Re: TWD, Cell: Shane and Clem (+ Graham)
The skirt didn't bother Shane any more than the red-heeled clambering on his bunk did. He'd grown up in a house full to bursting with rowdy, unruly boys who cared not one fucking lick for so-called propriety—they gave not one shit about girls wearing their skirts down about the knees where they were supposed to. Shane wasn't a raunchy motherfucker though, not like some of his brothers, and to him it was an innocuous baring of thigh and shin—so long as Graham wasn't around, anyfuckingway. (Had she been Amelia, it would have been different, yeah? But she wasn't.) He hardly spared the exposure a glance as her fingers fretted around his head with the scissors.
"I'd be fucking fine with a goddamn cheese burger, yeah? Anything other than goddamn canned corn." Shane commiserated. It was a little out of character, as he was more the ridiculing type than the dreaming type, but the apocalypse did funny fucking things to a person, and after months of tinned food, all packed away past their expiration dates, dented here and there, and splashed with Rorschach designs in blood, he could maybe fucking understand the pull of imagination that got the others to listing their favorite foods, and what luxuries they missed most when the group got together to do anything.
When Clementine pulled back, finished with his hair, Shane retrieved the scissors only to toss them on the bed behind her. He brushed at his shoulders and chest, blue eyes trailing the comet of red as the woman began going through Graham's things like they shared, like husband and wife might. He kicked at her heels with a boot. "Go get your own fucking clothes. Scram and then we'll go."