A/N: I've named every chapter after a quote from the show, this one is Andrea in s2 (bonus points if you can tell me where/who said the quote for ch1 title)

The hospital ceiling looked the same, but he couldn't believe it.

Was this the afterlife?

Why would he end up here when he died?

He turned his head and looked around the room. It wasn't just the ceiling, everything about the room he'd found himself in was exactly the same as the blurry memory of the room he'd woken in seven years before. The dead flowers, the quiet machines, the generic hospital furniture. Rick swallowed and took his time taking stock.

His body didn't feel anything like it had on the bridge. He might have been grievously injured, but he was still stronger than he'd been when he first woke from his coma. His body felt like it had that first week he'd spent with Morgan and Duane. Like it hadn't for years. Malnourished and weak. He was wearing the same soiled boxers and hospital robe he had been in then too.

If this was death, it was pretty shitty.

But what if it wasn't? What if he was really back at the beginning of it all? What if he'd somehow (god knows how) travelled back to those first moments when he'd woken to discover the world changed? If he had, this was a golden opportunity. He couldn't squander this second start on the off-chance it wasn't real.

So, with that thought in mind, he slowly raised himself off the hospital bed, being more cautious this time, with the memories of the rather embarrassing fall at the forefront of his mind. He hung onto the IV stand tightly as he wobbled his way towards the windows. Last time he'd been here he'd been so disoriented that he hadn't taken anything in before leaving his room and the hospital. He took the time now to realise how lucky he'd been that the building had been practically empty when he'd wandered so gawkishly through last time.

There was a large duffel bag tucked under the chair beside the bed that he'd somehow managed to completely miss the first time he'd been there. He pulled it out with a pained groan, twisting and stretching his muscles as much as he could to get them working as he lifted the bag and dropped it on the bed.

He groaned again as it pulled on sore muscles and his partially healed bullet wound. It didn't hurt nearly as much as he vaguely remembered it had last time, but then at this point he'd suffered a lot worse. He pulled out a spare uniform first, staring at it uncomprehendingly for a long moment. He was no longer the man he'd been when he wore the uniform those first few months, and he couldn't see himself putting it on now. He threw it to the side and drew out a fresh pair of boxers, some jeans, and a familiar button-down he hadn't seen in years.

Once he was dressed and clean, feeling a little stronger from the movement and fresh water he'd gulped down from the miraculously still working tap in the small bathroom attached to his hospital room, he decided it was time to finally leave the room. Toting the empty duffel bag he raided everywhere he could think of, filling the bag with as much medicine, unused ammo, and food and drink from the vending machines as he could.

He repeated the process on all of the accessible floors of the hospital, filling as many bags as he could carry with supplies he knew he'd need. When he was finally done, he made his way out to the military vehicles, collecting guns, ammo, knives, and every conceivable weapon he found into a further bag. He stumbled under the weight of all the supplies he'd taken, but managed to keep his footing as he made his way to the closest armoured vehicle.

Miraculously it still worked and was full of fuel, so he chucked the stuffed bags in the back, and went about siphoning fuel from all the close vehicles into empty cans he found.

He clambered into the driver's seat, and took a long moment to gather himself together and plan what he would do next. He'd been so ready to die on that bridge, that having another chance was jarring, even if he'd wanted it for years. He took a deep breath and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

He tried to think on what Daryl, Michonne, or Carol would do next, they were the planners, not him. He'd learned that the hard way in the last few years. He was a good leader, but only as good as the people he had at his side.

At this point in time he knew where Morgan and Duane were, where everyone from the Quarry was, and he knew the Greenes would still be at their farm. It was the rest of their group that would be harder to track down if he tried; Abraham, Eugene, and Rosita would be somewhere in Texas, Michonne, Tara, Bob, Jesus, were all god knows where, and Aaron would be with Eric near Alexandria somewhere most likely. Sasha and Tyreese would be somewhere near the prison hopefully, and would probably head towards the same place they had last time, if nothing happened to change their past.

Rick gathered himself, and started the truck, turning it in the direction of his and Lori's home. He was going to search there first before going to Fred and Cindy Drake's place - he knew Morgan and Duane had been holed up there last time. He couldn't see any way to actually approach Morgan without having to explain how he knew who and where they were. So he'd decided to just observe them from afar for a bit, and leave them some supplies.

The more thorough search through his old house supplied a lot more than he'd found the first time, but also called up memories he'd thought long hidden by time and walkers. When he'd caught a glimpse in the bedroom mirror, he'd stared at his reflection for a long time, trying to find himself in the face staring back at him. It was too young, and too smooth, but his eyes told the true story, they were eyes that had seen too much and survived through it. He found himself missing the beard he'd had before Alexandria, and grown again after defeating Negan.

With a sigh he headed over to the house Morgan and Duane were staying on foot, leaving the truck hidden by bushes in his front yard. He'd found a notepad on Lori's desk and written a note warning Morgan of what happened with Duane and his wife. He also included a map to the prison, just in case. There was every chance Morgan would get rid of it, but Rick couldn't just leave without doing something. He hid that and the bag of supplies by the porch of the house where he knew they'd eventually be found.

He spent hours watching the house discreetly from the backyard of a nearby house, and only left when he'd seen Morgan leave and notice the supplies. To his surprise the man took them without question, but this man was not the Morgan he'd known for the last few years. Duane's death had changed him irrevocably. Hopefully that could be prevented this time around.

Rick finally gathered himself together and made his way back to his old house. This time as he left the house, and the town, there was no regret, no sadness in him, he'd left this place long ago, and the only feeling was nostalgia for a life long lost.

-x-

The drive passed a lot quicker than the original drive all those years before. There was no need to stop for fuel, and even though it was only five days earlier that he was leaving, the roads seemed less blocked.

As he started approaching Atlanta on highway 85 - the same road as before - he turned on his CB. He tuned it to the emergency channel, and chose his words carefully. "Broadcasting on emergency channel. Will be approaching Atlanta on highway 85. Anybody reads, please respond."

He put the mouthpiece down and slowed as he approached the junction for the turnoff towards the quarry. He, of course, was not actually going to go into Atlanta. He was days earlier than he had been last time, so the group he'd first met in Atlanta would still be at camp, and hopefully he could make sure they didn't make the trip.

When no response came, he lifted the mouthpiece again and spoke, "Hello? Hello? Anybody hear my voice? If there's anybody out there please respond."

There was a long silence, and Rick pulled the truck over, rolling to a stop on the grassy verge. The CB suddenly crackled to life, and he heard a voice he'd not heard in years, tears springing to his eyes and choking his throat.

"We can hear you. Hello? Are you still there?" Glenn's voice came through, crackley thanks to the radio, but so missed. Rick's heart clenched, and he found himself speechless. He thought he'd been prepared to see his family again, to see the people who'd died, but hearing Glenn made him doubt whether he'd be able to keep himself together. "Hello? Please answer?" The crackle stopped and the so-missed voice cut off.

When Rick didn't gather himself together quick enough to respond, another voice, as familiar to him as his own, came over the radio. "Hello, hello. Is the person who called still on the air? This is Officer Shane Walsh broadcasting to person unknown. Please respond."

Rick took a deep breath, and made a very quick decision to let Shane know who he was. He hadn't originally been planning on it, but Shane had said his name, and there was no way to not introduce himself in return and still get to the quarry without being found in Atlanta the way he had been last time. "Shane?" Rick's voice shook without any permission from him. This man had been his best friend since Elementary school, but the last time he'd seen him he'd been trying to kill him. "It's Rick."