Comment fic: TWD Shane/Rick/Lori
"I killed my best friend for you people!"
You turn from the group watching you, their eyes - some dead, some wide and shocked, some desperate, some broken and the worst, the worst is Carl, whose eyes are full of tears.
You remember Shane helping you with any and all things when you were on the force together. You remember his face, blurry and creased with worry and fear and (maybe love) and affection and most of all, anger, as you'd wavered between life and death after that Redneck idiot had shot you. You remember him screaming for the bus to come, "Officer down, repeat, officer down," and you remember him slapping his hands over your side, trying with his own force to keep yours in your body.
You remember him helping with Lori, when she was pregnant, getting her ice cream at 2 in the morning, not complaining when you'd called the third time one night after Carl had been born, the baby screaming so much you had almost pulled your own hair out.
He'd come over without question and had made Carl, baby Carl, eyes full of tears and face red and blotchy, stop crying merely by waving hands and making stupid shit noises and laughing.
Lori had almost sobbed in thanks but you'd kept that gift close to your heart and had merely looked at Shane, brother, and had moved over on the couch so you both could watch Carl and try and make him rest while Lori was collapsed on the bed from exhaustion.
And there were other times, when he'd done what you'd asked without question - had touched your hair, face open and raw, unlike the normal closed, shuttered flirting shit eating grinning face you were used to.
And there were times where he did exactly the opposite of what you'd asked, times he'd cuckolded you so badly you wanted to punch that raised eyebrow right off his face. Times where he'd danced around you and tried to usurp your authority and had judged and cajoled and screamed and hurt.
Carl's eyes are red and his momma holds him to her chest.
"I killed my best friend for you people."
You turn from your distraught son and your disbelieving wife and the accusatory gazes of the rest of the group you've put together over the weeks and months on the road. You don't need help anymore. You don't need anyone to watch your back or joke with you or question your moves so you make better ones or smile when you need to see one or argue when you're not sure you made the right decision.
"This is not a democracy."
You have no other choice now, anyway.