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 12

But a fraction of a second later he found himself cursing inwardly. Cussing out a blue streak just under his breath when with another small rustle, just outside the line of his sight, the curious brown and white mask of a newborn poked its small, spit dampened head into view.

Damnit!

Inwardly seething, he ground his teeth. Grinding the back molars viciously as frustrated disappointment coursed through him like liquid fire. The sanctity of the moment had been lost, torn away. And his heart nearly skipped a beat as his fingers recoiled, flying off the trigger as if he had been burned. He breathed inward for the first time since he had tensed his fingers along the trigger, lungs screaming for oxygen as he forced himself to remain absolutely silent.

In fact he remained remarkably still as well, his face permanent and unmoving. The only outward sign of his feelings limited to motions such as quick, irritated swipes across his face, wiping away the muggy sweat beading at his temples, and replacing it with the cool, slightly gritty texture of the loamy forest soil.

Fuckin' figures. The first deer in miles just had to be a nursing mother. Couldn't they catch a bloody break any more?

He rested his chin against the metal frame of his bow. Letting the edges dig into his skin in a way that was just shy of being painful. The late afternoon light seemed to highlight the newborns white coloring, with the dappled ivory fur streaming down from head to tail in an uneven stripe that set him apart from his grey tinted mother.

And like water straining out of a sieve, the anger and frustration gradually dissolved, soothed to a mere simmer by the weight of innate patience and experience. But even as he let it go, refusing to wallow in what he couldn't change, he was still human enough to recognize the keenness of the disappointment for what it was. He was hungry damnit. They all were.

Still, a kill was never a sure thing. And it was the hunter that forgot that who was bound to come home empty handed. That was just the way nature worked. You went in with all your skills, but that didn't guarantee nothin'. His kill right before that giant cluster fuck that had been Merle and Atlanta rose immediately to mind. That deer had been his. He'd tracked the damn thing for miles and hunted it for more then two god damn days. Hell, he had even killed it and it got it so close to camp that it was practically already roasting in the coals and it had still been taken from him.

Fucking geeks.

But that in itself was the nature of the hunt, the possibility of failure. Sure the introduction of the dumb dead bastards was a new one, but the idea of a predator wasn't. Ethics aside, if you took off your moral blinders, it wasn't really that much different. Because those things roaming the city streets and stalking through the dusty Georgian undergrowth, were simply the newest assholes on top of the fucking food chain. They were prized catch, the trophy kill. The one hunt that made you think twice about crossing that city line.

He shook his head, posture poker straight yet somehow still standoffish. Letting the tension still notched tight in the muscles of his shoulders lessen the smallest of bits. Because he knew where this was all going, he knew where these sorts of thoughts invariably led. Right back into that that inscrutable carbon cipher, that existential question, that acrid implosion of self doubt and confusion.

Because this wasn't just about anger and confusion, empty bellies, or right versus wrong, this was about respect. About appreciating and recognizing where you came from, respecting the elements of life that provided for your daily needs, and treating them accordingly. It was about rationalizing your existence to realize that without everything else, without nature and nurture and all those other, seemingly insignificant things that existed between, humanity would be nothing more then a small, rather uninteresting blip in the perverse musings of something else that had evolved in our stead.

The point however, still remained. Indeed, one could even go so far as to say that such thoughts were all the more prevalent now, especially considering the way things seemed to have changed. And while he wasn't the only one that had noticed the regression, he figured that unlike the others, he was one of the only ones that actually had a snowballs chance in hell of living through it. For him there was really no other choice. It was either live or die. No grey area, no almost, or hopeful wishing.

The alternative made damn sure of that..

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. His nerve endings spastic and flighty as his muscles flexed, skin singing as a breeze coursed along his sweat dampened skin, chilling the skin that it found there. He squinted across the close distance, stance careful as his thumb trailed across the outline of his lips, the motion considering and just shy of critical as his nail met with a few days worth of stubble. Forcing himself to watch as the fawn took another few cautious steps, legs almost vibrating with the effort as it fought to hold itself steady. It's small, wide brown eyes taking the world in without censure, with wonder and a basic sort of levity that he understood right down to the core.

…There was as design here, a structure, hell, even a cycle. It was all here, clear as fucking day. Everything fit. Everything connected and had a place. And it had been this way long before human beings ever came into the equation, and god willing, it always would.

A man owed his respect to the things that granted him life. It wasn't a lesson that had to be taught to be understood. It was something that was innate and instinctive. Basic. The only problem was that few people actually understood that, or worse yet, actually wanted to understand. Because in reality no one really wanted to be reminded of the one, single most failing of mankind, that deluded belief that we hold some sort of privileged place on this world. Because in the end, it was just that, a delusion, conjecture created by people that huddled in their well lit homes when night fell. People that kept close to their manicured lawns and police patrolled streets, trying to pretend that they weren't afraid of the dark.

It brought him back to how he had felt in the beginning. Being almost disgusted at the waste, when his eyes had taken in the sight of the others, a ragged, soft handed group milling about in fucked up sort of holding pattern. He had been unable to rationalize how out of all the people that could have survived, he was stuck with a bunch of hoity-tote' city folk that couldn't find their own arse with a god damned flashlight.

But at the same time, he wasn't about to fool himself, this was also just as much about common sense as it was anything else. In short, today's yearling was next year's fat doe or strong legged buck. So offing either one of them now was much akin to shooting his foot at the ankle, because even if he did kill the Doe, the fawn was too young to survive on its own, especially being this far away from the main herd.

For a few long moments he watched, torn between indecision and frustration as the gangly little thing pranced around. Weaving in between its mother's flanks and butting against it her playfully, circling its new surroundings in growing curiosity, periodically darting underneath the softness of his mothers belly to nurse before tottering off again to explore. It was an attitude that was disturbingly reminiscent of a child who had just learned how to crawl.

