A/N: Canon through the confrontation between Rick and Shane in the field, except Sophia never was in Hershel's barn.

Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another person - Tennessee Williams

August 2010

Shane stumbles through the forest beyond the Greene farm with so little sense of his surroundings that the only reason he isn't eaten is that the noise and commotion of the farm being swarmed draws everything dead away.

The part of his brain that can't stop cataloging things logically notes blood loss as the root cause, but he's seen enough of mental breakdowns as a deputy to know his fractured mind is just as much a culprit.

A stronger man would have killed himself, rather than being such a coward as to hold an empty gun on his best friend. A better man wouldn't have let himself fall so far in the first place.

He's a killer, fallen far from his sworn oath to uphold the law. He's still certain Randall was a danger to everyone, but Otis? The man bore the brunt of his terror at what losing Carl would do to his family.

As he lay bleeding from the knife wound, Rick's remorse eating at him like acid, the worst part was realizing Carl found them. The one good thing left of the disaster he and Lori unleashed, and he's tainted Carl's future by his blood on Rick's hands.

He flinched when the gun fired, but it wasn't ending his sorry existence. A heavy weight and awful stench fell on him. It's the paradox of his world: a dead body kept the herd from noticing him, and the dead bastard managed to play paramedic by putting pressure on his wound.

He stumbles into a clearing and nearly falls on his face. The blood's slick around the wound, which hurts like hell, but Rick's no bladesman. Shane can breathe, despite the pain, and he's not dead, so it missed his heart and lungs. If it got his liver, he guesses he'll find out if it's critical or not if he survives the next few days.

If Rick had aimed for the gut instead, he would be dead. Gut wound was deadly enough before the world ended.

But something's damaged and he's got to either stop the bleeding or find a place to end it so he doesn't turn into something that eats the living.

The house in the clearing is just a hunting cabin. There's a hand pump in the yard with a bucket still hanging off it. Despite the pain it causes to work the pump, he manages a bucket and dumps it unceremoniously over his head.

The cold water washes away the blood on his face and a good portion of the fetid walker blood from his front. He begins pumping a new bucket, but a noise from the cabin draws his attention.

He briefly considers replacing the magazine in his Glock, but whatever death wish he has tonight hasn't faded yet from when he ejected and palmed it to his pocket before drawing on Rick.

Suicide by cop, what a fucking coward he is.

But it's not a walker nor a pissed off resident who emerges into the dawning light.

"Mister Walsh?"

And if that ain't karma telling him he's on a roll of shitty life choices? The little girl he swore was dead, that he protested so furiously against continuing to search for, is standing in the doorway. She's trembling like a leaf.

"Sophia?"

He slumps to the ground, whatever sustained him this far running out of steam.

Sophia scurries forward, panicked. "You can't stay out here, Mister Walsh."

She tugs ineffectively at his arm, gasping when it dislodges his hand. "You're bleeding."

"Yeah." He has to find some energy somewhere. Staying right here means either he bleeds out or gets eaten. He has no right to put the girl through watching either, nor the danger of someone his size loose as a walker.

"Can you fill the bucket again and help me clean off more of the mess?"

Being given a direction helps. She works the pump quickly despite her skinny arms, pouring the water carefully over him. He hisses at the cold and she apologizes.

"Don't apologise, sweetheart. You're helping me, and that's braver than I've been for a long time."

It's true. She could have stayed hidden. He isn't sure he would have bothered with the cabin. Instead, she's outside, a terrified child still doing the right thing no matter what.

She bites her lip and nods, filling the bucket again and just as carefully pouring the water over him. He starts to shiver, but at least the worst of the blood and gore.

"Can you get up? The cabin is real secure. Nothing can get in."

His mind skitters across the thought of how long has this little girl been there and what's terrorized her for her to state that so firmly.

"Give me a minute. Is there water inside?"

She nods. "A smaller pump like this one at the sink. There's sort of a bathroom, but it's a camp toilet like you made at the quarry, just fancier."

When he gets to his feet, she follows, carrying the bucket. The trek from the pump to the door feels like ten miles, but he makes it.

"There's a chair at the table."

