Cherokee Rose

Felicia pinched the bridge of her nose as the group slowly began to dissipate from Otis's funeral, thoughts whirling around in her head. She knew she was supposed to be mourning the loss of a person, not trying to sort out her feelings, most of which centered around one person. But she hadn't known Otis. She had known Shane. And she was beginning to feel something she didn't like whenever she thought of the muscular, dark-haired cop.

Well, he wasn't dark-haired anymore. The first thing she'd noticed when they were reunited was that Shane had shaved his head. He had been completely aloof during the funeral, and Felicia had seen Dale's expression as he listened to Shane recount the previous night's events. The older man was putting something unpleasant together, and Felicia wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was. Shane was different now, if that was even possible. And she was pretty sure that he wouldn't have become his own barber during the apocalypse unless he had a damn good reason.

The blonde-haired young woman caught up to him as he limped away from the rest of the group, boldly grabbing him by the wrist. He became visibly more tense, and turned to look at her. She took it as a good sign that he didn't pry his hand free.

"What?" he said brusquely.

"I…" Felicia searched for words. Damn it, why was it so hard to talk to him? Yes, he was an intense presence. But every time she found herself actually talking to him he just unnerved all preparation right out of her. "I just… You seem… Look, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Shane replied, a slight edge in his voice. "Why?"

"You were there when Otis died," Felicia said.

"I thought we'd already established that," Shane remarked, removing his wrist from her grasp. He did it with a conscious gentleness, however, which contrasted sharply with his attitude. He began to head back in the direction he'd been going, with Felicia following him persistently.

"I just want to know if there's a problem," Felicia told him truthfully. "I… Look, Shane, I know we're not… Well, we're not the closest. But I know more about you than you think." That got his attention. He turned to her again, stopping and looking right at her, his expression unreadable. Felicia put her hands up defensively. "I'm not threatening you," she hastened to explain. "I just… Dammit. Look, just let me know if you want to talk, okay?" That was all she could manage before turning on her heel and speed-walking away. She stole a glance back to see Shane looking after her curiously.

She nearly crashed into Dale on her way to her tent. He had been walking the same way she had been, and he stated perceptively, "Guess I'm not the only confused one around here." Felicia tilted her head slightly, not understanding. Dale gestured at the way she'd come, where Shane was still headed. "You were talking to Shane," he observed.

"Yeah," Felicia confirmed, falling into step next to him.

"I don't expect you got him to open up much," Dale said dryly.

"I'm working on it," Felicia replied, and then wished she hadn't.

Dale turned to look at her. "You might wanna rethink that," he told her firmly.

"Huh?"

"Come on, Felicia," Dale said. "I've seen enough of this to know what's going on."

"Oh, really?" Felicia stopped, folding her arms defiantly.

Dale nodded. "I'm just starting to think you picked the wrong guy, that's all."

"What?" demanded Felicia, face heating up. "What? Dale, what? Why would you…? It's not like that! I don't like him. I was just… You… Why am I even…? I hate him!"

The corner of Dale's mouth twitched in amusement. "There's a fine line between hate and love," he remarked casually, beginning to walk again. "Just be careful, Felicia. There's something he's holding back."

"I…" Felicia sighed heavily. "Thanks, Dad," she said sarcastically.

Dale chuckled but said nothing. Felicia, embarrassed and even more puzzled, retreated the rest of the way to her tent without incident, where she cocooned herself in a sleeping bag in an attempt to nap away the problems.

Ingrid had been feeling awkward enough already, given the circumstances, and the fact that Daryl Dixon had tried clumsily to cheer her up in his own gruff way wasn't helping. First a flower for Carol; and now he was actually trying to console her.

"She's out there," he'd muttered. The two of them were leaving the RV, Ingrid having just watched an interesting exchange between him and her mother and learned the story of the Cherokee Rose.

Ingrid had looked up at him. "Why do you care?" she had asked, against her better judgment. "She's not your problem."

Daryl glared at her scathingly, but didn't answer her question. Instead: "Just don't get in my way. I'm better at this than you."

To which Ingrid had responded quietly, "I'm glad you care. Even if she's not your problem."

Daryl had stopped, looking at her analytically. Finally he gave her one last sentence-"We're gonna get your sister back"- and walked away, not looking back. After this brief encounter, Ingrid found herself pacing the camp uneasily, feeling warm and slightly annoyed. She needed a cold shower. Too bad the world had come to an end. She paused outside the RV, staring at her ragged nails as if they would grow back if she concentrated hard enough. You're s'posed to be thinking about Sophia, she warned herself. That's what the flower was about. Sophia. Sophia, not Daryl. Not Daryl, not Daryl, not Daryl. Come on, focus. Get your head out of the gutter. Not liking where this train of thought was headed, she shook herself and made for the outskirts of the camp. Bored, she made the mistake of investigating the commotion at the well. A cluster of people was surrounding it, and a guttural moaning she'd come to know too well was coming from deep in the pit.

There was a Walker at the bottom of the well, bloated and saturated from the water. It resembled a giant baby, and Ingrid might have laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation had Glenn not been dangling down there with it. Felicia had risen at some point in the last hour, and was helping hold the rope he was attached precariously to.

"You wanna give us a hand, or just stand there?" the blonde demanded.

Ingrid frowned, but then shrugged and took part of the rope. It wasn't long before they were hauling the whole damn giant baby out of the well. Everything seemed to be going fine until the Walker split in half.

This caused Ingrid to throw up her breakfast, and although one of the passing farm hands gave her a disgusted look, she was glad that at least a certain hunter hadn't seen it happen.

Felicia groaned, letting go of her section of rope and taking a step back, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Teeth had somehow found his way over to the disgusted group, and Felicia had to put a hand on his back to keep him from going forward. Glenn, somehow oddly composed, nudged her with his hand. "You can take on Walsh, but not a little blood?" he asked teasingly, grinning. Felicia attacked him playfully, happy for the distraction, while Ingrid, still retching, wanted to crawl under a rock.