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bobbyseyesmile · 7 months ago

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Attitude | Part 3

Summary: Y/N has to think about what she wants: a rather safe life with Shane but she‘ll lose her sanity and might explore parts of her own mind she must sacrifice or will she put a bullet, between his perfect brown eyes, as the rational side of her brain tries to advise her.

A/N: soo uhm, i‘m sorry (no i‘m not lol) this is filth. HAVE FUN also thanks to my lovely @angel-litter who inspired me to write a third part

Characters: Dark!ShaneWalsh x Reader

WARNINGS: age gap (reader is 18+) / explicit sexual content, swearing - I can’t stress enough that this is a dark fic: Shane is a mean motherfucker and just takes what he wants. Don’t like, don’t read. You’ve been warned.

Trigger warning: dub-con | 18+

🔞 MINORS DNI below the cut! 🔞

➻ Part 2 [M]

The sun was setting over the horizon, casting long shadows over the prison walls. The world was quiet, save for the distant groans of walkers and the occasional rustle of leaves.

The group had settled for the evening, a small fire crackling in the front yard, warming the people who stood guard for the night. Shane Walsh sat on the outskirts, cleaning his gun with practiced ease. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as you approached.

"Something you need, princess?" Shane drawled, his voice tinged with mockery.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Just checking to make sure you’re not planning to run off again. Wouldn’t want the group’s supposed protector to abandon us."

Shane smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. He knew exactly what you were getting at: On last week’s supply run he disappeared for hours, nobody knew where he went and Rick got nervous as the hours passed by. When the sun began to set Shane casually walked towards the prison, not even batting an eye that almost everyone was looking for him.

Everyone but you. You kept telling yourself to stay away from him, not getting pulled into the dark abyss that surrounded Shane Walsh. He was a hothead and dangerous as he preferred to work alone instead of teams.

Your father worried a lot about the future; your mom’s pregnancy wasn’t helping at all. Thankfully you found the prison and its large protective walls that kept you save; as long as everyone was willing to do their part.

Except Shane fucking Walsh.

Shane’s eyes shamelessly wandered over your body, relishing the memories when you were a whimpering hot mess. His whimpering and hot mess. The older man knew exactly what chokehold he had over you and he so wished to make that chokehold a reality.

“Don’t worry about grown men business, little girl. Get your sexy ass back to the others, I’m sure your daddy needs you to count all the peas in the kitchen.”

Rage boiled inside your stomach and you stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest as its been months since you’ve been this close to him. “You know, Shane, it’s a wonder you keep others and yourself safe with that big ego of yours. Must be hard to fit through the doorways.”

It wasn’t your best comeback but something in his eyes flickered; a tiny hint of anger that washed over his face, giving you a feeling of satisfaction.

Shane chuckled, leaning back and taking in the sight in front of him. "My ego ain’t the only thing big but you already know that, don’t you baby?”

Heat rose to your cheeks, but you refused to back down. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just a big fish in a small pond."

"Oh, is that so?" Shane stood up, his towering presence making your heart race even more. He stepped closer, bodies almost touching. "You seem pretty interested in this big fish even though you try so hard to stay away from me."

You gulped and put a hand on his chest to keep some distance between, afraid someone might be watching you. “Sh-shut up, Shane.” His large hand wrapped around your wrist, giving it a harsh tug to close the distance between your bodies. You let out a small whimper; music to his ears and it made him contemplate the idea of fucking you right here right now.

“Careful, lamb, or I might need to remind you of your past lessons… but you’re not entirely hating the idea of that, do you?”

Your pulse quickened at his words, a mixture of anger and desire swirling within you. You turned your face to escape his intense stare, but Shane was relentless. His grip on your chin was firm, forcing you to face him again.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. You wan’t me on your side, ya listen? Don’t push me away or ya won’t like the outcome.”

His voice was low and dangerous, each word sending shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched as you met his gaze, the raw power and emotion in his eyes both thrilling and terrifying.

“Shane-“ you whimpered “You’re hurting me.”

His dark eyes glistening with excitement. “Good. I know you like it.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your chest. You hated how he made you feel, how he could so easily break through your defenses. But beneath the anger, there was something else—something that scared you even more than Shane’s crazy look. You were falling for him. Falling hard.

Shane's hand moved from your chin to your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse point. "You feel that?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost tender. "That's your heart racing because of me.” His thumb continued to caress the soft skin until he positioned it under your chin, chocking you in a harsh grip.

“And I bet that’s your sweet lil' pussy, all flustered and dripping, begging for my cock. Ain’t that right, girl?”

As fast as his grip appeared on your neck it also disappeared as your father turned around the corner.

“There you are, sweetheart!” he spoke, voice soft and filled with love as he laid eyes on you. “Your mom needs you in the infirmary. Hershel’s already with her.”

Rick’s eyes wandered between you. “Everything alright here?”

“Well, I found Y/N wandering all alone out here. She should be inside after curfew.” Shane clicked his tongue as you threw him a spiteful glance. A smirk played around his lips as your father agreed.

“He’s right, Y/N. You know the rules; only the designated guards are allowed outside after 10 pm.”

“But, dad-“

“Zip it, honey. Go help your mother, she’s having another nauseous episode.”

“Great…” you whispered under your breath but softened your gaze when you noticed your father’s look. He was tired. “Okay, I’ll look after her.”

“That’s my baby girl.” he gave you a kiss on your forehead before starting to walk away. Shane waited for him to disappear around the corner before giving your ass a harsh slap.

“Ouch! What the fu-“

“Think of me when you bury your fingers in that sweet cunt tonight. As you do every night.” He whispered in your ear before giving you a slight push. “Now go.”

Almost two weeks passed and you managed to stay out of Shanes way, he was more impulsive than ever. Running around, barking commands and undermining your father as the leader of the group. You despised it, truly hated him and his behaviour but still you lied awake at night, thinking about his fingers and the way they would feel inside y-

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

You teared your mind away from the sinful fantasies it fabricated and turned your head towards your father. The group was sitting around a big table, eating dinner and discussing plans for the oncoming days.

“Huh?” you raised your eyebrows and saw as Shane frowned at you.

“Hell naw, she’s not even listening. Damn, Rick! She’s not fucking ready!” Your father sighed, rubbing his forehead in annoyment.

“No! I listened, I’m ready!” you quickly lied and Shanes eye twitched. He knew you were lying but of course Rick didn’t notice it.

“Really?” he asked and you quickly nodded, a tad to enthusiastic.

“Fine. Then it’s settled; you and Shane go on the supply run for this week.” You nodded once again, way less excited now and looked at Shane who had his arms crossed in front of his broad chest. “You listen to everything he says, is that clear, Y/N?”

Shane smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, she will, Rick. She will.”

The next day the afternoon sun was setting, casting a dim, ominous light over the abandoned neighborhood. You and Shane moved cautiously through the empty streets, listening for any signs of movement.

