Hello, welcome to my new story. This's a brand new one. The idea got stuck in my mind as I was finishing up my other story, A Better World.

This's going to be a Rick Grimes story, starting with the beginning of Season 4, Episode 1, but I changed the ending a bit, the sick kid hasn't died yet, and Daryl and others haven't returned from the Big Spot, everything else is the same.

The characters and pairing of this story looks like a Rick/OC, but the OC here isn't a real original character, but Amanda Shepherd, the police officer from the Grady Hospital. I already wrote two stories for these two, and I'm enjoying them so much, Amanda's backstory from Adaptation and A Better World still stands, this's the same girl but the story will try to answer what would happen if Rick found her alone in the woods one day, close to the prison.

Enjoy.

I.

His hand tied across his chest, Rick was staring at the ceiling of his cell, fully awake in the gloom as the old-fashioned rusted twin bell clock started ringing. Quickly, he drew up and reaching out he silenced the old thing before it woke up Judith.

He hadn't been sleeping, of course, he never slept these days anymore well, not before his exhausted body let his over exhausted mind to shut down and catch up a reprise, and he dived into blankness more than went to sleep. Yet each night before he went to bed, laying Judith in her cot, he made sure to turn on the clock. It created a sort of routine, a pattern he needed to feel—leave the bed at six in the morning, go out, wash your face and hands, and start digging.

It was good. It was nice. It was…normal.

Until yesterday.

Now there were silent voices in his mind, trying him, and the woman's filthy face laying over the forage as she gave her last breath, whispering so lowly… you don't get to come back…

And Hershel's soft but absolute voice; You came back… You get to come back. You do.

You get to come back. You do, it echoed in his mind again as Rick bent down over the cot and checked on Judith. He didn't know. So, he just left the cell, walked out of C Block, washed his face and hands, and started digging.

It was good. It was nice. It was normal.

It was also escaping, of course, but Rick didn't mind. He was keeping his people fed, growing plants, herding animals, setting up snares. Carl was safe, Judith was safe. They were together. And it was enough.

Only there were still those voices in his mind, not giving him a reprise, but Rick had learned to shush them down.

Violet—the pig—he corrected himself, still looked like sick, and what he had seen in the woods before he'd found the woman had Rick a bit wary. He didn't want to read too much over the signs, but they were there, impossible to miss. If there was a sort of infection around, they had to be careful enough. He made a quick mental note to talk with Doctor S or Hershel about it later.

Carl found him as he started clinching his holster around his hip after he'd done with feeding the pigs. "Going out to check the snares again?" his boy asked, leaning over the wooden fences. Rick nodded, "Can I come?"

"No—" he declined again, the thought of Carl being outside still bothering him, "Daryl and the others aren't still back from the run. They might need an extra hand over things."

Things… He shook his head a little at himself, and tucked the Colt Python back into its place, the weight hanging over his hip feeling familiar, as if…as if something clinked with him.

He tried not to think about it.

"They'll need more people to clean the fences today," Carl stated then, his eyes turning to the fences, and Rick followed his as well, "Can I help them with it?"

The fences were having it hard. Soon they would need to do something about, perhaps draw them away with a car and send a group out to kill the rest of it. They could—

He stopped himself before he started a plan, his eyes running over the fence. No. He wasn't doing this thing anymore. No. Rick was growing shit, feeding pigs, catching rabbits. He was done with…things. Once Daryl came back, he was going to talk to the other man, and they would think of something.

Rick was just going to take care of his own things. And Carl—Carl was going to be a child once again, or at least tried to be. He shook his head, "No. Someone had to take care of the plants. You do that. We'll talk about the fences later." He bent down to hold his son at the shoulder and gave him a look to make his words clearer. Carl was listening to him, like a child supposed to listen to his father, but sometimes Rick couldn't be sure.

You came back. Your son came back.

The woman's laying figure over the earth flashed in his mind again and Rick pushed it away, walking to the fences for the woods at the east.

At the outside fences, he uncurled the wire to tie the cut pieces together to make himself a room, as quiet as possible as from the third tower's perimeters snarls and growls raised higher and higher. Walkers herded up, drawing each other as they kept making noises, but it also meant the other parts of the fences relatively calmer.

