Re: TWD: graham + clem
"Missed your fucking asses too." Clementine fussed and Graham laughed, and Shane was smirking feral beneath the grubby gore, comfort to be had in both the fucking pathetic cigarette, whose smoke came out thready and weak, and the company, as fucking violent as it was, yeah? After nearly two days or however the fuck long it'd been, she could have hit him with a fucking board and he would've fucking kissed her, and not only to be an ass.—He gave a growl of a laugh as Clementine elbowed Graham, and he took the towel passed to him, shitty exchange rate meaning his cigarette got plucked away.
He swabbed at his face. He didn't dare use any of the fucking water they had. They wouldn't die if he wasn't clean. They would die if they didn't have anything to drink. He scrubbed his skin red beneath the fucking bile and blood, clearing enough of it off of his face, even if it mostly pushed the shit back to the edges, so he looked like a man who dipped his fucking face in chalk more than anything. Whatever. He discarded the shit. Shane peeled off the shirt that stuck to him like it was drenched in rain—though the truth was much fucking more disgusting than that—and he roughly grabbed one of the clean t-shirts from the bag he'd heaved through the window.
But, Shane didn't put the thing on, yeah? He wadded it and stretched out on that poor bed, this being the first time he was able to fucking sit or lie down since he'd left.
"I didn't get fucking bit, yeah?" He replied to Graham after checking himself there, even as he painted them with brains, duodenum, and ruptured, festering whatever-the-fuck. Shane pointed one dirty finger toward the window he'd just come through. "Shutters—" Then to his bag. "Brought nails and a hammer. Rip those fucking shutters off and nail them across the door. Not much, but something."
He'd help, but now that he was fucking lying there, he didn't think he could get up.