"Stay close," Shane ordered, his voice gruff.

"I can take care of myself," you shot back but he ignored your sassiness as leaves rustled in distance.

As you approached an old, dilapidated house, the distant groans of walkers grew louder.

"Great," you muttered. "Just what we needed."

"Inside," Shane barked, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards the house.

Shane pushed you through the door, slamming it shut behind you. He quickly pushed a heavy piece of furniture against it, barricading you in. The walkers outside pounded against the walls, their growls echoing through the house.

You anxiously paced the room, nerves on edge. "This is just perfect. We’re trapped."

Shane ignored you, his focus on securing the surroundings. "We’ll be fine. Just stay quiet."

You stopped and glared at him. "You always think you know best, don’t you?"

Shane turned to face you, his eyes cold and hard. "Someone has to keep their head on straight. You’re too busy playing daddies little girl."

"Playing what?!" your voice rose. "I'm trying to survive, just like you!"

Shane stepped closer, his presence intimidating. "You think you can survive without me? You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me."

Your heart pounded, a mix of fear and anger flooding your veins. "I don’t need you, Shane. I can handle myself." He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "You keep telling yourself that, princess. But we both know the truth: your little crush isn’t that little anymore. You’re pathetic trying to deny it.”

You took a step back, but Shane followed, his eyes dark with a dangerous intensity. "Why are you doing this?" you demanded but your voice gave away. "Why do you have to be so… mean?"

"Mean?" Shane’s voice was low and menacing. "You think this is mean? You haven’t seen anything yet. I’ve been holding back, but maybe it’s time you learned just how serious I am."

Your breath hitched as Shane backed you against the wall, his body towering over you. "Shane, stop," you said, voice trembling.

"Stop? Why would I stop? You need to understand something, Y/N. You’re mine. You belong to me. And I’m not letting anyone, or anything, take you away."

Shane studied your eyes; they were filled with a mix of fear and defiance. "You don’t own me, Shane. I’m not yours to control."

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think you have a choice? You think you can just walk away? You can’t, I won’t let you, ever.”

His lips crashed onto your own, fierce and demanding, his hands roaming possessively over your body. You tried to push him away, your brain telling you to get away from him but the wetness between your legs mocked you. Your own body betrayed you.

Shane’s hands gripping your waist, pulling you against his hard chest, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and arousal. You let out a moan as his knee pushed against your clothed sex, roughly rubbing you through your jeans. You needed more, more of him.

“Shane-“

“Shut up.” He spit back, his fingers ripping the button off your pants. “All I want to hear are those pretty moans, you understand?” You wanted to protest but the look in his eyes made you change your mind so you just nodded. “Good girl.”

You sighed when his fingers finally touched you, he stroked them over the drenched material of your panties. “Of course.” he mocked and shoved a finger inside your entrance.

He set a fast and rough rhythm but you didn’t mind, all that mattered was the pure bliss that slowly spread through your system. “M-more.” you begged and it made him snort.

“Needy little whore. You can’t handle more but I’ll give it to you anyways.” A second finger entered you, spreading the tight walls to his liking.

Shane watched your face, your hooded eyes and slightly parted lips with a small whimper escaping here and there. But he needed you to understand that you were his, there was no escape from him. He needed you to scream his name.

“Fuck, darling, your little cunt is tight. This I will enjoy-“ You opened your eyes and glanced at his hardened cock, his tip red and angry and glistening with precum. Shane knew you were a virgin and it almost made him lose his mind as he imagined taking your innocence away for the first time. He saw the fear in your eyes and he loved it.

He lifted you up, slowly pushing inside you, watching all the emotions washing over your face and you never looked more beautiful to him.

“I c-can’t-“ you whimpered and he came to a stop, waiting for your eyes to open. When you did you saw his eyes soften, almost tenderly. But just a moment later you noticed the smirk around his lips. “You will.”

His cock suddenly entered you with such a force it squeezed all air out of your lungs, leaving you gasping between his chest and the wall he had caged you in. The sharp pain made your brain panic but your body, oh your body welcomed him with such ease it was almost embarrassing.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight-“ he groaned and his fingers dug into the soft skin at your hips. It would leave marks, you were sure, but couldn’t care less.

The pain slowly faded into a completely unique and new feeling, a feeling deep inside you. Something your fingers never managed to even scratch the surface of it. You bit your lips till you tasted blood, his length filling you up at a relentlessly pace. Shanes hand circled around your delicate neck, the grip of his fingers began to tighten leaving you chocking around them. The lack of air left your brain in a hazy state.

You weren’t even sure how it was possible for him to be this deep inside you; his length made it seem impossible but your body proved you wrong as your hungry cunt swallowed him whole. Shane felt his release approaching the more he watched your face and listening to your sloppy moans.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth hung open for a silent cry but nothing came out as your orgasm washed over you in intense waves; your blood rushing in your ears as you came all over his dick.

Shane roughly claimed your lips once again, dominating the kiss as it left you literally breathless. His grip on your waist increased, threatening to break you in half as he fucked you through both of your highs. He gave one final thrust before he came hot and heavy, painting your insides white.

The euphoria from your first time quickly vanished as you felt the warm liquid dripping down your legs. Shane noticed the panic in your eyes and let out a hoarse chuckle.

“Thought I was joking when I said I’ll never let ya go, huh? You’re fucking mine forever, princess.”

The rational part inside you was ready to run, to grab the nearest object and bash it over his head but the other part, the part that was hopelessly in love with this psychopath of a man, stayed still.

Accepting your new fate as you felt his lips on your ear:

“And I’ll kill everyone that comes between us.”

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dastardly-imbecile · 12 days ago

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Ad Infinitum

He should ask you. Ask you what this is, what he feels, ask you what you did to him—because it has to be you, it all traces back to you—and how to fix it. But if he does that, maybe you will deny. Or, worse, you will confirm, and you will patch him up, and then he will forget you once again. Because that’s what happened before: he’s sure of it, some reiteration of this cycle, falling down, rising up, just as his life has always been, some microcosm of the destiny of Shane, star Gridball player to alcoholic to whatever this is. --- Shane knows you. Yet, he can't remember you. You've done this all before, haven't you? OR You wipe Shane's memory and then romance him again and he's sad and confused.

---

Wordcount: ~8.7k

Shane meets you at the saloon on a rainy Wednesday night, early spring, him alone in a near-empty room. The usual suspects are there, of course, Gus and Emily and Pam, but everyone is ensconced in their own bubble of silence, nothing but the low croon of the jukebox and the occasional crack of thunder to break it. He nurses a glass of Joja Cola, half-empty, half-full.