Turning aside, he passed through the opening, his movement still as silent as possible, and turned back again to close the gap. Then he walked away.

Over his shoulder, his postal bag rested against his other hip as Rick felt again the familiar weight across right hip. Almost on their own, his fingers inched toward his hip, and he drummed at the holster with his fingertips.

He stopped himself, catching the gesture. This—this couldn't do it.

You get to come back, Hershel spoke in his mind again, and Rick almost opened his mouth and shouted… No. He'd decided. He'd wanted this. Growing crops, herding animals, picking up worms and critters.

He bent down, and yanked off a piece from one of bushes, and put it into his mouth, just to prove to himself. Yes. That was the life he wanted, that was the life he wanted his son to have.

I'm tired, son, Rick had told Carl months ago, even before all the things had happened, and he had meant it. He was tired. He wasn't like the Governor. He didn't want to be.

The piece in the corner of his mouth, Rick started checking the snares.

It was like the last time, more animals fallen even though there was no bite. He crouched down in front of another deer, without touching it started looking—searching for clues. Something was happening. His every cop instinct was up, the hair on his back standing—something definitely was going on.

Then he heard it.

First small crunches of broken twigs over the forage, and they fastened… no walker. No walker made such fast noises. Someone was running.

And that meant walkers.

He quickly took cover behind a tree, drawing his gun out quickly, yesterday had been enough for him. He had no business in saving anyone anymore. He should've never bothered at the first place. They took people in, yes, Daryl had brought in Bob the last week, and the day before that Glenn had found someone else, but perhaps they had to stop now. They needed people, but each time they were risking something.

Almost two years now in the end of the world, and people were losing it.

So Rick just stood behind the tree as he saw it…a woman running like all hell were on her heels, jumping through the roots and logs without a flinch, a woman clad in complete cop gear, down to the black matte bulletproof vest, on her arm Atlanta Police Department's insignia was clear. Even her uniform was clean, despite of her situation, aside mud-covered combat boots. Her hair—clean hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, a few loose strands leaving it as she ran fast.

It was odd—she didn't look like she was a lost soul in the woods, the state of her uniform had made it perfectly clear; clean hair meant settlement, settlement meant trouble, period. Besides, she even didn't look like she needed any help, either. She was a fast runner.

She held a knife in her hand while she ran even though she had a holster wrapped around her leg, an empty holster. Rick stayed behind the tree as she kept running at other side of it, then he saw them.

A dozen or more so walkers were coming towards them from each direction, Rick picked up as he swore. Her feet caught one of the roots and she rolled over the ground and quickly fell back in a crouch and without stopping even for a second, she started running again.

Okay, she was athletic with her slim body, very lithe, but there was a dozen or so walkers lunging forward them, and one of them finally caught her as Rick stepped out from the tree.

He—he just had to. He wasn't saving her. He was saving himself. Walkers that much meant also trouble, something he couldn't hide away behind a tree.

The policewoman swirled around her axis, slipped away from one of the walkers, and raising her knife stabbed the dead into the head with a single basic move. Rick read standard basic training from her movements, methodical and precise. She turned aside bending down and jumped back away from the second walker, stabbing it in the meanwhile.

"Fuck it!" she swore loudly as another came at her, "Fuck it…fuck it…I'm fucking hating it!" Rick raised his Colt Python and fired at the walker.

As the undead dropped between her feet, she spun on her heels toward the gunshot, and her eyes widened, she looked at him, shock making her mouth agape a little. And from closer, Rick saw even her face was clean, a few spots of red and dirt over her cheeks, but she was clean. One learned such kind of things.

She must be around in her early thirties, clear green eyes widened as she stared at him—then she flipped aside, catching another walker lunging at her, and raising her arm, stabbed the dead into the brain.

Walking closer, Rick shot another two around her, clearing her path. She quickly moved back at his side as Rick shot at another two as she took care of another. His gunshots echoed in the woods, which was calling for even more trouble but there was no time for knives. He wished Michonne's katana for a split of second, clear and quick, but his Colt Python worked fine, as well.

They worked together even though both didn't make one word to each other as Rick shot at the last two standing as she stabbed the other, and they faced each other.

