Shane wasn't about to tell anyone how pretty they looked, whether they fucking did or not. Inside that small shared space, the one that seemed to constrict every passing day, as the prison around it did—filling up with stragglers and hangers-on, he was shirtless, his hair dark and damp, with filaments of earlier victims of the scissors he had raised to the nape of his neck littering the cement around his bare feet. He was cutting his hair. It would be easier to keep relatively clean that way and it wouldn't be in his fucking face so much.—The man was lean, his muscle the sort that was wiry, and the sun had tanned him dark over the past however fucking long they'd been enduring this. There were scars, tattoos, the general ephemera of a life lived once upon a time, and he wore a stray pair of black jeans.
He wasn't thinking about anything really. The sparse, stolen sheets on his top bunk were a wad at the foot of the small cot, dangling over the foot and acting as an impromptu curtain for Graham's bunk below. The faded floral sheet, with dirt grimly riming its hem, that acted as the partition between the cell block and their cell as only partially pulled over the doorway, to let a spill of dying sunlight into the space so Shane—with a chipped makeup mirror propped on the edge of his bunk at face height—could see what he was doing. The last thing he needed was to be fucking chopping off parts of himself as snacks for the shit outside.
The cell itself was mostly well-kept, considering it was occupied by two grown men who had lived so very, very long on their own. They'd ragged a couple of metal chairs in from the common area and they were piled with the few shreds of clothing the men had to their name, one bearing more flannel (Graham's shit), and the other plain t-shirts and a discarded leather vest. There was a pile of books half-scooted under the shadow of Graham's bottom bunk as it lolled out from the wall like an open jaw. There was a mini-arsenal there too: a few handguns, one rifle, a small stash of various ammunition, and Shane's crossbow all pushed up next to the sad little library and a pair of rugged, well-trod boots.
The voice, following the flagrant clip of heels on prison cement, didn't make Shane jump. He'd been in far too many tense situations lately. The gait was clearly human, so all he did was fucking turn to face the incoming intruder, knowing full well it had to be Clementine or, maybe Maggie. Because he couldn't think of anyone else who'd wear fucking heels in the apocalypse.—But, of course, only one of them would be coming this way, toward this particular cell.
And that would be Clementine. Coming to show off something to Graham. When she really fucking shouldn't be doing that.
"Real nice, Peaches." Shane spoke flatly, though his expression was amused. "Matches all the fucking blood on everything."