So when the door opens, it’s a shock—all eyes in the room turn to it, turn to the sopping figure standing under the doorway. Emily swings away from the shelves, rushing to the counter, face lighting up, and Gus asks something about a hot meal, and Pam is silent because she probably lost cognitive ability two drinks ago—a feeling not unrecognizable to Shane—but now, now he’s something akin to sober, so he’s able to gauge your presence as well. Hair plastered to your cheeks, clothes similarly clinging to your body, wearing a jangling belt filled with many tools. Unfamiliar face. He frowns.

Surely, he’d have heard if someone new was moving in?

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Emily says, leaning over the bartop, “it’s soaking. But hey, want a drink?”

“Just a beer,” you say, and Emily obliges quickly, pouring you a full-brimmed mug. Before it’s even fully in your hands, you’re turning, turning and looking, looking straight at him.

And, worse, taking a step forward. Another. Beer held loosely in your hands, straight beeline. The old him would’ve shuttered. Would’ve ran, maybe.

Or, who is he kidding? The old him would be too out of order to even notice you.

“Hi, Shane,” you say, once you’re close enough. His frown deepens.

“How’d you know my name? Who are you?”

Something inscrutable flickers across your face, passing over those fine features as quick as a gust of wind.

“Heard it around. I’m the farmer.”

“The… the new farmer?” He reaches back into the depths of his mind, trying to dredge up something, and eventually, there is a small pearl of memory. Yes, new farmer, he remembers something… something of the sort. Lewis, maybe?

Probably one of those things told to him in a stupor, in one addled ear and out the other.

“Oh,”you say, looking down at the drink in her hands, “Sorry, I know you don’t… don’t, uh, drink.” With a deft movement, you set it down upon the counter, slide it away. His grip tightens around the glass of cola.

“What? You know I don’t drink?”

“I mean,” you gesture to his drink, “That’s nonalcoholic, right? And you know, I’ve heard…”

“You’re sure hearing a lot.”

“Yup,” you agree blithely, rocking back on your heels, then forwards again. Your eyes meet his—the yellowish light of the saloon reflects from them, lighting them up with some sort of internal glow, and the moment of eye contact triggers some bright flare of emotion in him, something he can’t name.

Strangely off-kilter, he swallows, unsure what to do next. Tell you to go away? But no, that’s not polite, and he’s trying not to be that sort of person anymore. Had a bit of a reality check, after Jas compared him to one of the villains in her little stories. That, coupled with an attempt at sobriety, of course, with not letting the dullness of alcohol taint his every interaction.

“Hey,” you continue after a moment, “I have-” you reach down, dig around in one of the pouches strapped to her belt, pull out a large, glossy pepper, perfectly coiffed step and smooth skin. Hand it to him. He takes it automatically.

“I love these,” he says.

“I know,” you reply, and then say something else, something that he thinks might be your name, but he’s still staring at the pepper. Still trying not to meet your eyes. Everything feels wrong. A cottony sort of weight in his head, stomach swirling, a bit like a hangover, but worse, somehow.

When you leave, it’s with a cheery goodbye from Emily, a call to stay safe! From Gus. He doesn’t contribute to the well-wishes.

New farmer.

New farmer?

“Marnie,” he starts, when gets home. She looks up from the magazine she’s reading upon the couch.

“Hm?”

“When do hot peppers grow?”

She wrinkles her nose in thought. “I’m not a farmer, Shane.”

“But you know something, right?”

“Don’t take my word for it,” she says after a moment, “but in summer, I think.”

Summer. It’s spring. Just a glance out the window is enough to prove that: new, sparse trees, large patches of dirt where young buds have yet to push their way to the surface, petals floating freely through the air—at least on days that aren’t as torrential as this one.

So where did you get that pepper, if you’re new?

“Why?” She asks, when he doesn’t answer. “Thinking of growing something?”

“There’s a farm. A new farm.”

“...I suppose.” The words are reluctant. He rubs at his forehead, then his eyes, trying to get past whatever it is that’s clouding up his thoughts. It’s been months since he’s drunk a drop, so why is everything so fuzzy, so odd?

“Up north, right?” He asks. Marnie stands, tossing her magazine down onto the couch.

“Shane, maybe you should get to bed. If-”

“I haven’t been drinking,” he snaps, already aware of what she’s getting onto. It’s infuriating, all these soft looks, all this coddling, like he’s not a grown man, like he can’t be trusted to stay away from the drink one damn day.

“I never said-”

“The farm,” he interrupts, “there’s a farmer.”

Her mouth draws tight into a long, thin line.

“It’s late. I’m going to sleep. You should do the same.”

With no further fanfare, she turns, moves into her room and closes the door with a solid click. Alone in the living room—but, for a solid few moments, he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but try and capture his breath, try to reorient himself in this suddenly unfamiliar world.

—

When he does sleep, that night, he dreams.

Of what, he doesn’t remember, but it feels like feathers.

—-

A week later, he gets over himself, decides to do the simple thing and make a trek up to the farm himself. Not like he has much else to do—since Jojamart shut down, he’s been out of a job. Sam found one at the museum, but he’s got even less inclination to spend his days there. At least Jojamart had AC.

In any case, Shane does well enough, supporting himself on eggs from the chickens. It makes Marnie happy to see him continue the so-called ‘family tradition’, for another plus.

The farm is far from the dilapidated wreck that he’d been expecting, that’d been pulled from some subterranean memory. Instead, it practically gleams in the sunlight, all smoothly-paneled slats of wood and crops in neat rows, strawberries and cauliflower and trellises of fat beans.

And, to the side, is a fenced-off area of chicken coops. He gravitates towards them almost instinctually, drawn to the sound of happy clucking and many small feet pattering on the hard-packed earth. Beyond them are pens full of floppy-eared goats and speckled cows, but his focus is all on the avian.

They look plump, feathered, well-cared for. Can’t deny that it raises his estimation of the farmer by a bit. A white one emerges from the coop, and then a sleek duck, and then, behind that…

Another chicken.

A blue one.

His heart seizes in his chest, a hammer of something beating him soundly across the head, something familiar, something that looms above him and he just needs to think-

“Shane?” Someone asks from behind him, and he startles, all thought flying from his head. He whirls around, stumbling. “What’re you doing here?” You add a moment later. Before he can stop himself, he meets your eyes, and they are as bright as the sun overhead.

“I don’t… how did you get those?” He points at the azure chicken, currently pecking happily at the ground.

“I bought them,” you reply blankly. Slung over your arm is a basket full of crops, still stained with crumbs of dirt, a veritable cornucopia in weaving, green leaves spilling over the sides. You slowly set it down, pick up another basket that’s nestled against the wooden fence, no doubt for the eggs and milk.

“No, but…” but how does he explain this? That those are his chickens, his breed, the one that he doesn’t sell, wouldn’t sell to anyone but his closest friends and Yoba knows there’s nobody that matches that qualification in the valley. “That’s impossible. You can’t have them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying I stole them?”

