Author's Note: The Ghosts That We Knew is an AU fic diverging from my main story Goodnight Love. This fic can be read as a stand-alone and is primarily Rick/OC. Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my YouTube channel via the link on my profile.

Balancing On Breaking Branches

Then

"C'mon, Rick," Shane exclaimed, slamming his hand down on the dashboard, "it's your turn, so haul ass!"

"I went last time!"

"You volunteered last time," Shane reminded him, "and that don't count, man."

Rick half closed his eyes, his reluctance only half real. "Okay, fine," he then said, exhaling sharply. "But next time, it's your goddamn turn."

"Hey, I ain't nobody's bitch," Shane snapped, sitting up straight, "least of all yours."

Rick raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

"Look, bro," Shane said, his own lips twitching, "it's almost one hundred degrees out there. My delicate complexion cannot handle that shit, not even for the chance of a shot in the swin's with that lil hot piece of English ass over yonder. So just man up and get our grub, okay? The sooner you do it, the sooner it's over."

Rick rolled his eyes before finally admitting defeat, figuring his stomach had no other option. He climbed out of the cruiser, before turning and deliberately slamming the door on Shane's smirking face, Shane cheerfully flicking him the middle finger in return. Shoulders hunching, he then headed across the empty road to The Sizzling Griddle, his treacherous heart thudding erratically at the thought of facing her. It made him slow his step, trying to buy himself time, so he could steady his nerves.

The first time he'd seen Imogen had been at the diner where its owner Hank Winters had been interviewing a parade of pretty faces after one of the waitresses bailed on him during the lunch rush, Hank more interested in their physical attributes than their professional experience. Imogen had been the last of the lot, sweeping past Rick without a second glance, leaving him gaping at her retreating back. She'd been dressed in a scarlet playsuit that covered her ample cleavage but left a lot of long leg on show instead, her black hair falling down her back in a waterfall of waves.

Rick had just stood there, feeling like he had been dealt a physical blow. When he was on duty, he would encounter all sorts of females in all sorts of situations, and he had become skilled at deflecting the attentions of the ones who had a taste for a man in uniform or those who were simply trying to seduce their way out of a tight spot with the law. But he remained the consummate professional at all times, and none of them had ever made even the slightest impression on him, but somehow one stranger had managed to strike him speechless.

He didn't know if it was his comparative naivety that kneecapped him, the thought amusing him against his will. His experience with women was limited to his wife, whom he'd married when they were both very young, and a girl in high school he'd very briefly fooled around with, mixing up his bases much to Shane's own amusement, even decades on. All he could do was hope that he would never lay eyes on the young woman again, but it had been a half-hearted hope at that.

Come next Monday, when he'd gone in to collect his and Shane's early morning do-nuts, to his dismay she had been there behind the counter, her black hair pulled up in a high ponytail, Hank slapping her ass as he wished her luck on her first day. Rick had been on the edge of arresting Hank there and then on the grounds of sexual assault, having had to warn him one too many times about his wandering hands. Much to Rick's frustration, none of the waitresses would file an official complaint, not wanting to be out of a job.

But before Rick could do anything, she had shot him a warning look that stopped him in his tracks, before manoeuvring herself out of the man's manhandling way, her full lips thinning, the only indication of her anger. Rick had reluctantly backed off despite himself. Later, after Rick had found out her name, (Imogen), and that she wasn't from London, her brittle British accent leading every American she encountered to assume so, Imogen had explained she only humoured Hank's horseplay because she couldn't get a gig anywhere else, playing Hank's game on her own terms, pouting and slanting her eyes provocatively at him from afar, promising everything and nothing.

He also learned she had moved from Carthsville to King County for a fresh start and was short of the readies, her small apartment more hovel than house. She'd had a brutal break-up with her ex and was now locked in a bitter custody battle over their daughter. Such conversation came with a cost, Imogen possessing a cutting tongue, but her abruptness had swiftly removed any awkwardness on Rick's part. But there was something scintillating in speaking to her, even as it injured, Rick finding himself looking forward too much to their erratic interludes.

Shane beeped his horn, ripping Rick out of his reverie. Within moments of first setting eyes on Imogen, Shane had predictably made a pass at her, quickly establishing a tradition of doing so every time he turned up at the diner, and he'd only passed up the opportunity to do so a couple of times like now. Shaking his head to himself, Rick glanced through the glass partition, allowing him to observe Imogen unseen. She was standing behind the counter, struggling with the lid of a ketchup bottle, her face a study of frustration. Taking a deep breath, Rick made for the door, taking off his wide brimmed hat as he moved. Clutching it to his chest, he stepped inside, his entrance making the wind-chimes tinkle. Startled, Imogen glanced up, dropping the ketchup bottle as she did.

"Shit?" Rick hazarded, making Imogen shoot him a mocking glance. As she then ducked down behind the counter to retrieve the ketchup bottle, Rick looked around at the empty booths, the sight making his brow furrow. "Where is everyone?" he asked as he came over, placing his hat atop the counter. "It's like a ghost-town in here."

Imogen emerged from behind the counter. "You're telling me," she said, dumping the ketchup bottle back down, "I keep expecting some tumbleweed to roll past."

"This flu, right?" Rick guessed, his hand hesitating before reaching for the ketchup bottle.

"Something like that," Imogen shrugged, straightening her ponytail before smoothing down the front of her skimpy hot pink uniform, its garishness offset by white piping. It exposed an alarming amount of cleavage and leg, making it hard for Rick to look Imogen in the face, his eyes always threatening to wander where they shouldn't.

