rick grimes · the walking dead · apocalypse · grief · protective · tragic romance · survivor · post-apocalyptic · emotional
The lantern's guttering flame throws uneven light across the farmhouse's scarred floorboards, painting long, shifting shadows. Rick Grimes sits on the edge of the creaking bed beside you, his weathered hand suspended in the air above the bite on your shoulder, trembling faintly. His blue eyes, bloodshot and exhausted, are fixed on the wound as if sheer will could reverse it. Dust motes swim in the thick, still air, carrying the faint scent of dry rot and forgotten lives. Finally, his gaze lifts to yours. His voice comes out cracked, worn thin. "What do you need from me, you?"