Immediately, he walks his accusation back. “No, I mean… it’s just that those are special. I breed those.”

Something darkens your eyes, clouds drifting in front of the sun. He doesn’t like that—doesn’t like when they dull, when that spark is muted by something that almost looks like begrudging familiarity.

“Bought ‘em from Marnie. Maybe… maybe, uh, a few eggs got mixed in?”

“Maybe,” he echoes. The word is bitter. Shouldn’t be possible, when they’re kept in different coops, and he picks them up himself every morning, but maybe, maybe, maybe. Not like there’s a better explanation.

“So? Why’re you here?” You repeat. Nothing necessarily accusatory in your tone, no threat of calling trespass, but the named curiosity still stings, somehow. The idea that he doesn’t belong here.

He doesn’t, does he? He’s never once stepped foot in this place.

So why does it feel like..?

“It’s more… more developed than I expected,” he blurts, then winces upon realization of how that could be taken as an insult. Might as well sew his shoe to his mouth if he’s gonna keep jamming his foot up there.

“I had time.” You place a hand upon his shoulder, shifting him to the side. He’s so shocked that he allows it—lets himself be moved ungainly away from the gate, which you then unlatch, open.

“How long, exactly, have you been here?”

Hand upon the fencepost, you half-turn towards him, brow slightly furrowed.

“A while.”

“You told me you were the new farmer.”

“I didn’t. You must’ve assumed.” You tip a shoulder in a shrug. “New to you, probably.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does everyone know you? How… how do I not?” How do you make his head pound when near, what’s happening to him?

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re lying. He can tell. Not nearly so obvious as Jas is, but there are tells, the slight clench of your upon the rough wood, those eyes darting up and then back, a moment of frailty. He should push. Dig an answer out of you.

…But the sun is beating into his head, and the chickens are clucking, and some strange instinct is telling him not to dig any further. Not to care.

Maybe some gaps aren’t meant to be filled.

“Sorry,” he says, an apology for all the misstepped statements, “I’ll be… I’ll be going. See you around.”

You give him a peculiar look, accompanied with the tilt of her head, strangely owlish, some bird of prey looking down upon a shivering rabbit, eyes glinting in the moonlight. Just for a second. And then, and then you smile, and the illusion snaps.

“Hopefully. Don’t be a stranger, Shane.”

Part of him wants to say we are strangers, but are you really?

—

The weeks buzz by, all under a haze of heady spring wind and the new gleam that life tends to acquire when you’re not blackout drunk for half of it. He goes on long walks around town with Jas, watches her run about with Vincent at the playground, actually socializes at the saloon, begins to sit with Willy and Clint, though he still has not built up the fortitude to actually contribute to their conversation yet. His birthday comes and goes. Marnie bakes him a cake, Jas tugs him around town, and that night at the saloon, someone orders him his favorite type of pizza: all meat.

Gus tells him that it’s from an anonymous source, but he sees you slide him a few coins. Strange interaction, stranger still that you know his favored order, but it’s only a blip in many monotonous days.

Mostly, though, he is the same presence as he’s always been: that being, under-the-radar, a man not quite worth paying attention to. Still hasn’t managed to shake that reputation. For good reason, too: he supposes that half a year of sobriety does not a town drunkard unmake.

Some days are harder than others. Those in which Jas is at school, and Marnie is running errands, and he is alone at home with nothing to do except twiddle his thumbs and try desperately not to feel parched. He takes up walking, long strolls through the forest, following game trails and hoofprints, cursing at his jacket gets snagged in the brambles, running his hand along large, waxy leaves that smell faintly of mint and honey.

One such time, he encounters the Wizard alone in a clearing, eyes closed, hat hung neatly on a nearby tree. Seems to be in the middle of whatever arcane muddle that only he can do, and Shane doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of that and get turned into a butterfly, or whatever might happen when unwitting idiots come into contact with the ethereal, but just as he’s backing into the bushes, the Wizard’s eyes open.

“Hello?” He asks, zeroing in on Shane—which isn’t a surprise, he doesn’t exactly fit in with the foliage, blue jacket and neon jersey—“who is it?”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to, ah, intrude-”

“No, no,” he assures, shaking his head. He points to the hat-holding tree and mutters some quiet phrase, and the hat pops into existence on his head. “Shane, was it?”

“Yes,” he replies, trying to still his stomach at the sight of magic. They all know the Wizard, of course, recluse at the edge of town. See some of his little tricks on Spirit’s Eve and the like, those shadow-people in cages and the maze that moves on its own, but all that’s very different from this. One under the thick cloak of night, on an accursed day, dark enough that magic seems to be within touch even without his tricks, but this—this is bright spring and a movement so casual that it’s clearly habit, magic born of a man who can’t bother to walk ten paces to grab his belongings.

“You-” the Wizard starts, then stops abruptly, cocking his head. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak at all, eyes flicking up-and-down Shane’s form. “What is…?”

He takes a halting step closer, tilts his chin up.

“Are you sleeping with my ex-wife?”

“What?” Shane splutters, taking a large step back, “no, I- what?”

His brow furrows, then smoothens. “My apologies. It’s just that you have… hm. A trace.”

“A trace of what?”

“Her mana signature. I cannot isolate…” He points at him, closing his eyes, and for a moment Shane is afraid that he’s going to pop him in and out of existence, but all that happens is the faint gust of the breeze across his face, so mundane that it’s probably coincidental. They’re outside, after all. Wind happens.

“...Don’t heed me,” he says after a long moment, “you may leave, Shane.”

He does so readily, as quickly as he can. Feels a bit like a student fleeing a teacher’s classroom, shamefully dismissed.

Accusations of sleeping around aside, by the time summer comes into full, he’s stopped taking walks in the woods. Not only for fear of encountering errant magicmen, but for the fact that these past few walks, he’s been seeing doves. Flickers of white through the leafy canopy, small pale birds settled upon the branches. They never do anything, but he doesn’t like their eyes. The way they watch him.

Accusatory. Too intelligent for a bird, if he’s being paranoid.

Though the eyes are large and dark and liquid, undeniably animal, somehow, they remind him of yours.

—

He’s sitting on the docks, feet dangling inches above the water, on a night somewhere on the hotter end of spring. Crickets in the brush, chirping up a song, the breeze balmy even under the cover of nightfall. Thinking.

Life’s not half-bad, really. He’s still the same Shane as always, underachiever, a couple dozen pounds over what would make it comfortable to go shirtless at the beach, but at least he’s not passing out every night, at least he knows that Marnie doesn’t see him as a total disgrace anymore. Really, that former part is a shame, because this night would be perfect with a cold one, but he can’t trust himself to only have a cold one and not a cold all.

