To say that Merle wasn't in party mood was an understatement.
He's still fuming about what went down in the cellar earlier and now he's expected to show his face at the evening's entertainments. Why yes, a pleasant picnic, trading campfire stories about how wonderful Woodbury is, was just the ticket to raise his spirits right now.
He takes another swig of the Governor's whiskey and relishes the burn in the back of his throat. It's a good vintage and there'll be hell to pay for pilfering it, but he can't bring himself to care.
As he sees it, he's earned it.
Why should Andrea get all the good stuff? He doesn't see her keeping her surly friend in line - no, that would be too much like getting her hands dirty wouldn't it? We can't have the Governor's current bed-warmer doing that now, can we?
His feet have transported him to the door to the courtyard and his brain takes the opportunity to caution him about showing up like this – in venomous mood with whiskey in tow - but the side of him that loves to provoke can't resist. He has one hand on the door handle and is about to push down when he stops and closes his eyes.
It was the cold that did it.
The cold metal.
Reminding him of her. How cold she was.
Cold as the dead.
It wasn't the first time he touched her, but today was the first time he noticed. Another detail overlooked... as if he wanted to forget the glaringly obvious.
How did the blood even flow?
How did the skin hold together as he stitched her up? How do the vital parts of what we are - our living flesh - function when we're no longer living?
He shakes his head and backs away from the door, lost to a myriad of questions he's never desired to contemplate and to be honest, why would he, when all he's ever needed to know was how to kill them?
He turns around.
All interest in scandalizing the wet blankets of this town lost.
He has a better idea.
.*.
"D'yer know what we could do with in here?"
The comment comes out of the blue and with it a wry smile - the whiskey having taken the edge off the murderous aggression he felt earlier. He takes another pull from the bottle and passes it back to his grateful companion.
She shakes her head because in a room bereft of furniture the possibilities were endless, but then shrugs and takes another sip of the wonderful warming liquid that makes her feel all light and dreamy.
"A pool table." He grins broadly.
"I always loved me a game of pool, though Daryl used to kick my ass, y'know? I'd be too busy mouthin' off and 'fore I know it, he's gone and won the damn thang."
He loses himself a moment to pleasant memories of boozy nights in their local watering hole - sepia toned recollections of the good ol' days and declares that a jukebox wouldn't be half bad either.
"Prob'ly hard to get holda sumthin decent though these days, what wi' all the shit people listen to." He chuckles, not because it's such an old man thing to say, though he's aware that it is, but because she has the most glorious buzzed look on her face and he finds it adorable.
He grimaces as his joints complain about sitting on the floor and that calls to mind something else that would be an excellent addition.
"And maybe a couple of good armchairs... My ma used to practically live in one o' those lazy boys – watchin' her shows an' paffin' on her Virginia Slims..."
YOU ARE READING
The Prisoner Of Woodbury
Fanfiction"I don't know why I do the things I do. Never did. I'm a damn mystery to me." Merle makes a discovery that has him questioning everything he knows. How will he handle this new world where life and death are locked in some kind of strange and terrif...
