Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

July 15, 2010

"If you're a smart man, you'll put that gun down real slow, deputy."

Rick Grimes spent twelve years with the King County Sheriff's Department before being shot and put in a coma. He knows more than the average man what the sound of a gun's slide sounds like as it chambers a bullet.

He also knows what it sounds like when someone is deadly serious. The woman behind him is willing to shoot him if he doesn't comply. A glance toward the others on the roof shows they are concerned, but not alarmed, so they know her. Dixon's belligerence is completely gone now, the man relaxed and focused on his savior.

A dead man can't find his family, so he does the prudent thing, and slowly lowers the gun to the ground and slides it away from himself. He feels a trickle of sweat slide down his spine, and he prays that trusting the others' lack of alarm is the right thing to do.

"Now toss me the keys to those handcuffs."

Now that concerns him more, because he knows holding the gun to Dixon's head was wrong. But setting him loose? That's a different story. "I don't think that's a good idea, ma'am."

He turns slowly in his crouched position, bringing her into his line of sight. She's average height for a woman, with dark hair, pale eyes, and dusky complexion. She's also drenched in sweat and looking beyond pissed.

Her hands aren't wavering where she holds the gun on him. Unlike with Andrea earlier, the safety is definitely off on this gun. It's a smaller gun, but a .380 fired at him from this range is just as deadly as a round from his own Python.

"Someone care to explain why I just nearly got eaten and climbed the damned building to find this shit going on?"

"Dixon was wasting ammo and stirring up the walkers," Andrea says.

"Not sure I consider saving my ass as wasting ammo, but I suppose it's good to know where I rate with you. Especially considering you had no part in obtaining the ammo he's using." Although she replies to the blonde woman, her gaze never moves from Rick's. "Or did you assholes forget I was outside the fucking building?"

Rick can't see the people behind him, but he suspects they might have, especially once the fight with Dixon started. "He attacked T-Dog. He was out of control."

She ignores him completely. "Tee? What happened?"

The black man approaches, coming into Rick's peripheral vision. "He was pissed off, screaming at us. Racist shit."

"And? Not the first time he's been a raving asshole."

"I took a swing at him."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't think that worked out well for you, did it?"

Rick is surprised when the man actually laughs.

"Anyone else hurt besides Merle and Tee?"

"He got in a couple of good ones on Morales and this new guy here," T-Dog explains.

Her eyes finally flick away from Rick to T-Dog, but Rick doesn't move. She's too hyperaware for him to trust that she won't just shoot him if he does. "This guy the reason I just had to pull a Usain Bolt down that street behind us?"

"Yeah. Glenn had to save his ass from the mess he got into."

"Dumbass. Give a cop a gun and his brain exits the building."

Her comment makes Dixon react for the first time since Rick lowered the gun, as the big man starts laughing softly. The sound's gravelly and hoarse. "Don't think he was actually gonna shoot me, sweetheart. Would've done it before he cuffed me."

It surprises Rick when she smiles, transforming relatively average features into pretty ones. But Dixon's assessment seems to settle her, since she ejects the round from the chamber and flicks the safety on before holstering the weapon. She sets an overstuffed hiker's backpack at Dixon's feet.

The stray round goes into a pocket as she drops to a knee, reaching out to manipulate Dixon's head gently. The man allows the examination, posture content in a way Rick wouldn't have guessed possible with the keyed up anger of the fight.

"Close your eyes, Merle," she tells Dixon, cupping his face between her hands so that he's focused entirely on her. He nods, the movement wobbly, but closes his eyes.

"Now. What do you feel?"

"Your hands. Hot roof under my ass. Pipe diggin' in my back. Handcuffs. Sun's hot."

"What do you smell?"

"Sour sweat. Jasmine perfume. Roofin' tar."

Oh shit. Rick recognizes what she's doing, some sort of routine for PTSD or a panic attack. He wants to ease away from them, but he's afraid movement will disrupt whatever she's doing.

"Open your eyes."

Dixon complies, and whatever angry demon drove him earlier is completely gone. If he didn't know better, he'd almost think the woman's hypnotizing the man.

"What do you see?"

"M'guardian angel," he mumbles, so focused on her that it's like the rest of them don't exist.

"What year is it? Are you back with us, darlin'?"

"2010. Dead assholes are up and eating other assholes."

She laughs at the response and leans in to gently kiss Dixon's forehead. "Good that you're in the know. Don't want to have to dissuade you from chasing one of those dead ladies down like a bar skank."

"Jesus Christ, woman, I got better taste than that!"

"I dunno. Don't know I'll ever trust your judgement after Cori McAllister. She was twice your age, Merle, and you were over thirty."

As the man sputters, she turns to Rick and puts her hand out. "Keys? Or do I get to demonstrate just how insecure handcuffs are with the right skillset?"

