note: This is a short piece that centers on Rochelle -- I'm experiencing a bit of writer's block, but I just needed to get something done. This was the result. It's kind of angsty and gloomy, and I think it's because of the music I was listening to at the time. But I think angst is good for this fandom, at least, occasionally it is. I hope you enjoy!

BREAKING POINT
by: T'starla
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The layer of dust was thick and grimy, and Rochelle swiped one of her fingers through it with a frown. The crib was old and metal, obviously secondhand, and the blankets inside were pink. With the bit of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the boarded up window, Rochelle could see the splashes of old, dried blood that decorated the small pillow.

Her face was wet, but she almost didn't realize it. She hadn't allowed herself to cry since the first night after the infection had spread. It wasn't the time for tears, or at least that's what she always told herself. Tears weren't going to get her out of this, they were only going to make her weaker and more vulnerable.

With the back of her hand, she brushed hurriedly at her cheeks, hearing footsteps in the hallway. She and the other survivors had been checking out all of the houses on the block, and she'd been the first one to venture upstairs. The first one to discover the nursery.

She hoped it wasn't Ellis in the hallway. She didn't want him to see this room.

Up until now she'd tried not to think about the children who'd been affected by the calamity. Hell, she didn't even like thinking about the animals that'd been affected.

To be faced with a bloodstained crib made Rochelle feel like she was going to break and crumble into a million tiny pieces. And she knew Ellis would have felt the same, if not worse. He was too innocent and carefree.

"What's taking you so long? Find anything?"

It was Nick. She heard him stop in the doorway, and she took a steadying breath, not wanting to turn to him just yet. Her lips parted to speak, but her mouth merely hung open in silence for a moment.

"No," she said finally. Her voice came out strained. "I checked the other rooms. There's nothing here."

There was a small silence. "Rochelle."

"I'm fine."

His footfalls were dull thuds against the dingy beige carpet, and he stopped beside her, his shadow falling over her and blocking the stream of sunlight from the window. She blinked quickly, turning away from him.

"Hey." He grabbed her elbow, stopping her. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

"No," she said shortly, and she couldn't believe that he had to ask what was wrong. The answer was right in front of his eyes. "I said I'm fine, Nick."

And against her better judgement, she raised her gaze to meet his. His ever-unreadable expression softened very slightly, and he let go of her as if he felt he were causing her pain. He gave the crib the barest of sideways glances, before he looked back at her.

"Rochelle," he said again, and there was suddenly such tenderness in his tone, something she had never heard before.

She cracked.

She felt like she was folding in on herself as the tears started to pour, and she knew she might have gone to her knees if it wasn't for the fact that Nick had grabbed her shoulders. He pulled her tightly against his chest, and she buried her face in his shirt, her shoulders starting to shake with the force of her sobbing.

Everything that she'd had pent up since the spread of the virus came out. All of the sadness, the anger, the utter fear. It was taking a toll on her.

Day after day she killed them, the Infected, and she had to fight so hard not to think about who they might have been before all of this. What they'd been like and whether or not they'd had big families. She wondered what their favorite colors were and how they spent their Sunday mornings.

There was no God. How could He let this happen?

She realized that Nick was talking to her. He was using the lightest voice she'd ever heard him use, and he was telling her that it was okay. That everything was going to be fine.

She wanted to grab him and shake him, ask him how the hell he could say something like that? Was he blind? Couldn't he see what they were going through, what hundreds of other people had went through before them? Why didn't he care? Why did he take it in such stride?

Why didn't he hurt like she did?

She tried to ask him this, but her words came out an incoherent and jumbled mess, muffled against his chest. She finally slipped her arms around him, embracing him back, and she squeezed her eyes shut so hard that it hurt.

As her weeping started to subside, she realized she could hear his heart's slow, calm beating. It was oddly relaxing, something for her to hold onto as she came back to reality, to the present. His shirt was wet from her tears, and she felt a great sense of shame overwhelm her.

She wanted to be strong.

She wanted to pretend that it didn't get to her every time she came across a dead body, or worse, a collection of dead bodies. She wanted to imagine that it didn't tear her heart out every time she drove a bullet through an Infected's skull.

She needed to be strong. She needed to brave it through.

If only for all of those who couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she said, and she tore herself out of his grasp. She wiped her face with both hands, and then patted at her hair. She would be strong.

"Are you...?"

"I'm fine," she said stiffly.

A stitch formed in his brow, and he took a step towards her, closing the gap between them. He reached up as if he were going to touch her face, but seemed to think better of it and let his arm drop. She gazed into his eyes.

"Please," she said hoarsely. "I just needed to get it out. I'll be fine now."

Understanding that she was done, Nick nodded and took a step back. "For how long?" he asked, and she lowered her gaze. "We're all here for you."

It was so not a Nick thing to say that she almost wanted to laugh. But instead, she nodded as well. Gratitude swelled in her like a balloon being inflated, and she reached down to brush his hand with hers – she figured he was learning how to be a friend, and that was all that mattered.

"Thanks Nick," she said, and she knew that no words could ever convey her appreciation.

All of a sudden, there were more footsteps in the hall.

It was obviously Ellis, as he walked a lot faster than Coach, and Rochelle's stomach twisted. She turned back to Nick with wide eyes, and he seemed momentarily confused.

"I don't want him to see this room," she whispered frantically. "Please, Nick."

His eyes softened, but he said nothing. When he stepped out of the room to meet Ellis, he pulled the door shut almost all the way. Rochelle stood in the shadowed nursery, bathed in the single ray of sunlight coming in through the boards, and she held her breath.

"There's nothing up here," Nick was saying, and his voice betrayed nothing of what had happened between he and Rochelle. "Just as empty as it is downstairs."

"Just our luck. Every damn house on the block's been empty – I think someone's been here before. Where's Rochelle?" Nothing but curiosity in Ellis' tone.

"Can't she get a moment of peace to take a piss?" Nick asked, and she could tell he was rolling his eyes for effect. "Believe me, she doesn't need to hear any of your stories about how this, for some insane reason, reminds you of Keith."

"Well now that you mention him...."

Rochelle heard the men walk away from the room, and Ellis' voice started to grow quieter as he and Nick descended the stairs. Then, all was silent.

Rochelle straightened her shirt and patted at her hair once more, breathing deeply through her nose. Purposely, she didn't look at the crib again, and she started towards the door.

It was time to be strong.