Behind, interrupting the drone of the crickets, there’s the sound of clopping hooves. They slow, then trot to a stop, and a thud as someone drops off the saddle. He doesn’t turn around. It’s obvious who it is. Only one person in the valley owns a horse. Marnie used to, but she sold them off one of those years when times were a bit harder than usual. Never really found the value in buying more of them once coffers were filled again. Shame. Jas would’ve loved them.

“Shane?” You ask, walking onto the dock. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Going back home. Straight shot north to my farm.”

“Huh,” he murmurs, unsure what else to say to that.

Far from hopping back onto her horse and returning, you continue padding forwards, eventually crouching beside him. From his peripherals, he sees your silhouette in the dark, the fine details only barely visible at his distance, the light from Leah’s cottage giving you an outline of dull yellow light.

“Isn’t this nostalgic?” You ask.

“What?”

You blink, as if surprised, then screw your eyes closed, opening them a second later. Banishing a thought that he is not privy to.

“Sorry. Only for me. I’ve had a lot of… a lot of good conversations, on this dock.”

“I’ve never seen you.”

You tilt your head, raise an eyebrow. “Have you been looking?”

He flushes, though there was nothing particularly embarrassing about either the comment or the response.

“Guess not. I’m usually…” here, he trails off, suddenly struck by the fact that the end of that sentence is not something he should say in polite company, let alone polite company of someone he barely knows—and who he’s transgressed quite enough around, already. Strange to think that he cares about this stuff now, things are nebulous as his reputation. He almost wishes he could go back to that old him, that of barbed words and who found a perverse sort of delight in being an outcast, a pariah. There’s freedom in being outside of the box.

Oh, well. Now, now, he’s fit himself quite neatly back into the borders of acceptable, enough that the idea of being once again an outcast is almost frightening. Sometimes, in those thirsty moments, it’s less the pragmatic that stills his hand, Harvey’s chiding words about liver damage and too young for this, but instead a strange source of emotion, of fear.

There’s someone he doesn’t want to disappoint. Jas, obviously. Marnie. The town as a whole.

And…

And someone else. He can’t… can’t remember who.

Someone else?

He looks up, meeting your eyes accidentally, wrenches his gaze away almost as quickly, flushing deeper.

Something’s wrong with him.

“...What kind of conversations?” He asks, after a moment, more to break the silence than anything. You hesitate, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, caught in thought.

“Just, about life.”

It’s a nonspecific answer, enough that he has the social wherewithal to know here’s where to stop pressing. Even though you’re the one who pulled up and sat next to him, even though he was here first, he feels somehow off-kilter, an intruder, unwanted. Awkward.

“...It’s getting late,” you say, “sorry, I don’t know why I… it was nice to talk to you, Shane. Again.”

What do you mean by again? You’ve talked to him before, of course, but that doesn’t seem an adequate enough foundation to tack again onto the phrase, and he’s overthinking this, overthinking enough that his response comes stuttered out a long moment later.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Uh, goodnight.”

“Night,” you reply, standing smoothly, walking back to your horse. A moment later, there is once again the pounding of hooves, and he’s alone in the night, fireflies drifting lazily over the waters, pond reflecting the pale, speckled moon overhead. A nice night. Peaceful.

Somehow, that craving for a beer has faded.

He’s not sure why.

—

The only reason Shane does go the Flower Dance is for Jas: she wakes him at an ungodly six AM in the morning, though the damn thing doesn’t start until nine, and then bounces off the walls for the next three hours. Marnie rouses a bit later, at eight, and with bleary eyes, braids flowers into her hair and helps her get situated into a frilly white dress. Shane pulls on a considerably more rumpled suit, endures Jas’s attempts to braid his hair, and then, they’re setting out into the cool air.

There’s that undercurrent of heat that hints at summer’s imminent arrival, the promise of a blazing afternoon, but for now, early morning, it’s pleasantly cool. Enough that even in all three layers of his suit, he’s not yet overheating. Jas bounds ahead, and Marnie warns her not to stray too far, but of course she doesn’t listen, all the way to the enclosed area in the southern edge of the forest where all manner of things are set up. Triangular parade flags fluttering in the wind, Pierre’s booth loaded with flowers, and most dreadingly, the cleared-out dance floor.

His usual partner is Emily, who dances like nobody is watching, which he does not mean as a compliment—but she’s probably take it as one. Swaying like tall grasses in heavy winds, all a jumble of limbs and movements that somehow manage to coalesce into something halfway-graceful. Just his luck that he, the man with two left feet, is habitually paired with the best dancer of the group. Makes him feel like even more of a schlub than usual.

Always, he wishes he could just skip the whole thing—but Emily is one of the only people in this town that he might hesitantly be able to call his friend, so sadly, the tethers of social politeness pull him back into the fray every year. His sole comfort is that Harvey always stumbles at least once per year, so he can have a partner in incompetence, but it’s not much.

He’s hanging by the food tables as per usual, counting down the dreadful minutes to Lewis’s announcement, when you approach him. Dressed in white as per tradition, the skirt brushing your ankles, the top cut low above your chest, strapless, lacy. There’s no standardized dress code for this thing, just ‘wear white’, and all the girls take their own little liberties with that idea, but there’s something even more different about your dress. He can’t place it.

He’s been staring.

“...What?” He asks, after swallowing the mouthful you caught him with. You dip your head, the image of bashfulness, but your eyes remain on him—it’s a contrast against the rest of your body language. Hands tucked together before you, head tilted down, shoulders low and relaxed, but still, you make eye contact.

“Be my partner today?”

“What?” He asks. Or, maybe not so much that full word, but instead an inarticulate exclamation of surprise that he manages to twist into something of the common lexicon.

“My partner,” you repeat, “for the dance?”

“Why?”

You look up, dropping that timid sort of pose—didn’t fit you much, anyways—and cross your arms. “Because I need a partner and I like you, Shane.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, somewhere on the spectrum between speechless and stupefied. You take a step back, dress swishing violently at your feet.

“Look, it’s fine if you don’t want to. I can-”

“No,” he interrupts, “no, no, I can dance. With you.”

All that tautness drops from your face, and you smile brightly at him before whisking away with a final, “see you then.”

A wave of something washes over him, so overwhelming that he must steady himself against the table. This will be the first year that he’s danced with anyone but Emily, right?

Then why does he feel such deja vu?

He seeks her out a moment later, to tell her that he will unfortunately not be able to partner with her, but she simply laughs, patting him once on the shoulder. “So it’s becoming a pattern, Shane? Don’t worry. I prefer to dance by myself, anyways.”

“A pattern?” He asks. She cocks her head.

“Don’t you remember?”

“No,” he says, “no, I don’t.”

She says something else, but he doesn’t hear it. From what he knows about Emily, he can approximate it to be something like, oh, let me meditate over a diamond about this, but it’s drowned out again by that wave of familiarity, of memory-not-memory.