His lower lip had gotten caught between his teeth, and he gnawed on the chapped flesh as sweat began to bead at his temples. Salt streams trickling down through his hairline as the familiar burn arced through his muscles as he kept the bow tensed to fire.

…One second. Maybe two, that was all he needed. One shot each to pierce the jugular. The kill shot. Quick, clean. Like a breath of fresh air slowly brought into the lungs..

But in spite of himself, his eyes remained fixed on the two animals idling in his sights, both of them blissfully unaware that their fate was quietly being weighed not ten meters from the spot where they were grazing. His eyes narrowed down the sight, fresh copper exciting his taste buds as he bit through the dryness of his lower lip. Worrying the wounded flesh without thought, teeth unconsciously vicious, not even noticing when a thin little stream pebbled down to meet the coarseness of his chin.

When it all came down to it, they desperately needed the meat. And at this rate, they probably wouldn't live long enough to see this babe shed his fawn colors. And as if to prove this point his stomached burbled angrily. Hunger gnawing at his gut, empty belly screeching at the offence of another day empty, still spoiled at the mere memory of those few square meals at the CDC.

Across the distance the doe flicked her ear, munching unconcernedly on a few tender shoots as her sharp hooves shifted in the loamy soil.

His fingers tightened along the trigger. Breath leaving his hollowed cheeks in a long, steady rush as the cool metal of the bow welcomed him back. Hand twitching in temptation as it firmed around the stock, skin melting back into form as if he had never left. Except that was the exact moment that the doe leaned down, nosing the top of her fawn's head when its long legs tangled together and it collapsed in an indignant brown and white speckled heap in the long grass.

Fuck.

The fingers caressing the trigger slowly pulled away, and he shook his head in frustration. Unsure if he was really angry at himself or the situation. Finally he looked away, pausing as he yanked up the collar of his shirt, wiping away the sweat that was steadily trickling down from his hairline, the oppressive Georgian heat seeming bound and determined to make him keel over with heat stroke.

He ran his hand through his sweat slicked hair, combing it off his forehead as a few stray drops flew off his fingertips. It wasn't good form to shoot a mother or a fawn. Even Pop used to say that it was plum bad luck. And that, coming from a drunkard and a trophy hunter that had rotted out his own liver long before the Lord should'a taken him was certainly saying something.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, finding that the heat was present even there, like a furnace venting up from his throat. Christ it was hot. The thought alone made him long to just drown himself in the water from canteen he had in the pack, or better yet, do a swan dive off the reservoir back at the Quarry at the old campsite just outside Atlanta. It was god damned tempting, but he shook it off, turning his attention back to the matter at hand.

Raising a cautious head, the doe had taken a quick glance around the gully, still chewing on a mouthful of fern shoots before she made to move, nudging her newborn along in front of her as they slowly, but steadily began heading south, picking their way easily through the thick underbrush.

Thinking quickly he levered himself off the rock strewn ridge he had been taking cover behind, feeling the dusty sod clinging to his bare forearms as he moved forward, crouching down as he watched their progress. Boot soles taking root in the dirt as his keen eyes took in the nature of brush ahead of him.

With a fawn that young, he knew the doe wasn't going to be taking any chances. She was heading back to join the safety of the herd. And for him that meant not only a wider, more choice selection of game, but also a chance to get a bearing on where the local herd denned, information that would proof useful if they chose to stay in these parts for any considerable length of time.

It was risk, but in the end he figured it was a calculated one. If worse came to worse he could always change his mind. Killing the doe and fawn might not be right, but there was certainly something to be said for desperate measures. They had to eat, that was a cold, hard fact. Wasn't kind o'course, but it was honest. And at the end of the day that was all that really mattered.

So he let the fawn and doe leave the gully unhindered, counting out a score of long, deliberate moments before he rose from his crouch. Slowly making his way forward, and readying himself to head after them, already planning to circle his way around the pair as they made their way back to the herd. Wanting to get a good idea of the landscape and distance as he mentally mapped the terrain, mind already jumping ahead to the positioning of the herd and how the upcoming hunt might come to pass.

He shook himself over once, loosening the cricks in his neck before he shouldered his crossbow, buck knife poised and ready in the sheath on left hip, feeling strangely conscious of the cold, metallic chill of the Glock-7 he had shoved in the back of his pants before he'd left. It was a chill that had refused to submit to the oppressive heat, and warm to his body temperature. It was enough to make him yearn for the warm wood stock of the Remington he had left at camp, the rifle being far too impractical to bring on a bow hunt.

No use in wasting the bullets.. Besides, he didn't hunt with shot.

He chewed on his lower lip, teeth playing with the split skin, angling off the soft corners as he slicked the damp hair off his face in a single, well accustomed movement. Squinting into the distance as he cocked his head, ears tracking the quiet, barely discernable sounds that marked the pairs slow progress through the undergrowth.

It was time.

And as he slipped silently into the thick underbrush, winding his way though the trailing tree limbs and wide leafed ferns, for reasons he couldn't quite understand, he found himself pausing. Eyes narrowing as he looked back the way he came, sight hindered by the slight incline and the dense, Georgian underbrush, as he looked back towards camp. And for the life of him, he couldn't quite quell the feeling that this time he knew exactly why..

…Because it had only just occurred to him, right in that very moment, for the first time in a very long time that he might be just a little bit in love….

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: OH MAN. I am sorry for the lack of updates! Life has been insane of late. Hopefully this will calm the rampaging hordes?

"You are only what you are when no one is looking." -Robert C. Edwards