But just now he'd been granted a boon, Rick wrestling with the lid of the ketchup bottle as if his life depended upon it, keeping his eyes deliberately downwards. "What are you up to?" he asked to fill the awkward silence, fresh sweat beading on his brow despite the air-conditioning being thankfully on at full blast.

"Just refilling the condiments," Imogen said, exhaling sharply, "there are only so many times I can wipe down a clean table."

Rick just nodded, silence swelling between them again. He finally got the lid off, sliding the bottle across the counter to Imogen, daring to glance up at her as he did, not missing the dark circles beneath her startling eyes. They were dark grey, almost onyx, Imogen religiously outlining them in kohl every morning. But today the kohl was smudged, as if she had been crying, Rick noticing some of it smeared on the underside of Imogen's wrist from where she must have wiped her eyes.

"What you ordering?" Imogen asked abruptly, pulling a pen out of her ponytail with one hand and flipping open her notepad with the other simultaneously. "Blue plate special?"

Forgetting himself, Rick continued to stare at her small hands with their chewed nails covered in sparkly chipped nail varnish. In the dark of the night, when he lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, he imagined those hands on him, what they would do. He always feebly excused such imaginings on the grounds it was no different to fantasizing about a film star. It was never going to happen. And even if the opportunity did arise, he would never cross the line, Rick remaining loyal to a wife who no longer seemed to love him. But deep down, he knew he was being unfaithful in thought if not deed, no matter what stories he spun himself.

"Rick?"

Rick started violently, the sound of his name on her lips alarmingly intimate. "Uh, just – just the usual," he stuttered, feeling the heat rise up the back of his neck, "one double decker club sandwich with white bread, lettuce, mayo, tomato, sea salt, pepper, crispy streaked bacon, roast turkey, and a side portion of sweet pickles. Also a bacon cheeseburger with fries."

"Drinks?"

"Two milkshakes - a vanilla special and a triple nut caramel."

Imogen wrote this all down at top speed, Rick reading her messy writing from upside down, forbearing to point out she'd spelt half his order wrong. "Might be out of sweet pickles," she frowned. "Would potato chips be okay instead?"

"Sure."

Imogen cast a critical eye over his order. "Well, nobody can say you're a man who doesn't know what he wants," she observed before turning on her heel and heading out back into the kitchen.

Rick watched her go, her words making him want to bury his head in his hands. With her, all he knew was that he wanted her when he didn't want to. But aside from a few long looks flung in his direction on occasion, she had never intimated any real interest in him. All they did was talk when he dropped by the diner, and if he drove past her when he was out on patrol, he would give her a nod and nothing more. It was all in his head, and that's where it would stay.

"You going to wait?" Imogen said as she came through the swing doors, startling him again.

"Uh, yeah," Rick said, recovering himself. "Did you have any sweet pickles?"

"Um, no," Imogen said, biting her lip, "and there's no potato chips either. But I can slip you a slice of pecan pie if you want – on the house."

"Sure," Rick said, taking a seat on a vinyl Coca Cola red stool. He didn't like pecan pie, but he would give it to Shane, who was a human dustbin. He picked up a napkin, his fingers fiddling with it. "Everythin' okay?" he said before he could stop himself, his words making him wince. He always meant to stop asking these trite questions but he never did. But at the end of the day, it didn't really mean anything, did it? It wasn't as if he cared, as if she meant something to him.

Imogen looked away, full lips thinning. "No," she then said, voice cracking. "But I don't really want to talk about it."

Rick just nodded. "How's your brother?" he then said, swiftly changing the subject, not that he gave a shit about her brother. He had met him once at the diner, Imogen introducing them. The brother's name was Kit, some jumped up pretty boy with a cloud of dark curls and a battered leather jacket. He played in some obscurely successful rock band Rick had never heard of. He had looked at Rick with great suspicion, obviously picking up on Rick's illicit interest in his little sister.

"He's okay," Imogen said, her voice now determinedly upbeat, "he's coming down for the weekend."

"Good," Rick said abruptly, "glad to hear it." He risked another glance at her, his attention becoming unexpectedly caught by the silver heart-shaped locket hanging around her neck, having been too distracted to notice it earlier. She was never one for jewellery so it came as a surprise to him. But he had given his wife a similar locket as a present for their first wedding anniversary so he understood the significance of its symbolism. She had a man in her life, somebody who could give her romantic jewellery, subtly staking his territory, going where Rick couldn't.

"How are things for you anyways?" Imogen asked quietly. "Did you patch things up with your wife?"

Rick looked down at his hands, realising with some shock he had torn the napkin to pieces. He put the pieces down on the counter, shoulders hunching. Usually any personal conversations he had with Imogen were one-sided, Rick rarely opening up to anyone never mind Imogen, but after a particularly bad fight with Lori a few weeks ago, he'd found himself confiding in her.

"That bad, huh?" Imogen said sympathetically when he still didn't speak. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

"She said to me this morning in front of our son, 'I wonder if you even care about us at all'."

His words hung in the air, Imogen not saying anything this time, Rick wishing he hadn't said anything at all. What did she care? He was just another fool making a fool of himself over her. But to his shock, Imogen suddenly laid her hand on his, making his head snap up. Her grey eyes met his, their expression uncharacteristically gentle, her stare steady.

Rick looked at her for a long moment, feeling the ground uneven beneath his feet. Against every impulse, he suddenly stooped down, his lips brushing the back of her knuckles. And then he was gone, shouting over his shoulder Shane would pick up the order. The door closed behind him, leaving Imogen alone, her hand dropping uselessly to her side.

All this time
We always walked a very thin line...