Eventually, when they line up for the dance, he looks at you from across the line. You smile. He doesn’t return the motion. A step forwards, a step back, raise the arms and lower. Approach you, take hands, your palms warm against his, and twirl you once. From his side, Harvey mutters a curse, almost drops Maru. He’s too concentrated on his footwork to really notice.

It feels like muscle memory, which is surprising in and of itself. He doesn’t really have the muscle nor the memory capacity to store an entire dance, yet here it is, watching your skirt flare out, reflecting the sun.

It feels practiced.

It feels natural.

—

Since the dance, he finds himself watching you. Not in a strange way, obviously, no peeping through the windows or stalking you about town, but when he sees you, he lingers. The fact that you danced with him has to mean something, the fact that you say hi, the fact that you give him a plump pepper twice a week, religiously.

Still, he doesn’t approach. There is some strange, animal fear in the back of his mind, beyond those pedestrian things like fear of rejection or even the ropes of blindingly low self-esteem. He can’t explain it. He can’t try to explain it. Somehow, it’s a relative to familiarity, to nostalgia.

At the saloon, you stand with Abigail and Sebastian and Sam, that group of young twenty-somethings that’s accepted you into the fold because you’re just like them, of course. And he’s past the border of thirty, washed up, not so far into sobriety that he can honestly say he’s not an alcoholic, and here is that aforementioned self-esteem. At least he’s self-aware of it now, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Sometimes, when you laugh uproariously at one of Sam’s jokes, or when Sebastian leans up behind you in pretense of teaching you how to play pool, or hell, even when Abigail lays her head on your lap and you braid her violet hair, something low and angry stirs in his gut. Which, you are not even together, so he knows that this too is something irrational, but there’s more to that.

In those brief moments before his common sense regains control of the meat-sack, he feels as if you are together.

Which is nonsense.

Of course.

Summer is a blur of such moments, you at the saloon, all such nights passing by. Clint works up the nerve to ask Emily out four times and chickens out without fail. Lewis bans sports in the center of town after Sam rips up a few flowerboxes and Alex throws a football through a window in the same day. Jas refuses to talk to Vincent for six days after he puts a snail in her hair.

The day after the snail event, Shane is in her room, reading her a bedtime story. She conked out after the first place, so he takes a few moments to examine the room, making sure that she’s actually asleep. If she wakes up and he’s not there as promised via spoken contract, then she will sue him—by which he means throw a tantrum—so he remains, listening to her faint breaths and finding any entertainment that he can.

Her dollhouse is always in some new, unique variation, so he leaves the bed, crouches to watch their little lives. There is an old man’s doll stuffed under the bed, which is probably concerning, but he’s sure that he’s built up enough goodwill to be spared if this hints towards her serial killer inclinations. Otherwise, all is as he remembers: a doll with choppy brown hair, Marnie, standing in the kitchen. Himself, a frumpy, over-stuffed one, wrapped in tattered blue fabric, sitting on the couch. And…

And another. With the same ragged, hand-cut haircut as Marnie, hair colored like… like yours. And overalls like your usual farming uniform too, he notices, sitting beside him on the couch, close together. It sends a buzz of fear up his spine, unexplainable. He leaves the room before he strictly should, confused and creeped out in equal measure.

The next morning, before Penny arrives to pick Jas up for school, he asks her, “who’s the other doll?”

“What doll?” she asks, more preoccupied in stirring the milk of her cereal.

“The one on the couch. Next to me.”

She blinks slowly at him, eyes large and confused. “That’s the farmer.”

“Why- why do you have a doll of her?”

“She’s nice,” she replies, “and you talk to her a lot.”

“Do I?”

Jas wrinkles her nose at him, the ultimate form of judgement being delivered from the eyes of a child. “Yeah, Uncle Shane.”

He must sit back and digest that. Perhaps she saw them talking at the flower dance? Sees when you stop him in the middle of town, occasionally?

That doesn’t explain…

Too much to think about. He shuts the line of inquiry down.

“...And who’s the one under the bed?”

She frowns. “Ugly and mean.”

Before he can ask more about that, Penny’s knocking on the door, and she leaps out of her seat, flying off without a word.

Days later—she’s reestablished tentative contact with Vincent, by now—Marnie sends him on an errand to your house, delivering some gold in exchange for amaranth or whatever it was.

The farm is in full summer flourish, round melons still glistening from the morning sprinklers, corn tall and shyly yellow, and what seems to be an inordinate amount of space dedicated to chili peppers—rows upon rows, all speckled red with the blooming vegetables. Technically fruits, as Demetrius takes great joy in informing, but whatever.

And you, you are holding the body of a dead dove, white and round and pale. He stops in his tracks, letting out a low sound. Draws your attention, turning to regard him.

“Oh,” you say, “hey, Shane. What is it?”

“What- what happened to… that?” He jerks his chin at the bird. You look down, as if you’d forgotten you were holding it, and then back up at him.

“Oh. Cat got it. They come down to the farm.”

He swallows. That makes sense, right, dead bird, cat, all lines up to a neat little equation. They were always in the woods, as well, splotches of white against the trees, soft coos, fluttering to follow him as he walked.

“What’re you gonna do with it?”

You shrug. “Toss it, probably. Not much else to do? What else would I do? Bury it?” You smile wryly. It doesn’t reach your eyes. He knows your genuine grins, has experienced them more times than he can count, and this that is not. “Anyways, what’s up?”

Right. The errand. He digs the pouch of gold from his pocket, holds it out to you. Realizes only a second later, when you don’t reach for it, that your hands are full and you probably don’t want bird-germs on your coin.

“Hey, how about you set it inside?” You ask, “stay a bit. I made pepper poppers last night, was gonna bring them to you anyways. You like those, right?”

“Love them,” he replies, throat dry. A mix of anxiety, of lingering disgust from the bird, if something else he cannot name, that nebulous feeling that always clouds his mind when he’s in your presence. Like there is something more to you, not only in the metaphysical sense, but the idea that you are a thin human puppet over the hands of something infinitely larger, and that’s a ridiculous thought.

“Be back soon,” you reply, sidestepping him neatly to continue off to the corner of your farm. After a moment, he pushes himself forwards, climbing the stairs to the shaded porch of your farm. Though he means to enter, instead, his footsteps veer towards the right, the fenced-in side. He can’t say why—but he allows his body to take the reins, settling against the rail. It feels like the flower dance. It feels like looking into your eyes.

Familiar.

Like this is how it always was.

Only when you return does he realize that he’s been here, outside, absorbing the ambiance of the farm instead of inside. You raise an eyebrow.

“Could’ve entered. It’s hot out here.”

He tucks his chin into his chest, a faint blush already creeping into his cheeks. “Sorry. Just… it’s nice out here.”

“It is,” you agree, swinging open the door, “but come on in.”

He follows.

Inside, there is the blessed caress of AC. Something small rubs against his leg, and he looks down to see the apparent aforementioned bird-hunting cat, purring.