She was painted with more blood now, finally looking adequate for the end of the world, and her hand was still holding her knife over up in front of her in a defensive position, alert, her eyes now squinted warily as she looked at him, and his gun.

Yeah, Rick also hadn't lowered it. No. He wasn't taking any chances anymore.

They were a few feet apart from each other, staring at each other, still not talking to each other, then finally she let out a sigh, and almost rolled her eyes.

"Do you take me as a fool?" she asked, tilting her head aside, her voice rich and clear. And her knife was still high over her chest, her arm crooked at her elbow, her grip on the handle delicate but precise in the pinch grip. "Colt Python has only six rounds. You're out of bullets," she declared, gesturing the dead corpses around them, "I counted."

He made out a noise and lowered his arm. "You're a cop," he declared, too.

"Great observation skills," she shot back dryly.

"Are you coming from the city?" he inquired further, his hand moving to his other hip, ready to draw out his knife.

She shook her shoulders in a way that meant both, the knife still up in the air. He took a step closer and saw two bullets at her chest inside her vest. Catching his look, she flickered his eyes down too, and back at him. "Look—" she then started, "I'm already having the shittiest day ever. I was shot at, left behind, and almost got eaten by rotters," she went on as Rick stared at her, "How about we turn around, walk away, and pretend we've never seen each other?"

"Sounds like a plan," he said back.

"Yeah—" she breathed out, her eyes flickering again at his hand with the gun, then back at him, then she lunged forward, "But it never works like that anymore, right?" she asked.

He stepped out quickly before the knife would slash over his chest, but it never came. Instead, she spun on her heels, kicked the side of his knee, his tendon aching as the sudden move made him drop in a crouch as he groaned in pain.

"Sucker," she muttered out, kneeing him at the stomach. Rick doubled down on the ground, dropping his gun. She quickly grabbed it, then catching him at his shoulders, she threw him aside, then started running away.

Startled, he stared at her back for a second, too dazzled to understand what the hell had happened, then leaped back at his feet, his side and knee throbbing with pain. Damn woman!

He was going to kill her with his own hands!

With another swore, Rick started running after her.

# # #

Saying the officer Amanda Shepherd was having the shittiest day ever would've been the understatement of the year, even though it had been her own words. It was all that sonofabitch's fault. Amanda would've never—ever thought to go to a supply run with that bastard. A supply run with Gorman? What the fuck she had been thinking? What the fuck?

When come to think of it, why she kept doing this stuff?

Clearly, she was losing her mind. She couldn't think of any other better explanation.

Though, fair to be her, they were all losing it. Gorman, the most. And he'd started getting worked up again, she'd seen bruises at Joan's arms just yesterday. She—she had to do something! He might be an absolute piece of shit, but Gorman was good with killing walkers. What they were going to do? Kill walkers, keep the hospital safe and up at its feet with Percy?

Goddammit!

She shot a look over her shoulders to see if the man was trailing after her, but so far, she seemed fine. He probably was too shocked to understand what had happened, and Amanda had always had quick feet. When you grew up bouncing off foster homes, you learned fast how to run away quick. She was running away really quick, away from the guy—she might've called him a sucker, but she still didn't want to test her deduction further. The southern drawl, and cowboy accent, wary eyes, and killer shots, very—very clear head shots without moving an inch. Nope. Amanda didn't want to test the waters further. She even felt a pang of guilt, he—he'd helped her, but well, she needed a gun.

She needed to get back to Grady, and she could hardly do it without a gun. The gun was out of rounds, but one step at a time. First, she needed to find herself a vehicle still operational, then she could look around.

She was really fucking hating it. Perhaps she was just going crazy. Lamson had told her so, too, but damn it, someone had to deal with Gorman. She'd thought Joan might've soothed him down, sex had that kind of side-effect, yes? He should've been as tame as a well-fed lion, but instead the man had just turned worse! So, she'd thought a little bit of bonding in order, and what was better than get bonded over a supply run, right? They hadn't checked the funeral home, their safe home, in ages, and Amanda had thought it might've worked. Lamson could've worked on the man, let him unburden himself, empty his chest, and vice versa. Amanda was a woman—guys like Gorman would never bond with women—vertically…but somehow she'd ended up stranded with the bastard.

