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THEY WALKED ALONG the tracks until their limbs went numb, giving in to the required rest that their overworked calves begged for. It was West's usual routine, walking for as long as she could, rarely stopping for a bite unless an opportunity presented itself. It was everyone's routine, present-day. The fever was gradually going down, omitting to a temperature. The touch of her palm to her forehead didn't feel upon internal heat, rather the sweat of the Georgian sun. Though it was impossible to see at night, she was thankful when the sky wrapped itself in a darkness. The cool air not only relieved the tension in her muscles, but it gave her a chance to breathe freely. Being with a group again wasn't too difficult; it seemed they understood her unspoken terms. At least, so far so good. They didn't try to parade her around in their friendship-circle or cuddle up to her with physical touch. They kept their distance, because they could see the demand for isolation through her brown irises without fail. It had only been one night, and the group spent it hauled up in a broken down pick-up truck.
West extended her arms as far out as she could and stretched. She was in the passenger side, the seat reclined all the way back. Mere inches beneath her temporary bed were Carl's legs. Michonne was in the driver's seat, sprawled out in a similar position to West, but had slightly less space. She told West she didn't mind. The woman fell asleep easily.
In the cargo bed outside of the truck was Rick.
West's eyelids peeled open, blinking as the hazy sun taunted her eyes through the clouds. She wiped a hand over her face and did her best to adjust to the brightness. She scratched her head several times, sitting upwards, and came to the realization that it was early dawn. The birds chirped happily. Resting her hand on her stomach, it growled. It was nothing out of the ordinary.
It only took West several moments before she realized. She snuck a glance to Michonne, then wrapped her grey zip-up around her shoulders. Skimming her fingers over the door handle, she pressed into it lightly, allowing it to push open. A gentle creaking noise was the result, but thankfully, she didn't disturb anybody. The truck door was dented inwards already, so it wasn't much of a trouble.
The crunch of shingle beneath her feet was even favorable and didn't make sound. It was a windier day, and dark white clouds coated the morning sky. She crossed her arms over her chest to preserve warmth and stomped towards the back of the truck. No surprise, Rick Grimes was awake.
His tired, sunken eyes met her feisty ones, which narrowed down on him. His hair was slightly unkempt and he was in a comfortable position, lounging against the back of the truck. One knee was pulled upward, and his arm was draped across it. His gun sat proudly in his lap.
