Quicklog, DC: Clem M/Shane A
[He scuffed her door. Just fucked because it was real pretty, and just because she told him not to, yeah? Just a swipe of black boot—seemingly indestructible things, the same he'd had since before all those dead asshole—to the wood above the kick plate, and then, without fucking knocking because he wasn't a goddamn solicitor, he opened the door and went on in.
The baby, named temporarily(?) Ass-Kicker, had a babysitter—Shane wasn't gonna bring her around the first time he saw Clementine, especially if she was as fucking drunk as her typos said she was. So, yeah, he was alone, even without his usual companion of a fucking cloud of smoke and a cigarette, yeah? Just him, in some old, moth-eaten black t-shirt—the inked picture on it flaked to a colorful nothing—over long-sleeved gray, all under some shitty coat, like, practically camo or whatever, and a striped scarf, hair a mess of unwashed blond-brown—his look not complete, of course, without his residual scowl.
He didn't give a fuck about Marina, yeah? So he just went on in—into all that fucking white; Christ, the fuck?—and said, loudly:] Someone fucking kicked your door, Peaches.