He makes it that far, groaning as he sits. Sophia slides two braces across the door, but the room doesn't go dark. That's when he realizes there's a kerosene lamp lit on the table.

He takes a look around to assess his surroundings and sees there are windows, but they're tightly covered. That explains why he didn't see any light outside.

The cabin is one big room, with a curtain in one corner that he figures must be the mentioned camp toilet. There's a bunk bed in one corner, the table he sits at with one chair, and a sink between the door and a tiny wood burning stove.

Sophia takes the bucket to the sink and half fills the bucket. She sets it near his feet and brings a kettle over and dumps hot water into the bucket too.

"At least it won't be cold," she says. She refills the kettle and puts it back on the stove. "I remembered you said at camp to always boil water you don't know is safe before drinking."

She points to a bookshelf near him. One shelf holds water bottles, while the rest hold a variety of dry goods. "I refilled the ones I drank because there weren't many."

Shane's half-stunned that his cautions to the adults sank in so readily for the girl. "Good ideas there. Smart girl."

She smiles so readily at the faint praise that he's even more ashamed of his doubt in looking for her. She brings him a worn dish towel, obviously intending he get himself clean or treat the wound or both.

Shane works his way gingerly out of the long sleeve shirt, which Sophia spirits away to the sink. It's such a mimicry of Carol that it takes him a minute to eye his shirt. As painful as it was to get the button up off, he doesn't want to try to pull the T-shirt over his head.

He fumbles for his pocket knife, using the blade to cut through the thin cotton fabric. He has to unbunch it from where he's been using it to apply pressure, so blood seeps down his abdomen.

The good news is that it's slowing. No arteries, no veins, he thinks, trying to remember his first responder training despite the exhaustion and blood loss.

"Is there any kind of first aid kit?"

She nods, going to pull a battered white metal box out from under the bottom bunk. She brings it to the table and opens it, showing it still contains most supplies. He just hopes they aren't so old the adhesives won't stick.

He's about to irrigate the wound, though. Reaching for one of Sophia's bottles of boiled water, he groans as he tries to flush out the wound.

"I can help."

Sophia is pale, trembling a little still, but she's squared her shoulders. He considers saying no, but the angle is hard and he doesn't want to waste her water.

"Alright. I gotta make sure there's no dirt or worse in there. Can you pour the water for me? Tilt it at an angle and pour slow and gentle."

She nods, hands actually getting steadier once she's got something to do. Having water poured into an open wound feels exactly like he expects it to, and he grips the chair and nearly bites his lip through not to curse and scare the girl. She's equally careful with the second bottle.

"Should I do another one? There's just pinkish water coming back out now. No more dark bits."

The wound is bleeding faster again due to the cleaning, so he reaches for a gauze packet and tears it open. He places it and the thin dish towel over the wound and applies pressure. "Not just yet. You did good. You ever had a first aid lesson?"

She shakes her head. "I wanted to take the Red Cross class, but my dad said it was too expensive for a kid."

"Well, we'll start now. This is a puncture wound, so you apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Then you clean it with sterile water, which you just did. Next we need to clean the skin."

"Alcohol wipe?" she suggests, peering in the box.

"Yeah." He reaches for a packet, but realizes he can't one-hand it. Sophia gives him a shy smile before tearing one open and handing it to him.

He lifts the dish towel, checking that the bleeding isn't increasing, before cleaning the skin around it. He hisses as it burns, but perseveres. She passes him a second wipe when he motions.

Shane takes a moment to let the pain subside. "Next, antibiotic ointment."

Sophia plucks the tube out of the box, obviously familiar with Neosporin. "Mama always puts it on the bandage."

"Normally, that's a good way, but we have to keep this moist. So we'll need to apply the ointment before putting a wet dressing over it. Tear open the big gauze pad and be careful not to touch the side that'll touch the skin."

Sophia handles it with all the care of a bomb tech, movements careful and precise and drizzles water on the pad. She layers ointment over the wound, probably more than is needed, before maneuvering the moist gauze in place.

"Perfect. Think you can tape it while I hold it?"

"Yeah."

Once the pad is taped into place, Shane takes a moment to catch his breath. He rolls the dish towel so the bloodied side is inward and applies pressure to make sure any renewed bleeding stops.

