It isn't unusual for Beth to make it home before Shane, simply because her shift at the hospital always ends around three in the afternoon. Sometimes she has other things to do in the town proper, and sometimes she spends time with Gillain and her family. The primary thing getting married changed is that they're less likely to join the community meals outside of Sundays.
Today is special, though, so she dashes home, dogs jogging alongside her bike at their usual patient trot. Once they're home, the dogs scatter to explore the yard, making sure nothing's changed in their home domain in the hours away.
Beth watches them in amusement for a moment before heading inside to get supper started. Just like on the boat, Shane shares the cooking duties fairly equally, but now he's more likely to set up the small crockpot than stand at the stove. She can't complain, as everything he's come up with is tasty. They both make sure the dogs' food is cooking away in the larger crockpot.
Her cooking remains a bit more experimental, but at least it's not as much of an unknown as it was before the prison and training with Carol. Maybe she didn't go out to scavenge or hunt back then, but she'll never be daunted by throwing together a meal from seemingly unrelated items again. She hasn't gone hungry since that first night after the prison fell, but the memory of that terrible winter on the road lingers.
Tonight's meal is purely Caribbean because it appeals to her sense of whimsy to use the cooking she's been learning from others on the island versus what she learned back home in Georgia. Gillain had been a firm career woman before the virus, so Beth never feels odd getting lessons from Sarah. The elder woman cheerfully teaches them both the traditional meals Gillain grew up eating on Trinidad but never learned to cook.
The oildown is traditionally made with salted meat, but she's being careful of salt right now, so she's substituting fish instead. Chopped breadfruit, unripe green fig bananas, garlic, onions, and peppers are topped with chives and thyme from her herb garden outside, all simmering in coconut milk and several tablespoons of homemade roucou liquid. The dasheen leaves are layered over the top, and they still remind her of collard greens more than anything else.
Setting the whole thing to simmer, she goes to shower and change from her utilitarian hospital gear to one of the flowing sundresses that most of the women favor. It still gives her time before the breadfruit of the oildown is ready, so she checks on the mango sorbet in the freezer. It looks like it set well since she made it last night, leaving her to move on to make tamarind balls. Shane's not a fan of the sour treat, not the same way he likes limeade, but she's been craving sour fruits lately.
"Something smells damned good," Shane calls out. From the sound of excited dogs, he hasn't made it to the porch yet, but the open screen door allows the simmering stew's scent to drift outside.
"Experimenting with Sarah's oildown recipe," she replies, opening the pot and layering the mahi-mahi in on top before covering it so the fish can steam cook at the end. Pilfering one of her tamarind balls, she goes to peek out the door and laughs.
Having three half-grown dogs is always an exercise in rambunctious sibling rivalry. Even Shane's speed at tossing balls into the greenery isn't enough to keep up with all three pups. He's flushed and laughing, looking about as joyfully happy as she's seen him. Montserrat has been so very good for both of their mental health.
"Alright, pups, it's supper time!"
Beth's distraction is an instant one, with all three balls dropped near the porch as the puppies bound up and whine. Shane slips inside the screen door, tugging her close for a teasing, brief kiss. He smells of salt and sea air after a day spent giving sailing lessons. As much as people are trained to fight if needed, learning to escape is an equally necessary skill, and fuel won't be around forever.
"I'll feed the dogs and wash up while you finish," he offers, and she thanks him before going to peek at the food on the stove. Once he carries the bowls outside, she scoops up the remaining dog food into a container for the fridge. By the time he's washed up and changed from his boat gear to a light t-shirt and shorts for around the cottage, she's got their meals on the table.
Shane eyes the neatly set table with the flowers and candles she put into place in his absence. His expression has that carefully considering look she remembers her daddy having a few times when Hershel thought he might have forgotten an anniversary or birthday. He runs his thumb across the wedding band he's slipped back on since he got home. Even the silicone ones make her nervous on the boats.
There's nothing to forget, not really. Maybe Beth's still young enough to keep that weekly count in her head, but seven weeks yesterday was no major milestone by anyone's standards.
"I wanted us to have a nice supper," she says, giving him half the reason. He hasn't forgotten anything. She just hasn't let him in on their new secret yet.
Once he's reassured, they settle to eat and he tells her about the day's lessons. It will always be a marvel to her that two fruits can taste so much like potatoes or yams, between the breadfruit and green bananas. The nice thing is that going hungry in the Caribbean is going to be extremely low risk. Maybe things like beef won't be common, but there are plenty of wild pigs, sheep, and goats on various islands, and the sea teems with fish of all types.
