Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Blade II, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #1) "AU Caryl with any of the different characters that Norm has played over the years. (ie: Replace Daryl with Scud from Blade II or Murphy from Boondock Saints.)." - As requested by karouyamisaki.

Warnings: Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead – particularly season one and just to be safe, all of Blade II. This is an AU/crossover fic, hurt and comfort, strong language, the usual blood, guts, and gore.

Pedestal

Chapter Two

He had a feeling something was coming when Rick and Shane finally broke up their little football huddle and headed towards him. But that being said, he was pretty much floored when instead of a dressing down or a diplomatic, PR approved 'friendly chat' about expunged juvenile records and explosive ordinates being kept in one's back pocket, Rick pulled a sweet looking Ladysmith out of his belt and handed it to him.

It was a decent piece, not new but clearly well cared for. He turned it over in his hand, thumbing the grain. He took a closer look, squinting. There were someone's initials engraved on the bottom. L.B?

"It belonged to an idiot, a rookie from our department called Leon Basset," Rick began, the toe of one of his boots scuffing against the bone dry soil as he appeared to consider his next words carefully.

"He was a bit dim, a bit young," Rick admitted, the shadow of a smile curling around the corner of his lips, gaze distant as he remembered, "but he was a good man when it came down to it."

The gun felt heavy in his hands, warmed by another man's skin. His fingers twitched around the slide, the whole thing felt weirdly like stepping on someone's grave.

B would have fuckin' wept with pride.

"Now, explosives aside, and believe me, we will be talking about that later, I've seen how you shoot – and honestly, I'd feel a whole lot better knowing you had the firepower to watch all our backs," Rick finished, sending him the ghost of an approving smile as he checked the chamber habitually. There was a full clip and probably more in Shane's bag, whereas he'd run clean out of ammunition for his Glock.

Hell, the decision was practically made for him.

And yet, he hesitated. Normally he wouldn't have had a problem adopting another piece, especially considering it was free. But he wasn't stupid. It wasn't the gun he had a problem with; it was the connotations that came along with it. The responsibility.

This offer came with a whole tangle of strings and he knew better than to get himself caught up in it. He was better off el solo, thank you very much. But really, when had that ever actually worked out for him? The last time he'd struck out on his own, he'd had to engage in some serious siege warfare on top of his favorite Krispie Kreme joint downtown, lobbing pipe bombs at a crowd of deadheads gathering below him until a god damned tank had rolled up Main Street. It'd distracted the walkers long enough for him to sprint over to his van and do the whole 'Gone in Sixty Seconds' routine down a random side street, hoping to every deity he didn't believe in that it would lead him to the freeway.

He could feel everyone and their mother watchin' the scene somewhere behind him. Hell, when he'd extended his hand and offered the gun back, he practically felt the god damned shock wave. Nosy.

"How many times do I have to say it, man? I'm a lover, not a fighter," he chided, tone flat but companionable as he let the pea-shooter balance itself in the center of his palm. It had a good weight to it, good balance too; he'd admit to that much.

Rick raised a brow, but didn't make a move to take it back, eying him down like a twelve year old who'd just been blessed with x-ray vision in the middle of Paris' fashion week. Which would have been awesome by the way - what snot-nosed prepubescent boy wouldn't kill for the opportunity to see through walls? Woman's changing rooms? Or maybe he was just projecting. Hell, even now he'd seriously consider parting with his left nut just for a fuckin' taste of Superman's most underrated superpower.

He was still a kid at heart, so sue him.

The pause was awkward, growing sketchy and strained as neither of them made a move to break it. He felt like he was the odd man out in an unexpected Mexican standoff. He wondered if this was some sort of test, some sort of silent judgement thing that would come to define the man's opinion of him until the dawn of time or whatever. He bit his lip, stubborn. He didn't do intimidation, not unless there were fangs or imminent death involved. He'd never been good at tests or rules for that matter. He'd always been the kind of kid that had deliberately colored out of the lines. Pre-school had been hell.

In the end, it was Shane who broke the silence.

"Well, now you are a lover with a gun," Shane retorted, giving him the stink eye over Rick's shoulder before he stalked off, his shoulders set in a stiff line as he headed towards where Glenn and Morales were piling the walkers, every inch of his body indicating that the matter was now closed for discussion.

And unfortunately for him, for the first time since the sheriff had arrived at the quarry, both Rick and Shane seemed to be in agreement because Rick didn't seem much more open to his stammering.

Fuck. His. Life.

He was left alone after that, not really noticing that everyone was giving him a wide berth as his free hand clenched into a tight fist at his side. He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't wanted it either. What if he fucked this up? What if-

He gritted his teeth as his hand tightened around the barrel. The smell of stale sweat and partially coagulated blood had thickened the air around him. He sucked in a hurried breath, trying to control the sudden jolt to his heart rate as worst case scenarios and 'what ifs' rose up in his mind's eye. His vivid imagination only made a bad situation worse as the mutilated corpses of the kids, of Sophia and Carl, Rick, Dale, T-dog, Jacqui, Shane, Lori, Andrea and Christ, even Carol sprawled across the ground in front of him, their empty eyes seeming to stare right at him as he-

A slick of sweat rolled down the curve of his spine, chill and discomforting despite the dry, Georgian heat. The repetitive swish-swish-thunk of an axe biting into the softness of flesh slowly brought him back to himself. Realizing for the first time that he was still standing there, behind the RV, his shoulders hunched, looking like a beaten old hound dog just waitin' for the next blow.

