Rating: R
Pairings: Rick/Shane, Rick/Lori, Shane/Lori, Rick/Shane/Lori unrequited.
Disclaimer: Don't own
Summary: Shane wants. Rick gives. It's never enough.

Thank you to vagrantdream on livejournal for being my awesome beta.

In hindsight, Shane thinks he could have done things better.

But he'd been angry with Rick for putting them in danger. With Lori for denying the baby was his. With Dale for trying to solve problems that didn't exist.

He isn't what they have to worry about. He's not the bad guy—rotten flesh and spongy bone.

Maggie's watching him; Dale's watching him. Middle of the afternoon, bodies burned and buried, and the group is tense. But he's not without supporters. Andrea's there—ready, willing and able to watch his back.

He's never had his own right-hand man before. He's used to being the one to give another person strength. Used to being what Rick needed him to be: moral support, loyal friend, friend.

"We need to talk." Rick comes storming out from Hershel's front porch. There's purpose to the way he moves. In the way he carries himself. Rick Grimes has a new fucking plan.

"We do," he agrees, first time in awhile, and follows Rick. They go past camp, past the edge of the fields, into the woods. If Shane was with anyone but Rick he'd be suspicious.

He remembers Dale, rifle against his chest, heart and sternum. He shakes holding in a laugh.

"I was handling it." This again. Rick's song needs a new refrain. "We'd reached an understanding."

"That what you want to call it?" Shane tries not to yell, tries to swallow the rage bubbling in his throat. Rick doesn't respond well to emotions. "All you were doing was buying us time we didn't need. You were keeping us near a barn of walkers. You were risking our lives." Shane's life. Lori's life. The life of Shane's unborn child and almost-son. Rick was risking everyone Shane had left.

"I don't know what to do with you," Rick says, eyes blank. His look is careful and far away. Calculated. Rick is sizing him up. "I thought some things would stay the same."

"You were gone a long time, man." Months. Shane can count the time by the bodies and the blood. The screams. By the period of safety Rick brought crumbling down. Not enough of a coincidence as Shane would like.

He tries not to be a man of superstition.

"Yeah." Rick nods. His fingers twitch at his side. The shift in tone is noticeable, like the cool between summer and fall.

Shane wonders, idly, if Rick will go for his gun. He wonders what kind of man Rick can really be. If he goes for it, draws on him—narrow barrel of the Python in his face, gun Rick's had since they were young—Shane will have to give Rick more respect. It takes gut to pull a weapon on an ally.

"When I woke up in the hospital, when I came to Atlanta, I was looking for you, too," Rick says, long stretch of silence, shadows starting to creep in on the hills. It's the final hour before twilight. The sky is tinted gold in the west. He looks to it, smells grass and smoke from their campfire in the wind.

Shane takes a breath and blows it through his nose.

"No," he says; grinds his heel into the dirt. He knows how Rick sees things. Rick had said it, practically. iIf they were your family you'd understand/i.

For Rick, family doesn't go beyond blood. Not when push comes to shove. Not when the world comes falling, fighting, dying, to an end.

"You weren't."

Rick unzips the flap to his tent.

"I need your help," he says, crouched at the entrance, pop in his knees. They're both getting older. Won't be long until they're dead. He's got no hopes to live to Dale's age.

Shane sits up and scrubs a hand over his head. The stubble of his hair scratches up his palm.

"Gimme ten minutes."

He gets dressed, tucks his gun into the waistband of his pants. He uses his belt to hold it there, tucked high against his hip.

Rick's waiting for him, keys to the truck glinting in his hand. Shane rubs his head again, force of habit. He's not used to the way the sweat gathers there, beaded, at the curve of his skill.

"We goin' somewhere?" He asks, but he heads around to the passenger's side without an answer. That's another habit he has yet to break. Sometimes he still finds himself following Rick's lead when he shouldn't.

"Into town." Rick doesn't give him more information than that, just puts the keys in the ignition and starts the engine.