"You haven't shared anything about the hospital today," he says, laying his spoon beside his empty ice cream bowl. "Did something happen?"
She'd stolen a few bites of his ice cream, but the coconut is almost too sweet. Dr. Rolle had recommended she increase her dairy intake in the evenings, to reduce the steadily increasing nausea she has at bedtime that he says is heartburn-related as much as actual morning sickness.
"Something did happen," she tells him, trying to keep her expression neutral. She could have taken a test last week, but she'd waited to be sure, opting for the blood test to be even further sure. "But Dr. Rolle says it'll take us about thirty-five weeks to get it sorted out."
Shane furrows his brows, eyes narrowing, and it's just not clicking with such a vague clue. Getting out of her chair, she goes to perch in his lap, draping her arms around his shoulders, leaning her forehead against his. "Is nine months a better clue?"
It sinks in then. His eyes close briefly, fluttering back open as one of his big hands settles against her flat belly as he swallows hard. "He's sure?"
"As sure as he can be before he runs an ultrasound and everything. We'll do that at the end of next week so we're well past the six-week mark for hearing the heartbeat."
"Oh, God."
Shane's never kissed her so tentatively, but he also follows her lead when she seeks more intensity. Supper cleanup is forgotten in him carrying her to their bedroom. There's no urgency, just a sweet sense of trying to make it last forever.
Afterward, she isn't surprised when he can't keep his hand off her belly as they lie naked in bed. His callouses provide a unique texture against her skin as he strokes softly. "Everything's good? Everything's okay?" Raising his head, he looks a little alarmed. "You haven't been getting sick and hiding it, have you?"
"It's fine. No real nausea yet, but that could change as time goes on. I'll let you know if it did, I promise."
"Did he give you a due date?"
"New Year's Eve." It would be a hell of a way to ring in the new year, but she knows from her apprenticeship that the baby could arrive anywhere from mid-December to mid-January and be perfectly fine.
Beth gives in easily to Shane's need to pamper her, relaxing in the hammock outside after donning her sundress again, while he cleans up the kitchen and settles the dogs for the night. There will come a point where she'll remind him she's not delicate, but for tonight, while he's still wearing that expression of wistful, stunned awe? He can spoil her all he wants.
There aren't words to describe Shane's good mood after the ultrasound at the end of the week. Part of him wants to be anxious, but he just can't find it in himself to be pessimistic after he sits in the exam room with Beth and listens to the baby's heartbeat. Nothing in his life prepared him for the feeling that grips him at that sound.
It carries him into every project he works on. Beth doesn't want it shared with everyone just yet, a caution he understands, but the nice part about being a newlywed is that everyone just assumes he's goofy as hell because of that.
Everything changes the next week, five days into May, when a messenger comes to find him helping with one of the fruit harvests. The summons is urgent enough to send an actual vehicle, so he climbs into the passenger seat and tries not to pester the man for answers he probably doesn't have.
He's delivered to the comms room, which he's seen twice since they arrived at the end of January. All of the ranking military are here, along with half the council. He's the odd one out, so he's not sure why they've sent for him.
"We've got someone on the radio. Says he's with a group from the DC area," he's told. "None of us are familiar with the area or what to ask to see if maybe he's telling the truth."
"Can't say I'm terribly familiar with DC, but I can try." His grand total of visits to the nation's capital was one school trip in high school to see the monuments and a separate trip before that to visit Arlington with his grandmother. But having met most of the Americans on the island, he knows none of them are from the DC area either.
He's passed the radio mike and introduces himself by first name only. The reply comes in a similar fashion, but the man has a thick Texas accent. Going through a list of questions someone slides in front of him, he becomes reasonably sure the man's telling the truth. Worse, the community there is struggling, left unprotected and unprepared for the scope of the disaster.
Wariness keeps the man from giving exact numbers of his community, but if they're struggling that badly even with scavenging, Shane figures it's not a small one. He signs off, still not completely sure the man's telling the truth. In the end, they decide to continue the conversations.
"If this is legitimate, Walsh, are you willing to be part of a group to go scout them out? We can't in good conscience leave them abandoned like that, even if they are far from our normal domain." It's the Dutch captain who makes the statement, but his British counterpart nods, too.
"Not sure we can get them back here on sailing vessels unless we send a small fleet," Shane replies.
"What luck it is that we have all these abandoned charter yachts and enough people to sail them, yes?"
It's that simple, apparently. Shane meets the two military captains every day before supper for the next week, quizzing the man on the other end. Dr. Rolle turns out to have family who lived in the Virginia area, and Shane hates seeing the kind older man's despair as little slips from the American on the other end indicate the community is far north of the Virginia state capitol.
