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 #1: 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 11
It wasn't long after that moment in the clearing, with the kid's long, colt legs caught in between his own. A messed up jumble of heaving chests and the bittersweet tang of an honest sweat, all underlain with the broiling simmer of barely understood frustration that he found himself making tracks for the deep woods.
He felt caged, edgy. Cooped up and stir crazy. His muscles all but singing with nervous tension, poised on the precipice of understanding something that he wanted more then anything, yet at the same time, instinctively baulked from. He didn't know the how's or even the whys of it.. And he just couldn't…
He needed time to think.
So when the opportunity arose to head out on a hunt, he all but jumped at the chance. They needed the meat anyway, with the goods from the last supply run already beginning to dwindle. Food was getting low again. Though, even he had to admit that given the nature of his tumultuous thoughts, it sounded more like an excuse to clear off for a few days then anything else.
He didn't even want to think about it anymore, and yet, at the same time, he couldn't seem to help it. There was something about the kid that shot through his self control. Riddling right through it like acid eating through metal. Slow..but sure.
He waited until the kid was off with Dale before he grabbed his gear and headed over to tell Rick. Temporarily shaking the man out of the self imposed daze he seemed to be living under ever since the CDC, looking out at the world with mistrustful, wounded eyes. And while he wasn't completely opposed to the change, believing that it made the man sharper and less likely to do something moralistically stupid, he wasn't exactly sure if he liked it.
It just didn't click. Not for Grimes. And the man was taking the whole wounded Coon dog look to an entirely different level nowadays.
He didn't know why he'd left that way. He only knew that he had. Not saying so much as a single word to the kid about it before he melted into the underbrush and out of sight. He had even passed the two of them, ghosting past unobtrusively on his way out of camp. Watching the both of them putter around with the Winnebago's engines. It had become a familiar sight of late, the two of them having taken to fiddling around with it almost obsessively in their spare time. Desperate to squeeze just a little more life out of that worn through hose even though they both knew it was a lost cause. It was just a matter of time before that thing decided to kick the bucket.
But even that was something of a lie, because deep down he knew why he was really leaving. He needed time to clear his head, time to think things through. But even then, in all honesty, he figured he had about a snow balls chance in hell of actually sifting through the poisonous, severely tangle web that was his..his..feelings. Emotions he had never really faced at the best of times were now streaming across his consciousness. And he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.
Christ. He just needed time to think is all! Was that really so much too ask?
He needed time away from the insistent, hungry mouths and constant bitching, away from the petty squabbles and the shady nature of the others affairs! But perhaps most of all, he needed time alone, without the kid underfoot. He needed to clear his head without distraction, and get down to the meat of the problem with nothing more then the sound of the wind in his ears and the outline of a fat buck in his sights.
Inwardly he seethed. Was this what he'd let the kid reduce him to? Mooning and moping over the man like some sort of blushing virgin? Hell no. His eyebrows arched mutinously at the mere implication.
'Snap out of it Dixon. And get those thoughts right 'outta your damn head.' He sneered viciously. His mind was awash with a thousand different thoughts, and each one was progressively more suggestive then the last. It was like being stuck in a friggin' nightmare.
The whole thing made him think about things like sincere lies and candy coated truths. Like almost every relationship he had ever been in. Where good intentions masqueraded around as mistruths and hyperboles fell from the lips like water streaming from a kitchen facet. But perhaps more to the point it made him think about long sighs of relief at the idea of a closing front door. Moments from his past where he would drive some sweet southern thing home, unable to tell her the words she wanted to hear standing up by her mamma's front porch swing. His reluctant hands stuffed in his jean pockets as his tongue refused to spit out even a kind, little white lie.
Moments where you know you should be feeling guilty, guilty that you don't love her. But you don't. You can't. Because despite how hard you've tried and how much you know that she is absolutely perfect. The kind of woman that is whole bloody marriage package all wrapped up with a head full of honey brown curls and flaring hips. All but gift wrapped with a set of delicate hands, a fiery temper, and kind eyes. And she is there, in spite of it all, standing right in front of you…wanting you. Except you just can't get over the fact that whenever you look into those perfect, forest green eyes, you see nothing more then a pretty face. Because she doesn't mean anything to you. Not in the way that matters at least. Not in the way where electricity sparks down your spine and a warm sweat settles in. And worse still, it occurs to you that perhaps she never did and it is only now that you are realizing it.
…Fuck this shit.
Within half a day he picked up on a day old trail. The bushes in the marsh lands not five miles from camp had been stripped bare of their leaves and tender shoots, the damp soil around them liberally trampled with heavy hoof prints. It was practically a signature, standing out like a neon sign on the Vegas strip to his well trained eye.
Dinner.
He had her in his sights on the morning of the second day, and damn was she gorgeous. Her coat was full and unmarred, styled with bright, healthy colors and perfectly speckled markings. She was wide in the shoulders, powerful in the body, and trim in the flanks without being too lean. Sleek to the point that she had just the right amount of meat on her that you knew the flavour would be enough to make your taste buds sing. She was easily the most perfect, well seasoned doe he had ever laid eyes on..
And she was all his…
He breathed in a silent, steadying breath. Adjusting himself minutely as he leaned over the naturalized ridge that marked the only obstruction between them. Perfect. He lived for kills like this. It was something in the way that the shot lined up. Where everything was exactly where it should be, calm, controlled and centered. Even the doe, having not yet sensed his presence, still stood chewing complacently, providing him with a clean, dead center target.
It was the kind of kill that a man had the right to be proud of.
His index and middle fingers drifted down to the trigger. The movement calm and deliberately slow as the breath he breathed in was gradually released from between his tightly clenched teeth. This was the moment. The moment where your eyes narrow down the sight, time coasts down to trickle and all that is left is yourself and the target.
This was it. The shot was ready.
And just as his fingers drew tight against the trigger a rustling in the bushes by the doe's left foreleg caught his ear. He inadvertently mirrored the exact movement of the doe as he cocked his head, peering across the distance through the dense foliage towards where the sound had initially come from. But after a short moment he dismissed it, unconsciously readjusting his aim to account for the adjusted angle, and mentally resettling himself even as his fingers fell across the trigger. Tensing across the length of the bow as the soil beneath him cracked and shifted, the sound oddly muted, silenced by the thin under growth. Almost like the ground itself somehow just knew.
Almost...Com'on..
A/N #1: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! (I like to respond to all my reviews so if you reviewed anonymously or I somehow missed you, I love you all, just saying.)
A/N #2: Short chapter is short. Sorry, life has been INSANE.
"I was an accomplice in my own frustration." -Peter Shaffer