The ride is quiet. Uncomfortable silence, a kind they've never had before. Shane can feel the tension buzzing thick between them. He realizes he and Rick haven't been in a car alone together since the day he got his gloves all soaked in Rick's blood.

The pharmacy run goes smoothly enough. They split up the list. Shane grabs the cotton balls, unscented lotion, the acupuncture bands—the kind for morning sickness. Rick gets the shampoo and mouthwash, that bright blue Listerine. Neither of them can find the brand of toothpaste Carl likes, Crest because it's sweeter, and he'll have to settle for cinnamon Oral-B.

They're on the way back, two miles from the farm, when Shane spots a line moving in the distance. He pulls a pair of binoculars out from under the front seat. It's walkers, sure enough. A herd of them, staggering together, stretched out, enough to fill the entire width of the road. He can't tell how far down they go. Could be a lot of them, a whole football field's length. They don't have near enough bullets for a job like that.

"Shit," he says.

"How many?" Rick sticks his head out the window to try and get a better look.

"Don't know. Too many to count, maybe. Could just be a few. You want to get closer?"

"No sense in risking it." Rick throws the truck in reverse and backs up a ways until they get to the dirt road they passed earlier. Dust billows as Rick swings hard to the right. They drive for half a mile before Rick parks behind a row of trees and bushes clustered close. Foliage should provide enough cover, assuming the walkers even think to turn off the main road. The one they're on is uneven, pebbles and compact dirt, deep tire tracks and crusted mud. It's not the easiest terrain to navigate and walkers, mindless, hungry walkers—they're more likely to stick to asphalt and flat ground, follow signs of humanity and food.

"Don't know why you needed to bring me along for this," Shane says, restless, fingers on the dashboard, drumming. He taps out an old song he remembers but can't name. Music's a part of that old life, shrouded in nostalgia and memory, hazy like a fever dream. "Fetching supplies was Glenn's area of expertise last time I checked."

"Lori asked me. Not Glenn." There's something about the way Rick says it, some inflection to his tone that convinces him to let the issue go. Rick gripping the steering wheel tighter does too. Adrenaline's got him wound, blood burning, and it's life or death here, waiting for the walkers to pass.

The walkers start to shuffle by. Shane can make out the snatches of color and movement in the distance, through the branches and the brush. The herd's bigger than he thought. Over a hundred, emaciated and hollow faced—textured flesh and decomposition. His gun is cool and comforting against his hip.

"You didn't need me to come along with you," he whispers, and he should be quiet, but he can't, has things hot like pokers beneath his tongue.

"I wanted you to," Rick answers, all mellow, easy like things are how they used to be.

Shane remembers I was looking for you too and wants to believe it.

"I don't like it," Rick continues, worn and wretched mouth. Clear eyes and haggard voice. Rick has wear and tear too, he just shows his differently. "The way we are now."

He rests his elbow on his knee.

"Me neither," he says, means it. He's capable of that much.

"What do we do?" Rick turns to him, hands on the wheel, ten and two, looks to him, first time ever, wants Shane's insight and Shane's advice.

"I don't know, man." He laughs, dry, bitter, and it tastes like blood in the back of his throat. "Sometimes things work themselves out. You just gotta let them be."

He musters the strength to fake a smile, another laugh, but Rick kisses him, rasp of stubble, his stupid fucking beard. It's not chaste or hesitant, Rick takes his bottom lip between his teeth and Shane brings a hand up, twists his fingers into Rick's hair, pushes and gets pushed too. It's like fighting, elbows and fists and using their full weight, Rick stronger than Shane somehow, getting Shane to follow him again, bend and break.

It should surprise him, shock him, maybe, but it doesn't.

He's thought about it before. Him and Rick.

Used to think about it a lot, cramped in that squad car for hours on end. Rick beneath him; Rick's thighs tight around his waist. Sweat and the noises Rick would make. Thinking used to help get him through the worst of nights.