Finally, Shane offers a meeting, and the man accepts. They set a meeting date for two weeks from today, weather permitting, on the Chesapeake Bay at the abandoned Naval Air Station at the Patuxent River.
"We'll send the Tranquility. Sergeant-Majoor Janssen can take a group up for the meeting. Let half off out of sight to scout on foot. Once we've ascertained these people are in legitimate need, we can send other sailing vessels north. I'm not sure I'd trust vessels set unused in any harbors up there for all this time, not for the distance they'd need to sail."
With the Dutch captain's plan set into place, they set out to make all the arrangements, and Shane isn't surprised that Luuk wants him along. He knows the local geography a little, and no one else does, not even Dr. Rolle, since his family had moved to the area only six months before the world screeched to a halt.
Seeing Beth pack her bag shouldn't be surprising, either. Her jaw is set, and she's keyed up for him to object, he can tell, so he lets her have her say.
"It makes good sense to take dogs, and we've got two of the best for being on a sailboat. Gillain already said the pups could stay with her until we get back. Dr. Rolle says it's perfectly safe for me to travel that far right now. You aren't going without me."
Leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, he smiles reassuringly. "Wasn't going to ask you to go if you didn't volunteer, Beth, but I'm your husband, not your keeper. If you think you can make the trip, I've got no objections. Did you talk to Luuk already?"
It takes a minute for her to answer because apparently, his easy agreement deserves a lingering kiss. "He asked me. Thought it would be a good idea to have a couple on board, and we're the only couple who are both qualified in the military training and sailing."
On May twenty-third, after days of sailing along an eastern US coastline as deserted as Florida's had been in the Gulf when they first set off to leave the States behind, Shane and Beth are on deck when Newport News slides by in the distance.
"While we're in Virginia, do you think Luuk would be open to figuring out where Dr. Rolle's family lived?" Beth asks him.
"Only reason he might object if the rest turns out to be legit is if there are herds in the area we can't get through. Did you get the address?"
"Yeah. It's in some development south of Richmond called Shirewilt Estates."
"Well, let's get these people sorted, and we'll ask Luuk after, alright?"
Nodding, Beth goes to help the Dutch Marines sent along for the ground exploration. The six men wave as she lowers the dinghy before setting off. They're far enough from their destination that the six sailors left behind can't be seen by anyone they're meeting, not even with binoculars. All they can do now is settle in and wait until they get the all-clear to sail into sight after radioing their arrival ahead.
Shane just hopes they're truly coming to find survivors and not anything worse.
A madman is ranting above Glenn, waving a barbed wire-wrapped bat like he's conducting an orchestra. All he can do is stare at Maggie and pray that Negan's anger and seeming obsession with Rick can be spent with a single victim. Surely, there's some scrap of humanity that will lead him to choosing a man and letting Maggie, Rosita, and Carl live.
The asshole loves to hear himself speak, and all Glenn can do is shudder and think that they screwed up when they ignored Carol's objections to the plan to rid the area of a group of predators. The tales they'd heard, the photos they'd seen, both confirm Glenn's belief those Saviors deserved to die. They're a larger scale version of those monsters at Grady and Terminus, and their leader, now that he's made himself known, makes the Governor look more than a little sane.
It's terrifying. The waiting is the worst, and unlike Terminus, he doesn't think Carol will be riding to the rescue. All he can be grateful for is that both Sophia and Judith are back at Alexandria, although how safe they are after whatever happens here, he has no idea.
Just because this Negan says he's only going to kill one of them as an example doesn't mean it's the truth. He only killed one person at Hilltop to set an example, and the people of Hilltop hadn't done anything at all to the Saviors. Glenn's people killed nearly sixty of Negan's. He can't see that price being met with a single death.
Blinking away sweat and tears, he meets Maggie's gaze again and prays. Not her. Not Carl. Not Rosita. He's saying it aloud, and it draws the wrong sort of attention. The sharp barbs bite into his skin as Negan uses the bat to make Glenn look up at him.
He wonders if this is how Hershel felt when a different madman held a blade to his throat. Rick and Abraham both shout, trying to draw Negan's attention back to them instead of Glenn, but it seems futile.
Glenn has looked death in the eye more than once in the last two years. He's never felt it drape over him like a cloak so closely. Taking a deep breath, he centers himself and meets Negan's gaze evenly.
If it's time, if this saves the others, he's ready.
A/N: The seven weeks between Carol deciding to take her people north and now don't quite follow canon, but certain key mistakes did.
Trivia: Glenn's first paragraph was part of one of the first scenes written for the entire story.