And…the rest… the rest was a shitload of trouble.

She made out a hiss, still running. She was so furious with herself, she wanted to kick her own ass.

Holding a tree, breathless, she stopped for a second, checking again to see anyone was coming after her. There was still no one. Breathing loudly, she rested her back against the tree, closing her eyes, and pulled aside the vest to breathe clearer.

The shots at her vest had taken the worst of it, but it still hurt like a bitch. Her hand went to her side and she felt wetness over her fingertips. Well, fuck it. She bowed her head and tried to see it… her long-sleeved shirt was getting wet with blood at the side slowly. Damn you to hell and back, Gorman, she muttered under breath, shaking her head.

Still holding the gun in her hand, she bent down, holding her knees, and from her left side, she heard twigs… She snapped her head up quickly, and with a twirl, he jumped on her at her other side, thank god, driving both of them to the ground.

She was fucking, fucking hating this!

She groaned as his weight pinned her down on the ground, her eyes blackening for a second, then she raised her hips, and lifting her leg, she held his arm and threw him back with her knee over her shoulder.

She flipped back in a crouch then, holding the ground with one hand, as with the other she was forced to leave the gun down and took out her knife back again.

He took his gun back as she slowly rose to her feet, her hand this time lowered at her hips. She ran her eyes over the man again, head to toe… There was something with him, something she couldn't pin down right, but something. The way he carried himself, the way he stared at her, clear blue eyes like a tempest, furious and angry, and she had an inkling that she was the reason of his fury.

She looked at him again, trying to assess. He wasn't a massive bulk of muscles. He was lean, but toned, and he'd just proved himself he was also good on aggression. If it came to it, she possibly might hold her ground against him, but Amanda really hated fighting unless it was absolutely necessary, and she was already having a shitty day, with wounds and all.

She wondered if she would reason with him, as furious as he was, he was still looking at her, as if he was waiting for something—perhaps waiting for her to react. She narrowed her eyes, trying to understand, and shaking her head, she just asked him, "I assume it's too late now to pretend we've never seen each other before?" She couldn't help herself, her voice even sounded…hopeful.

She just wanted to go now. The man—the man…well, he didn't look like…a bad guy, not really, whatever it counted these days, anyways. But he hadn't still tried to beat the shit out of her, so it counted something, she guessed.

Then he took a step forward, and waved his arm angrily, "I helped you—" he spat at her.

"You helped yourself," she shot back, "We're all foods for rotters."

The stormy blue eyes nailed a look at her after her comeback, and she decided to take the risk. She sheathed her knife back into her boot. "Look, I'm sorry," she said then, taking a small step closer to him, rising her hands up in the air a little, "I just needed a gun. I was afraid," she confessed, hoping the truth would move him, settle him down a bit, "You—you really don't look like a bad guy," she told him then, "But I couldn't take the chance. Do you understand?"

His eyes ran over her again, and he gestured at her empty holster, "Where's yours?" he asked.

"I lost it."

His eyes flickered at her chest, "What happened to you?" he inquired then.

"We were on a run with colleagues," she explained, leaving off the funeral home, no need to give him extras, "Then we got separated by rotters. I lost my partner and ended up with this guy in the woods. When we got circled by rotters, he lost it, and started shooting. I got shot in the gunfire—" she waved over her chest, where two bullets had hit her at the vest— "We got away, but I lost consciousness. And when I woke up—" she made a scoff, "I was alone."

"He left you behind?"

"Obviously," she said with a shrug.

"Where's your community?"

She raised her eyebrow, "Community?"

"Where are you holed up?" the man asked exasperated.

She gave him a look, "I can't tell you that."

He gave her a look back, too, clearly weighting her up and down, "Fair enough." He gave her another look, his jaw squaring under his beard, and bowing his head for a second, he pinched the bridge of his nose. And, her eyes struck at him, Amanda watched as he struggled with a decision.

He lifted his head after a second, "I guess we're not too far gone yet," he muttered, his eyes on hers as she scowled at the words. He nodded at her, and tucked his gun back at his holster, "Let's pretend we've never seen each other then," he declared, turned around and started walking away.

From where she stood, Amanda stared at his retreating back.