But, here, harsh reality, Shane's the one with Rick's chest firm against his back. Crowded in the backseat of his car parked on some back road. Rick curled across him, face tucked into the notch of his shoulder and throat. Rick fucking him hard and long and slow.

He braces himself with an arm against the door. The leather seat beneath him is skiddy with sweat. Shiny. Slippery to the touch. He's going to have to wipe it up. Wouldn't want Dale to notice. Killing him might strain things with the group.

"Rick—" He wants to ask. How Rick talked him into this, how Rick came up with the notion himself, how Rick got him here, like this. How Rick can get him to give up things he never knew. Wants to ask why he didn't do this before, when it could have mattered. When he and Rick could have made a difference.

"Shh," Rick shushes him. His stubble scratches the side of Shane's cheek. Rick sounds like it hurts him just to talk. Course it does. Everything about this hurts him. Rick and his stupid moral sense.

Shane quiets just to humor him, drops his head. Makes sense if he thinks about it. Rick's the only long term relationship he's ever had.

After, sitting with Carl beside the fire, crack and hiss of burning wood, Shane realizes exactly what Rick's done; what Rick's trying to do.

Rick thinks the new thing between them is the solution. Thinks it's the panacea for all problems Shane. Rick's sneakier than people give him credit for. Shane finds a little solace in that.

"I had a dream about Sophia last night." Carl tips his face up, half shadowed in the darkness of the night. He looks young and raw and scared. "Do you think it hurt when dad shot her?"

"No, bud," he says, wraps an arm around Carl's shoulders. He pulls him in for a hug, lets Carl's head rest against him for a moment. He gives Carl all the affection he can spare. "She was already dead."

Carl hiccups and wipes at his eyes with the bottom of his shirt. He'll be alright. Shane knows it. Carl's a brave boy. Shane would be proud to call him son outside of his own head.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me." Because it was his fucking fault. No precautions and too much truth. Shane does what's right but it feels wrong after, to everyone else. "I'm looking out for you. Everyone."

"I know." Carl's voice is dry. He sounds older than he should. Shane sees Rick there, wholly, that firm blue gaze and haggard mouth.

"Carl, honey," Lori calls, flannel overshirt pulled tight around her shoulders, breasts, and belly. He looks for the first sign of a curve. "It's time for bed."

He watches Carl go and Lori puts her hand on his head, splays her fingers, and Carl leans into her. Rick steps out of the tent to join them both.

A spark from the fire jumps and lands at Shane's feet.

Rick waves to him. Goodnight, a gesture, tender branch of peace. Silent understanding. Rick has the habit of doing that. Giving Shane things that mean nothing—places in his life, dinners in his home, family that isn't his.

Shane can't look. Hurts him to. And the feelings he's supposed to have a handle on come back. They're everything he wants. The four of them.

He's standing near the tree line, early morning. The sun is pale, watery, and white. Winter is coming.

"There you are." Rick puts a hand on his shoulder, small of his back. Shane feels the heat of Rick's fingers through his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he says and it's shallow, insincere. He's not, probably won't be. But for Rick, he'll pretend he is. He thinks he wants to be sorry, somewhere. In that Shane that used to live just for Rick.

More than that, he knows Rick wants him to be sorry. He says what Rick wants to hear.

Rick looks at him, a question. Waits for Shane to carry on.

"About opening the barn." Necessary. You don't take chances with the dead. "About doubting you." Still does, always might. Rick hasn't shown him the proof he needs. But he's watching and he's hoping and he's willing to give Rick time, just a little, and he's ready to pick up the slack. He's got no qualms usurping Rick's authority.

Rick might think things are better between them, different, but they're not.

"You weren't yourself." But he was. He just wishes Rick could see it. You can't live like this and stay who you are. Andrea, Daryl, Carl, Glenn, everyone but Rick, they've all been subject to change. Rick's the only one who's stagnant. Like an old puddle of water gritty with bugs and leaves. Last dribbles of rain in summer, too dangerous to drink.

"That's one way of putting it," he says, and reaches up, covers Rick's hand with his own.

He'll get what he wants one way or another.