A/N: A Merle/Michonne request from bookwormstache. Hope you like it!
"A bad man, someone truly evil — they're light as a feather. They don't feel a thing."
My ass. How would she know? Hell, why was he even having this conversation with her? He'd tried to kill her and here she was, acting like they were old buds. She was an animal, a savage. Hell, he'd said it once, and he'd say it a million times. "My kind and your kind ain't supposed to mix." But when he looked in those black eyes, all smoke and mirrors, he almost wanted to—
I really need that whiskey. "Keep walkin' sister, you ain't goin' nowhere." The words were softer than the mire beneath their feet. Heat pressed them on all sides, whipping their backs and fogging the air with the dank scent of rot.
Her lips curled into a coy smirk, as if she knew he wouldn't actually use the gun at his side. And he wouldn't, but she wasn't supposed to know that. He was Merle, the big bad wolf who huffed and puffed and blew every good thing he had away; but lately, that role had lost its luster.
His veins clamored for a good shot of crystal while his skin itched for something else—a touch. Not like Bambi, the blonde chick he used to pick up on Fridays outside of Ole Marley's. No, he wanted an encounter that wasn't pay to play.
Did he know anything else? Seemed like everything, everyone he'd ever met demanded something of him. A scowling face here, a dirty job there—even Daryl wanted him to be a crude asshole, a guy worth hating.
The lines on his face were heavy; the blue gray light in his eyes dimmed out. Far off, a walker groaned and growled, likely searching for its next meal.
She sauntered on. Hips swaying to and fro, black wiry hair slapping against her back, he wondered if they were soft to the touch…
"If you stare much harder you're gonna bore a hole in my back," she jabbed, voice like velvet. Husked and raspy, it caught him off-guard.
Damn ninjas an' their third eyes…who carries a katana around anyway?
"Shut up and keep walkin'."
He wanted to pretend, make sure she knew who she was dealing with. I'm Merle Dixon and I don't take kindly to no uppity ass—he couldn't bring himself to say the word. It sat in his throat, bitter as bile. Maybe I have gone soft.
"I've killed sixteen men since all this went down."
It didn't faze her in the slightest. Come to think of it, she'd probably done just as badly. He didn't want to offer her up like some sacrificial lamb, but if that's what kept his brother safe, he'd do it. Still, there was a good chance she'd make it out. And maybe, just maybe, if she did, he'd buy her a drink and swap stories.
"Crazy white bastard," she mumbled under her breath; he caught it.
Yeah, he thought, waving her on with the gun and shuffling alongside. I like her.