Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Though if they gave it to be I certainly wouldn't say no.
Warnings: See original chapter for a complete list of warnings. This particular chapter will contain significant adult language, makes allusions to possible drug use and violence. It is also pertinent to forewarn you, that this particular chapter marks the beginning of the more 'slashy' bits. So those who don't like even hints of the slashy goodness that many of us know and love, you might want to skitter off around this point. (So in other words, 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!
*Sorry for the long wait! I got uninspired, then busy, then well.. you get the drift. I am not sure if there is any more interest in this story due to the long wait, so if you want to see more, let me know if you are still interested!
Rotation – Chapter 4
It wasn't until about a week after that moment at the CDC, after the rising smell of cordite and charred flesh chased them out of suburban Atlanta, the very air crackling, stagnant and almost devoid of oxygen as the foreboding plumes rose in their rear view mirrors, that he began to realize just how monumentally screwed he was.
Only just not in the literal sense. And perhaps, if he dug right down to the heart of it, that might actually be part of the whole god damned problem.
It was almost as if since that very night, someone had stuck their grubby, meddling little hands clear into his brain and rewired the damn thing. It felt like a part of his consciousness had been somehow reassigned… redirected. Changed. Because now it had the kids name stamped all over it.
… In permanent fucking marker.
It made him want to slam his head right through the god damn wall! Because maybe then, if he was lucky enough, he'd knock himself out clean and not have to think about this giant cluster fuck of a situation anymore. He wasn't used to this. Whatever this shit actually was..
It had started off with the little things. Innocent things. Like when he would catch himself keeping an eye on the kid. Seemingly always aware of where the man was in proximity to himself, especially if he was outside the relative safety of camp. It was even worse when they were on the road, because in the cramped quarters of the cab of his truck there was just no escaping it. Whether it was the animosity of his own thoughts or the kid himself it didn't matter. The damage had already been done.
And he had eventually resigned himself to that fact whenever they put tire to pavement. Puttering along in their daft little convoy, gas gauges flirting with empty and motors all but screaming at the abuse. Because every once and a while, when they stopped to confer or make a decision on where to hole up for the night, it was almost a given that the kid would catch his eye in the middle of a lithe, long armed stretch, and give him that look until he finally gave in and crooked his head in grudging affirmation.
Every god damned time he was struck by the openness of it, the easy pleasure at the granting of such a simple unspoken request. He didn't know what to make of it, even on the best of days. It was a look did something strange to his insides, something that he still wasn't quite sure about. But before his brain had time to start making a fuss, the kid would already be grinning back at him, throwing his bag in the back of the cab, and swinging himself up into the seat beside him. Something that he would regret about twenty seconds later as the man proceeded to talk his ear off for the rest of the god damned drive.
The kid didn't even know the meanin' of quiet.
The whole thing made his hackles rise. He looked out for himself and himself only. He didn't do responsibilities or excess baggage. He never had. Though he figured that statement would be a whole lot more impressive, and indeed truthful if he actually lived by that example. Because last time he checked, for some nefarious, unknown reason, he was still here. Living and travelling with the others, the takers. And if that wasn't excess baggage he didn't know what was.
Apparently somewhere along the line, that too had changed.
But soon things started getting out of hand. Because pretty soon after the CDC, he realized that he wasn't the only one doing it. In fact it slowly built to a point, as the days and weeks progressed, where if given a choice, the younger man would squeeze in beside him at the campfire, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a myriad of other spaces available elsewhere. Indeed it became so common place that the action eventually ceased to surprise either him or the others. Not that he ever understood it however.
Even more maddening was how it seemed as though every time he glanced the kids way, he was getting a look right back. The rub however was that he was used to people watching him. Hell, the first week after meeting the others Shane had practically ridden his ass like a wood tick on a huntin' dog's rump. Poised for them to misstep, even if it was by an inch, anything to justify kicking them out. Indeed whether it had been a shifty glance from a passerby, or the assessing glare of a cowpoke upstart or a wet behind the ears wannabe biker at the bar on a crowded Friday night, people always seemed to have a bead on him.
..He figured it was in the Dixon blood. An attitude that was cultivated at birth, ripe for simmering disagreeably and the tantalizing, if not unpredictable possibility of impending violence…Merle had it in spades. But then again, knowing Merle that wasn't any big surprise…
But this look was different. It had intent. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking or his long neglected libido talking, but he could have sworn that the kid was doing it on purpose. Either way it was driving him mental. Hell if he knew what to do about it either.
So in a sense, he really shouldn't have been that surprised that when Glenn had mentioned the need for a supply run, he found the drawling syllables that made up his intent to go with him had already left his lips. Echoing out into the tree line, the words quiet and strong without him even having to think about it. And if the kid lit up like an evergreen decorated for Christmas, well, the others, to their credit, didn't even bat an eye. Blissfully oblivious as always. Thank Christ.
He didn't regret it. He'd never seen the use in regrets, having neither the patience nor the time for them. And neither was he about to take the words back. He was going, it was a non-issue. But as he watched Glenn flit around the camp, collecting backpacks and other supplies in preparation for the trip, squinting up into the bright Georgian sun, he was forced yet again to wonder where those words had even come from..
A/N: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!
"Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds." -George Santayana