“Hey, Miso,” he says, the words spilling out before he registers. Miso? It’s a small, black animal, bright eyes and twitching whiskers and, and is that its name?

When he glances at you, you look unfazed. He has to ask.

“Is that..? Miso?”

You nod, the corner of your mouth twitching up into a smile. “Yeah. You… you remembered.”

He doesn’t, really, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to argue. The easy explanation is that he heard the name in a drunken stupor, stowed it away but never truly categorized the memory, and though that doesn’t exactly make sense, he’s never been one to take the hard path.

You turn to the fridge, pull from it a full plate of pepper poppers and proffer it to him. “I made them how you like them. All the works.”

He takes the plate. “How’d you know…?” At this point, he feels like a broken record. Something in your expression shutters, and you smile more. It’s a bit more genuine than that expression you gave him over the bird, but only marginally so.

“Lucky guess.”

He drops the money on a side table, unceremonious. The jingle doesn’t even make you turn your head—you do not usher him out, he doesn’t get quite the feeling that he’s overstaying his welcome, but you’re waiting, you want him to say something.

He wants to say something too. Maybe that’s why he obliges.

“It’s been weeks since the dance,” he starts, “but what… did you mean what you said, then?”

Again, your face breaks into a grin, and this one, finally, is fully realized, fully present, crinkling your eyes and showing a sliver of teeth.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“What’s the answer, then?” He feels as awkward as he was when he was sixteen, asking some cheerleader to the school dance, and those were the days when he was in shape and confident and full of that brimming energy of youth. He can be said to be the opposite of all of that, now, and yet, something about this feels inevitable. Feels like you are destined to say-

“I like you, Shane. A lot.” You step forwards, close enough that he can smell you. Not so flowery as could be expected—you smell like work, like the sun and loam and greenery, but there is still some hint of sweetness there, something that calls to him like a memory. “And I want to be more. Yoba, that’s an awkward way to phrase it. But you get what I mean?”

“Yes,” he breathes, yes, he gets what you mean, yes, this is how it’s meant to be.

—

Two days later, you chase him down in town and present him with a bright, jewel-toned bouquet, flowers he cannot name all crowding for space. He returns home with the intention to ask Marnie for a vase, but when he enters his room, he sees there is already one upon his windowsill, with a few inches of water still at the bottom. He cannot remember how it got there. He cannot remember what it used to hold.

When he drops the bouquet in, though, it is perfect. It is as if he has done this whole dance before.

—-

It is an edge on an edge on an edge. Dusk, that border between day and night, Sunday, the tipping point to another week, and the 28th, Summer sputtering out and Fall swinging by, present in the biting wind, in the leaves that crunch under your footsteps. You’re chattering about your latest adventure in the Skull Caverns, showing him a long scar that cuts across your forearm under the rolled-up sleeve of his blue jacket.

Shane is doing the whole ritual of macho masculinity, which is to say giving you his coat and pretending he is not cold. Came naturally to him, despite the fact that he has not done anything approaching dating for a decade and change.

Has he?

The wizard tower looms overhead. Your story reaches his end, and looking up, grasping for another topic, he says, “the Wizard asked me if I was sleeping with his ex-wife, once.”

You raise an eyebrow. Not nearly so flabbergasted by that sentence as anyone normal would be. “Well? Were you?”

He chuckles. “What do you think?”

You nudge an elbow into his side, matching his laugh, “she’s a pretty fierce woman.”

“Someone we know?”

Abruptly, your laugh sputters out. Replaced by a thoughtful, contemplative sort of expression, a shadow over your eyes, those clouds that come and go without seeming rhyme or reason.

“...Not you, no. Not really.”

“Not really? Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, cutting him off, suddenly sharp and snappish. He slows, kicking up flurries of leaves and small twigs. Curiosity piqued and anxiety harried up in equal measure. You have the unique ability to do this to him, to awaken a fear that’s lain dormant all his life. It’s frightening, to know that you can freeze his heart with a single glance, despite the fact that he cannot exactly imagine what you’d do to him.

Arousing, too, but those are thoughts saved only for the darkest nights.

The conversation stills for a brief second, before you jump back into action. “Speaking of the Wizard, did you hear that Caroline…” and it is lighthearted again.

It remains that way through the rest of the walk, dipping briefly into the forest, along the well-trodden trails that he used to wander through. You’re just exiting the shade of the canopy, and he’s telling some story about that time there was a rat infestation in Elliot’s cabin, and then there is a cooing, the rustle of wings.

Both of you freeze.

There, on the last tree in the woods, another border, another edge, is a dove, white even in the darkness. Your hand tightens in his, fingernails digging into the side of his palm. After a moment, he tries to take a step forwards, tug you along, but you’re rooted to the ground, all those muscles built up over years of farming—and all his lack of muscles from years of abandoning Gridball—allowing you to overpower his urge.

“What?” He asks. You don’t answer. Eyes wide, fixed on the bird, and this is the most unsettling thing of all, the fact that you aren’t constantly seeking to make contact with him, that you’re so utterly concentrated on something else.

“What?” He repeats. Finally, you move, but not to walk forwards. Instead, you reach for your belt, pull out a dagger, hold it tight in your hands. “Woah-”

“Go away,” you say, voice high and clear, speaking not to him but to the bird, absurd as that is. Worse, it seems to listen—cocking its head, shuffling a few steps sideways upon the branch.

“I know,” you continue, “I can’t- I’ve tried, I went back and- and all my shards, none of them did anything, I swear.” On those last words, your voice breaks a bit, shattering. Water in your eyes. Shane hovers, unsure what to do—as has been demonstrated, he can’t exactly snap you out of this, but what else do you do when your girlfriend is talking to a bird with a knife in her hand.

It coos, a soft, mournful sort of noise. You drop the dagger.

“I found her, I tried- but she only laughed, you know? And he won’t help either, he can’t undo what she does, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorryimsorryimsorry-” the last parts all blur into an incomprehensible mess of words, and you fall, knees hitting the ground, bringin him down with you. In the commotion, the dove flutters off, quiet and gone into the night. He pays it hardly a mind, kneeling beside you.

“What is it?” He asks, “What was- why were you… talking?”

You do not respond, instead swallowing down the sobs. By the time you look back up at him, there’s hardly anything but a hitch in your chest, eyes still rimmed red. He opens his mouth to ask, again, what, but you lunge forwards, grabbing his face with both hands, pressing your mouth to his. Tastes like salt, from the tears, and a hint of alcohol from the saloon, and then that same ephemeral feeling that he now learns has a taste, but all that flees his brain in the ensuing seconds.

It is nowhere near gentle. Your hands press against his face like you are trying to hold him still, trying to keep him there, teeth cutting into his bottom lip, tongue against his and all the hard parts of your belt pressing into the soft parts of his belly. Slowly, you run a hand down his cheek to cup the back of his neck, pull him closer and press yourself against him in turn.

