Re: TWD, Cell: Shane and Clem (+ Graham)
Their life was a goddamn telenovela, yeah? One set in a post-apocalyptic fucking nightmare, cast and crew undead and gaping jawed, and one with a few less Maria la del barrio situations, but a telenovela all the fucking same. So of course Graham would walk up then, slow through the slinking shadows of the prison, the thing made to keep in, now keeping out. And he would have that fucking smile on his face like he'd just been told something terrible and sour—which, fuck, he had. Shane wasn't optimistic enough to think the other man had missed much of any-fucking-thing and that knowledge settled at the pit of his stomach like a stone.
The quick tide of Shane's anger roiled in. You cross him and someone he cared about, and that anger was quick, quick, quick to follow, not even a heartbeat behind.
He glowered at his friend from feet away, blue eyes cold in the chambers of the prison's heart as they slid then to Clementine in her swish and swill of a cinnamon dress and the honey-sweet of her voice. The kiss on the cheek was like a fucking spiteful cherry on top of any already shitty cake, and the way he folded his arms then, across his chest, communicated clearly enough that he thought she was being a fucking bitch. Because she was, yeah? He'd just asked her something, told her something he'd kept to himself for goddamn years, as earnestly as he knew how, and she'd all but fucking flamingo'd on it in those fucking heels. Because she thought this telenovela centered around her.
Didn't everything?
Shane listened as an impassive statue in the corner as the woman rattled off nonsense that didn't matter any longer. A froth of curses bubbled to his lips, but he bit them back out of respect for Graham. But he couldn't do it all, yeah? Shane wasn't sorry he'd said anything, he was only sorry he'd said it to her. He moved toward Graham, to stand next to him, before he jerked his head toward the curtained off doorway.