"Thanks, Sophia. You made it go a lot faster than me fumbling around."

Sophia smiles again, and he assesses her clearly for the first time. For a girl missing for fifteen days, she's doing remarkably well for a kid he didn't think could survive a night in the woods.

She's in reasonably clean clothes and sneakers better than he remembers her wearing at camp. She hasn't been in the elements for a while, he thinks.

"Are you hungry? Whoever camped here kept it stocked. It's why I stayed here hoping someone would find me. I remembered in a movie they said to stay put so searches aren't going in circles."

"You're right about staying put." He could use sleep more than food, but he knows he better eat. "Yeah, I'm a little hungry."

Her kettle is boiling, so she swoops over to it and pulls bowls down from a shelf. While she works on the food, he rinses the bloody dish towel and cleans up the best he can. By some freak accident, most of the actual gore from the walker missed his pants.

There's water all around his chair, but there's little to be done about it but to let it dry. He wonders how close they are to the farm, but knows he stumbled through the night. It could be half a mile, if he rambled in circles, or it could be five or ten miles.

He smells the oatmeal before it arrives. She puts a bowl in front of him, along with a cup of something orange.

"Tang. Not good as orange juice, but it's okay."

She retreats for her own bowl and cup, coming back to the table. She unfolds a camp chair and stares at her food while he opts for the drink since he knows he's dehydrated.

"Is everyone else still alive?" she asks at last, not looking up.

He's surprised it's taken this long for her to ask.

"Last I saw, yeah. We were at a farm while Daryl tried to track you down. It got overrun by a big herd. Bunch of cars left. Heard the motorcycle."

He hopes he's telling the truth, although he's as lost as she is for now.

"Okay. Do you know where they are going?"

"Maybe Fort Benning again." He can't imagine any other destination, but his own insane behavior probably means they'll avoid the place just on principle.

"But we might not find them."

Shane considers sugar coating the truth. He's no longer welcome, for good reason, but the girl needs her mama. "We might not, but I'll do my best."

She picks up her spoon and starts to eat. "If you want to sleep some, I can get things ready to go."

He follows suit, eating the oatmeal methodically. He glances at the battered old clock that seems to be keeping decent time. "Good plan. Can you wake me at noon?"

She nods. "There's some clothing in the trunk by the beds. Hunting stuff. Don't know if it's the right size."

"Thanks."

They finish nearly the same time, so she takes their dishes to the sink while he drinks another bottle of water and takes two Tylenol from the kit. As soon as he's done, he wraps the compression bandage around his chest to keep the dressing in place.

A search of the trunk reveals military surplus clothing, but the olive green shirt fits him well enough. He takes a pair of the camo pants behind the curtain and changes, leaving his boots by the bed. The pants are a little too long, actually, but they can be tucked in his boots.

"Sophia."

She turns from where she's drying the dishes with another worn dish towel. "Yes, sir?"

After reloading the magazine, he lays his Glock on the table, along with his two spare magazines. "Do you know anything about guns?"

Surprisingly, she nods. "My dad took me to the range a couple times. His boss's daughter was my age and liked to shoot."

"Do you know this one?"

She shakes her head, so he walks her through the steps. He can't see any situation here where she would need more than the first magazine, but better safe than sorry.

Once he's confident she's got it down pat, he leaves the gun on the table and settles into the bunk.

Sophia quietly returns to her self-set tasks while he tries to sleep. He can't keep her safe if he's exhausted.

He's got a general idea of the roadways around, so if they can reach one, he can get them sorted. He just has to stay healthy enough long enough to get Sophia somewhere safe.

His Grandma Jean would call this a sign, that he lived through the attempt to make his best friend kill him to reach this place. Saving Sophia won't salvage his soul, but at least it might ease Rick's for losing her in the first place.

A/N: This plot bunny bit me amidst a big case of writer's block on RBM. I blame migraine med induced nap, plus an idea that it's more of a challenge to write a redemption arc for season two Shane. ;)

Part of my avoidance of season two is Sophia's death, which I loathe, loathe, loathe. But hey, that's why AU exists.

Probably not a huge story in the end, but I don't have it fully fleshed out so... Who knows.