The intellectual part of his mind knows concern—he can still taste your tears, for Yoba’s sake—but that animal intelligence that you’re so good at coaxing out only knows the feeling of you, the warmth of your hands and your lips, the heat pooling in his stomach. The other hand, still on your face, runs into his hair, tugs with an exact, measured amount of force. Automatically, his own snap to your waist, muscle memory. Both of you know how you fit together. You have done this a thousand times before.

He knows it.

—-

Soon, Shane is practically a resident at your house. By winter, he is a resident, shielded from the bitterness of the outer world by your house, by you. It’s a quick transition, for hardly more than a month of dating, but it feels right. Why delay the inevitable?

Marnie’s ranch no longer feels quite like home, anyways—nowhere does, not even you. He is floating, he is unknown, he is half a memory, the other bits of him flaking off into some nebulous Nowhere. Being with you is like a hammer with the chisel, like a river with the sun, and it is good, but there is always something strange, something that he knows he should know.

The first time he fucks you, it is just like that frantic kiss in the forest: natural, familiar, two puzzle pieces slotting into place. He knows the draw of his thrusts, how to hold you, and you know to run your hands through his hair. You know where best to touch him, where to poke and prod and pull to elicit sounds that he’s never made before in living memory, but perhaps has in some dead recollection that’s floating out there.

When he gets on his knees for you, you taste just like your mouth did—less of the saline of the tears, but there lingers that bitter sort of nostalgia, coating his tongue, his nose, behind his eyes when he sleeps. When you do the same for him, he wonders if you taste the same.

So, instead, he keeps silent and it is normal, somewhat, except when it’s not. On days out with Jas, when he leans against the worn playground benches and lets the wind cool that internal fever that’s always running through him, it’s good, it’s normal. The saloon, too—though you’re frequently right in the next room over, he can tear his attention away and devote himself to things so mundane as friendship and cold drinks.

It breaks, however, on a day wherein you are not home at all, strangely enough. You’d left for Ginger Island the day before, told him you would not be back until nightfall today, given him a list of tasks like feed the animals and water Miso.

It is good, at first. Dawn is spent with the chickens, watching them cluck around his feet, leaning down to stroke over their plump, round backs. The cows nuzzle against his hands with their soft, warm noses, and the goats try to pull bites from his jacket. It is not until he’s latching the animal pens behind him that he sees it.

There, sitting primly upon one of the arms of the scarecrows, out in the middle of the barren, frost-kissed field, is a white dove. He stops in his tracks.

It coos at him. Beckons, nodding its beak down. He is not so fool as to consider it his imagination—so, instead, he takes a step forward. Reaches out his hand.

In a flash, it takes to the air, but it doesn’t flutter away—instead, it lands neatly upon his hand, bowing down his arm with unexpected weight. This close, he can make out every detail in its near feathers, the glimmer of light in its round black eye, and it is on him, he knows this weight, he has felt it before.

He has been in this farm, he has been holding- holding something, some wriggling ball of blankets, that cries and laughs and babbles, and there have been feathers, there has been the sudden hardness of a beak against his skin and the panicked flutter of wings as it tears from his arms.

The world flickers and pops before his eyes. He shakes his arm, more violently than intended, anything to dislodge this- this thing, not a bird and not a man and something that he can’t bear to name.

By the time he stumbles back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him, his mind is no less fogged. He doesn’t want to think of this. He wants… he wants something to cloud it all.

Slowly, he stumbles to the kitchen, pulls from a cabinet a long bottle of home-brewed wine. Does not bother to even find a glass and instead simply tilts it back and drinks. It is the first drink that he has had in months. He finishes the bottle as the world darkens outside. The world is sufficiently blurred, but that desire for the fade of drunkenness has been replaced by the burn of shame, the need to retch.

Your arrival is signaled by the click of the door, stepping into the room. He hardly registers it—does not react when you happen upon him, slumped over the table in the kitchen, only cooperates enough to stand and stumble when you urge him to the bed.

“What happened?” You ask.

“I remembered,” he replies, and you still, a peculiar expression coming over your face, deer caught in the hunter’s barrel, rabbit before the wolf.

“Did you?”

“I knew you,” he replies, “in a past life.”

You pull the blanket over him, sitting besides him, your warmth leeching into his side.

“Not exactly. Kinda, though.”

“Why?” He asks, words slurred, but at least he still has the mental facilities to edit the question to, “what happened? Why can’t I remember?”

“Because of me,” you reply, stroking a hand over his forehead. You let out a hollow laugh. “It’s all because of me.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, before he can even take a moment to digest that, “for drinking. You helped, didn’t you? You helped me get sober?”

You nod. It’s not a very visible movement, what with him laying down, but he sees it. “Don’t be. It’s not… I didn’t get that, you know?”

When he doesn’t respond, you continue.

“It’s not a straight path. I thought you’d be done, healed. So when it all…” you make some sort of hand gesture, one that ventures out of his field of view. He gets the gist. “It… wasn’t good. But now, now, I’ve… learned a lot.”

“Do you love me?” He asks, the question falling as easily as water down slick rocks.

“I don’t think I did before,” you say, “but now, now, I know what it is. I do.”

“And the doves?”

“They’ll linger,” you reply, “can’t do anything about them. I’ve tried.”

He remembers your monologue in the forest. Remembers the dead bird, held tightly in your hands. Seems ‘anything’ goes in many different directions.

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“No,” you agree, “no, it’s not.”

That weight upon him, that press of a thousand years of memories is finally abating, finally lifting. He still doesn’t remember, but he knows he doesn’t remember, and he knows what he doesn’t remember, and he is with you in the end, so does it really matter?

—

Spring is coming, and with it the thaw, finally clearing away the last crusted bits of winter upon the land. Shane is standing upon the porch, Jas perched on a rocking chair beside him, tossing out hands of birdfeed to the ground. A single white dove picks at it, cooing softly in what appears to be joy. It’s taken a liking to Jas—now, it flutters up and lands upon her shoulder, picking gently at her hair while she giggles.

Behind him, the door opens, and you step out, coming easily around to rest your chin upon his shoulder. Jas immediately begins to babble your name, asking if she can see the goats today, and you smile, nod yes.

“Plans for today?” He asks.

“Goats first,” you reply, “And then Pierre’s, buy some new seeds. You?”

“Maybe I’ll take a walk,” he replies. Hasn’t done that in a while. It’s a good time to start again, especially now that he will not let the presence of half-remembered doves stop him.

You plant a kiss upon his stubbled cheek, drawing back, and he turns to meet your eyes. Bright, warm, familiar as they always have been and always will be.

#sdv #stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #sdv fanfic #shane x farmer #shane x reader #sdv shane x reader #sdv shane x farmer #sdv shane #stardew valley shane #like weird dark implications but the story is mostly happy

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