Since Dixon seems calm under her guidance, Rick glances to T-Dog. The other man just shrugs and nods, so Rick hands over the keys. Once she uncuffs Dixon, she doesn't return the handcuffs or keys to him, tucking both down her shirt collar into her bra with a look toward him that just dares him to object.

"You need me to check you over, Tee?" she asks, shifting to sit beside Dixon against the pipe and massaging her legs. Dixon reaches out to push her hands away, dragging her legs across his lap and taking over the massage without a word.

"I'm good. Won't say no to an ice pack and some ibuprofen if we make it back to camp though."

"You got medical training?" Rick asks. Finding anyone with more than the bare minimum deputies are given seems like a miracle.

"Paramedic, before. Babysitter of city slickers who never went camping a day in their life now. You'd think after close to two months, they'd know how to identify poison ivy." She narrows her eyes, looking at Glenn, who looks suitably sheepish.

She closes her eyes, looking exhausted, reminding Rick that she said she was outside the building when Dixon was shooting. The others venture closer and Rick finally moves away, relieved when Dixon's attention stays on the woman.

Jacqui reaches for the backpack and peeks inside. "You hit the jackpot, Quinn. Glenn will be relieved." Rick peers over her shoulder to see more tampons than he wants to think about, but at least now he has a name for the newcomer without having to ask.

"Hotel is a motherload of supplies. Was headed back to let y'all know we might want to shift targets when the shooting started. Lots of toiletries, kitchen's even still stocked with stuff we can use."

"Nearly got yourself eaten for a bunch of tampons you don't even need," Dixon grumbles. He slips Quinn's hand in his and squeezes it, leaving just one hand rubbing at her calf.

"Well, I'll let you tell Harper why the camp's out of tampons then."

Dixon grimaces, like most men Rick knows when faced with the word tampon. "Dammit. Can't you make the girl stop growing up?"

Despite himself, Rick laughs. "How long have you two been married?"

Quinn's eyes open, and she quirks a brow at him, while Dixon gives him a puzzled look, scratching at the scruff on his face with his free hand. He hears snickers from some of the others.

"We aren't married," Quinn says at last.

"Well, now that the deputy is as equally confused by Quinn and Merle as the rest of us," Glenn says, voice far too chipper for their situation, "how about we figure out how we're getting off this roof?"

Too bad it's not as easy as the younger man makes it sound, but at least now he doesn't have to figure it out with a raging redneck underfoot.

Quinn reminds Glenn about the construction lot nearby and offers to shimmy down the building to go find a truck. The idea meets with a firm "fuck no" from Dixon, the only thing he adds to the conversation.

Glenn surprisingly agrees with Dixon. "We fucked up with you solo already, Quinn. I know where the lot is. Maybe need someone else to go with me, watch my back."

"Alright." Quinn takes her gun and ejects the magazine to reload the bullet from her pocket. It confirms to Rick that it's a .380, but considering the magazine carries thirteen rounds, he was right not to risk being shot with it.

She offers it to Glenn. "You remember what I taught you, right?"

"Yeah. 'Keep both hands on the damned gun, Glenn, you aren't in some action movie.'"

Now that Quinn's passed off her handgun, T-Dog retrieves Dixon's rifle and hands it over to Quinn. "Figure it's safer with you for the moment," the big man explains.

She does a checkover and does a bit of a grope around Dixon's vest, coming up with more ammo. "I'll cover whoever leaves to get the truck."

"So, how do we get there safely while they're still swarming?" Jacqui asks.

Later, when they're in the truck zooming to freedom, Rick has to wonder at his own masochism at not only suggesting the walker gut raincoats, but going along with Glenn. But once they've reached the camp, and he sees Quinn limping along with Merle Dixon's assistance, he knows he owed the risk to these people for endangering them.

Three children swarm the returning pair, all Carl's age or older, and his heart aches.

It's watching their reunion that keeps him distracted, until he hears an all too familiar voice scream out "DAD!" Then his arms are full of his missing son, and Lori's there, and beyond them, he can see Shane blinking away tears.

He was right to trust that his partner would save his family at all costs. He smiles at Shane, and the answering smile reminds him that despite the world gone to hell, his own world has all it's missing pieces back.

A/N: This is one of three beginnings I wrote when I began the Homestead Georgia series. I ended up going with what became Repair Broken Men, and that has been/still is a wild and wonderful journey. But the other little tales keep niggling in my mind, so I'm going to post them both. They won't have the regular schedule that RBM has (which is every 1-3 days), but probably at least once a week or so.

Chapters will run smaller than RBM (which averages around 4-5k), probably settling around 2000 words per chapter. The canon timeline diverges as of the rooftop scene and may go wildly freeform from here.

POV shifts will occur, primarily between chapters, but this starts out as Rick as a challenge to myself to actually write Rick (long before I did so in RBM).

Recent discussions with another Shane fan reminded me how precious few fics there are that are pro-Shane. She posed a Toni Morrison quote that fits this niche of TWD fanfic well: "If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it."