And as pathetic as he sounded, that expectation was not completely without good reason.

He was already getting flash backs to Prague and this whole situation was just fifty shades of not okay. He sighed, the weight of the weapon heavy and dull in his palm. Discomfort rose in the back of his throat, choking and cloyingly thick as he worried one of his hangnails bloody. One part of him was half convinced he just needed to buck the fuck up while the other was lamenting the fact that there was really nowhere convenient to have a good old fashioned mental breakdown these days.

He nearly jumped right out of his god damned skin when Carol came up beside him, hesitating for a smattering of beats before she put her hand on his shoulder. The action was as about as light as a single length of copper wire, gentle and passive in all the ways he figured a comforting touch should be.

He tried his best not to flinch.

And while it didn't work, at least she had the good grace to look apologetic about it. He supposed it made sense in a terrible, depressing sort of way. After all, if there was anyone here that understood, it would be her.

He felt the change in the air when her hand finally left his skin, trying to tell himself that his breathing wasn't ragged, that it was just nerves, the aftereffects of adrenaline slowly leaving his system. He was a good liar, one of the best actually. It'd kinda come with the job description back when he'd been working for the fang. Heck, as a kid, he'd perfected the art of lying before he'd even mastered tying his own shoes, so, at the end of the day, he supposed that said something.

Too bad he wasn't good enough to fool himself.

Ever since his run in with the vampires, he had this thing about touching. Honestly, about everything really. He had a healthy respect for the concept of the personal bubble, thank you very much. I guess you could say he had trust issues. And after all who could blame him? Knowing what he knew? After seeing what he'd seen, what he'd done?

"Are you alright?" the woman asked, sitting down beside him with an audible sniff, something that had nothing to do with dust or allergies, but rather the salt-tracks that had already dried across her cheeks, evidence of tears already shed. Shed for Amy, for Andrea, hell, for all he knew, maybe even for that dickhead she'd called her husband.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, taking her in from stem to stern as she looked off towards the horizon, at the dawn light streaking the sky in a haze of orange and pink, highlighting the distant skyscrapers as the sun started filtering through a band of heavy morning cloud.

Her hand lingered on her breast, skimming the edges of the gold cross that rested against the hollow of her throat, reflecting the odd ray of sunshine across her freckle-flecked skin as they slowly used up the silence.

"Super," he finally retorted, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he looked down at his lap. He felt her eyes on him as he tried and failed to come up with something smart to say, something distracting or self-deprecating. But honestly? He got nothin'. The gun was still heavy in his right palm as he leaned back against the side of the RV, suddenly feeling drained and uncertain as sweat started beading at his temples.

The sarcasm behind his reply was heady and rude, but funnily enough she didn't seem to mind. Instead, she rubbed her hands together, shooting him a sly, almost mirthful sort of look as she spoke.

"Me too."

He shot her a look, momentarily unsure of if he was being made fun of before she sent him a small, crooked little smile that assured him it was quite the opposite. He blinked as it set in. She was trying to make him feel better. Out of all people, it was her trying to-

He returned her smile after a long pause, but even then, it was barely there, more a reflection of her own than anything else. He was tired, tired of confrontation, tired of the fuckin' front he'd put up around him since day fuckin' one. God, he was just tired.

His limbs felt heavy at his sides as he pressed one of the canteens against his forehead. But the relative chill only made the dissociation that much worse. He felt like he was going to be sick. Like he was about to-

"We could talk about it," she suggested, her words airy and light as she looked down at her hands, scrubbing at the occasional smattering of dirt or grime until her hands shone red - irritated at the abuse.

"Nothin' much to talk about," he grunted.

She shot him a look that was about fifty percent mothering and fifty percent 'please get your head out of your ass and stop sassing me before I put you in a time out'. It was intimidating enough that he figured it would make a lesser man quail.

The woman had gumption, he'd give her that.

"I know enough to recognize when something is eating away at someone," she replied, unscrewing a thermos and pouring a cup of water before she offered it to him. His first sip was like mother's milk - cool, tart, and tangy in the way only fresh water, right from the stream can be.

Christ, she acted like it would be so easy. Easy to just spill his guts and not have to worry about the fall out. To worry not just what she'd think of him afterwards, but if she'd even believe him in the first place, respect him in the morning and all that.

He ran a hand through his hair, thumbing off his sweaty bandana and testing its give as he wrapped it around his fist again and again. It reminded him of one of those stress balls he'd tossed B one time after a raid gone wrong. Big Bad had squeezed it so hard it had actually exploded, spilling sand and bits of metal all over the floor as he'd high tailed it out of there, deciding to make a midnight sugar run before the man took out his righteous fury on him instead of another stress ball.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I tried," he said with a sigh, gaze narrowing as flashes of memories he'd rather forget lit up in the back of his mind like faulty firecrackers.

"You won't know until you try," she shot back, eyes watery but strong as somewhere in the background, Morales put a shovel through Ed's forehead. The sound was grating and harsh but she didn't flinch, she didn't even so much as look away. She only had eyes for him.

He swallowed hard, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he met her gaze from behind the fringe of his hair. Head pounding as a rush of words got tangled in their dash to the exit. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Try me," she repeated.

So he did.

A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete, thank you for all your lovely comments and interest, I am thrilled you enjoyed!