemy."

"I'm cuddly as a polecat."

"With rabies."

She laughed. "See, that's why I trust you," she told him once she quieted down. "Right there you remind me so much of Boone. And of Daryl. Though," she added with a smile, "you are a little easier to deal with than Rambo is."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, all three of you are the most hardest-headed, toughest and opinionated sons of bitches I've ever met," she began. "But-"

"Tend to recall that you're the pot," he inserted in a tone as dry as sand. "So I'd mind who I was calling stubborn here. People in glass houses shouldn't be throwing stones."

"Hell, you've met the damned kettle," she retorted with a sniff. "You can see why I've have to become so damn obstinate."

"I'm thinking that you come by your pigheadedness naturally."

Her lips twitched. "Reckon you might be right about that," she admitted. "Daddy did used to say that movin' a mountain would be easier than gettin' me to change my mind about somethin' I'm plumb set on doing."

"Now you sound like Daryl."

"Tell him that," she joked. "It always makes his-"

A gun firing halted the rest of what Kat was about to say. Her head whipped around so fast to glance at the boarded up window that she knocked the small hair clip she'd used to secure her tawny hair askew. Silky strands went flying every which way as she tried to detect the direction from which that shot had been fired. Rear of the house? she wondered. Or the side? She couldn't be sure since the storm was taking any auxiliary sounds and throwing them every which way. Rick also went instantly on alert when he heard that shot and immediately reached for his gun, only to recall when his fingers didn't encounter the cool feel of well-worn leather that Carl had taken the weapon with him when he left the room. He let out a few choice expletives before fixing her with a burning, blistering stare that might have made her squirm had he been Daryl. As it was, Kat merely sniffed and fixed him with a look that spelled out do something...

"Goddamn it," he grumbled at her. "Why didn't you say that there was shit going on when you came in?" He stopped, seemed to consider something and then let out a string of even more colorful four-letter words. "That's why you came in, isn't it? It was to wake me up and tell me about what was going on."

"Yup," she confirmed with a nod. "It was."

"Why didn't you?"

"'Cause what I found was going on in here was much more important to me than what was going on out there." Rick let out a few more select words, one of which was "mullish" and the other "woman" before making to get up. Kat detained him by setting her hand on his shoulder. "Daryl and the others will handle what's going on out there," she told him, using the same firm tone she'd used on Carl. "You're to worry about you at the moment."

"You like telling me what to do, don't you?" he half-grumped, half-teased.

"Reckon it's fair since Rambo's always tellin' my ass what to do."

"And you obey so beautifully."

Kat sighed. "See, there you go thinkin' like him about how my agreeing with the hard-headed ass is me obeyin' him or somethin'. It ain't. It's just me being practical and seein' he's right."

"Apples to oranges," he pointed out with a grin. "They're both fruit and you are still obeying when you're agreeing."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered crossly. "Just don't go and tell him that that is what I'm doin'." She huffed a sigh. "Ain't no livin' with him as it is. Who knows what all he'd order me to do if he knew I would actually obey him."

"He'd order you to come in and wake me because he'd suspect that I'm having a nightmare."

Daryl couldn't know that Rick was gonna have a nightmare tonight... right? Kat thought, her brow puckering. It be impossible to guess unless...

She swore, foully.

"Man is sneakier than a fox in a henhouse, I swear," she grumbled.

...

As soon as he heard the sound of the gun being discharged, Carl jumped up, every nerve primed and ready for action. Every thought emptied from his head but for the primal instinct to do whatever was necessary to ensure his and everyone else's survival. The first thing he needed to do, he realized, was go and give his dad back his gun. He'll need it just in case something gets inside the house. He was about to head to the door when he felt a slight tug on his shirt. He glanced down at the small boy who'd been seated beside him on the floor in front of the makeshift bed and saw he'd also jumped to his feet when the shot sounded. In the semi-darkness, Jackson's eyes were these huge white baseballs brimming with worry and fear. He took a moment to reassure the younger boy.

"It's gonna be okay," he promised him in a hushed tone. "My dad, Daryl, Glenn, and the others will make sure that the walkers can't get inside." He waited until Jackson nodded to signify he understood before saying, "Stay here, okay? I'm just gonna go and-"

Jackson let out a small, distressed sound and clutched at his arm with fingers that made Carl think of the talons on a small hawk or falcon.

"What is it?" he asked him, instantly alarmed. "Do you hear something?"

Jackson's response was a quick shake of his head.

"No?" Carl frowned his confusion. "Then what is it?"

Jackson flashed his fingers in some sort of sign language, but Carl didn't understand what the signs he was making even meant. They were finger signs that he'd seen Bradley Johnson and Molly Tucker make. To them they formed some sort of language. To him, however, they just looked like weird finger shapes.

"I'm sorry," he told the silent boy, "but I don't know what you are trying to tell me." Jackson repeated the signs, moving his fingers in a slower motion to try and convey exactly what it was that he was signing. It still made no sense, though, and he told him that. "I don't understand what the signs you are making mean," he said apologetically. "I don't know sign language."

He didn't even attempt to point out about how things would go so much easier communication wise if he'd just say whatever it was that he wanted to say. He instinctively realized there was a reason behind why Jackson didn't verbally speak. And when he's ready to tell me why it is that he don't speak, he thought, watching as that dark brow puckered into a thoughtful frown. He will. It wasn't like he was going to force him. Carl had seen firsthand about what forcing someone who was traumatized could lead to. A second later Jackson's face brightened and he grabbed Carl's hand and slowly wrote in his palm.

"Kat?" Carl said. Jackson grinned and nodded rapidly. He pointed at his palm and then over to where Bo and Judith were quietly playing with their blocks. Carl just shook his head, not getting what connection that Jackson was trying to make between the infants and Kat. "I'm not getting what you are saying again," he told him. "What are you trying to tell me about Kat and Bo and Judith?"

Jackson pointed at his palm and then over at the infants once more. Carl was about to repeat his earlier statement about not understanding when his tiny face slid into that intense expression that his dad tended to get whenever he told him to take care of Judith. That's it, he realized. That's what he's trying to tell me. He looked at him. "Are you saying that Kat told us to take care of Judith and Bo and that I should stay here?"

Jackson flashed another toothy grin and nodded.

"I'm not gonna go far," Carl told him. "Just gonna give my dad back his gun is all."

"You don't gotta give me my gun back, Carl," he heard his father say quietly. He turned to see his father framed in the doorway. Jackson let out a small sound of distress at seeing him, but quieted when he saw Kat was a few steps behind him.

"You don't want your gun?" he asked his father curiously. "Why?"

"I've been ordered to take care of Judith and Bo."

His eyebrows shot up hearing that. "You've been ordered?" He didn't think there were many people, outside Daryl and maybe Michonne who'd dare order his father around. Not without catching hell for it. "You were ordered to take care of Judith and Bo?" he asked again. "You?"

"Yes," his father confirmed as he walked over to where the toddlers were playing. "Me."

"Who ordered you?"

And how did they get away with it? he wondered.

"Kat." His father cast an amused look over his shoulder at the woman with her hand on Jackson's shoulder. "She enjoys telling me what to do."

"Only 'cause you're so good about obeyin', honey."

"Don't press your luck."

There was something, some sort of secret that only his father and Kat shared underlying their teasing banter. What that secret was, Carl didn't have a clue. He didn't think he was ever going to understand the way that the adult mind worked, though. No more than adults will ever understand the way that the minds of us kids work, he thought as the world outside barked one long, sinister laugh.

A/N: Hello! Hope the week has been good to y'all!

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