A/N: Alright, so. I decided a few days ago I wanted to do a Merle/OFC fic. And then I spent two days trying to figure out a female character that would actually hold Merle down, or even want to to hold him down lol. The result was this fic. The title is from James Dean's 'Cajun Queen'.
Warnings: Merle Dixon is the consummate asshole, and racist. So be forewarned, there will be some racist language in this story. I'm not racist, and while I don't endorse or use the type of language that you'll read, I'm not going to sugar-coat, and change Merle so I don't hurt people's feelings. I figure if you're reading this, you know exactly what type of man Merle is, so you should be expecting it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Walking Dead, Merle Dixon, or Michael Rooker. If I did... I wouldn't share them with you.
On the Dialect: The OFC in this story is Cajun, of which, I'm not. My father's best friend and his family are though, and I'm using what I've heard from them as most of dialect for this. Firstly, 'Th' is pronounced as 'D', as in 'dat' (that) 'dem' (them), or occasionally as just 'T', as in 'tinkin' (thinking). As far as sounds... The only way I can describe it is a fast-paced drawl if that makes any sense what so ever. Most of these words probably aren't spelled right, as Cajun isn't a written language, but a spoken one.
Merle grunted as he lost his grip, slamming his chin and head off of the last few rungs of the fire escape, slamming into the concrete ground.
Well... Good a place to die as any, he supposed.
He could hear the Geeks growling. Didn't sound close, but he knew that'd change as soon as they caught the scent of fresh meat. He wished he had his pistol that he'd left with Daryl; a bullet to the head was starting to sound like a mighty fine last meal, compared to the prospect of being eaten alive.
Although if the damn walking corpses didn't hurry up, he probably wouldn't have to worry about the 'alive' part.
"Well, if dis ain't a day for de history books. Here I was tinkin' you was a Marine; must a gotten ya confused with dem National Guard bougs."
Merle chuckled as he opened one eye, seeing a flash of dark red hair.
"Gotta be in hell, Frenchie; Never would a let ya in upstairs."
And with that... Merle Dixon let his eyes close, letting Frenchie's voice lead him along the path of the dead.
The woman caught his eye, and not just 'cause she was probably the only woman around for miles who didn't have facial hair.
"Hey," Merle muttered, elbowing the kid sitting next to him. "Who the hell is that?"
The kid – a pasty faced, gangly looking little Yank – followed his gaze across the room.
"Oh, that? That's Lantier," The kid whispered back, giving Merle a shit-eating grin. "Wouldn't try your luck though; she's not particularly friendly, or so I hear."
Merle ignored the little shit-stain's further attempts at conversation, letting his eyes drift over the dark, red-haired woman standing in line to get her grub. The standard issue uniform did nothing to hide her nice rack, although the pants weren't doing her backside any favors. But glancing at her well-toned arms, and torso, he assumed she probably had one hell of an ass hiding underneath those baggy green pants.
Tall, too. God, he liked tall women. Normally, he preferred blondes, but he had to admit, there was something about that blood-red mane a hers that was making him all sorts of hot and bothered.
And that rack! That sports bra – standard issue for woman in the military – was bouncing up and down, up and down...
"You got some 'tin ya wanna say, boug, or you jus' a domion?"
Merle was a little surprised, firstly by the fact that the woman was standing right in front of him, green eyes flashing angrily, secondly by the thick accent that came out of those full, luscious lips.
"Well, I'll be damned! We got ourselves a Frenchie here!" He said with a throaty chuckle, letting his eyes wander up and down the woman. Damned if she wasn't prettier up close than he'd thought when he'd first seen her. "Never thought I'd see one a your kind outside of a swamp!"
"An' I never tought I'd be seein' a hundred an' fity pound sack o' shit eider, but hey, de world is full o' surprises, non?" She said with a snort, before sashaying away.
It was surprising how often he seen her after that; it seemed like every time he turned around, he was catching small glimpses of that red hair tucked under a green cap.
He also started to notice how much shit she was getting from the other guys. Now Merle wasn't one of those pussy-whipped bitch-men, who crowed about 'women being just as good as any man', but on the flip side of that, he knew that women weren't all meek and mild, easily shoved around. Hell, his mama had given his daddy just as good as she got. Annie Dixon had been a force to be reckoned with, instilling fear around the neighborhood – and her own home – that had nothing to do with her husband.
And the more he seen of 'PFC. Lantier', the more he realized that she was better than half the guys in their training groups, even with half the shit they piled on her. Trying to make her fail.
He'd seen a few of them trip her up while on runs. Saw her take a few dirty hits while they were in hand-to-hand training. Even saw one guy give her a shove while she was on the practice wall, sending her flying into the mud on the other side.
The one thing he didn't see was her complain, or attempt any payback. She always just seemed to grit her teeth, and keep moving. Hell, most guys he knew would've – at the very least – thrown a few punches at the offending party, or even talked to the sergeant about it. But she handled it like... like a man, Merle thought with a grin as he tugged his dirty, mud-covered boots off, before dropping down onto his bunk. And after that, sleep quickly chased all thoughts of PFC. Lantier from his mind, exhaustion robbing him of even the chance to dream of her.
"Stay wid me, Dixon; ain't gon' have ya dyin' on me now, non. Ya jus' keep dem blue eyes a yours open. Be jus' like you, it would; leave poor ol' chere here all lonely like. Jus' when Ah was t'inkin' Ah'd have some company, me. You ugly mug be de first friendly face Ah seen in a long time, cher."
Merle watched, keeping his face expressionless as Lantier – if anyone knew her first name, they weren't sharing the info with him – stepped up to the edge of the platform, ready to take her turn at shimmying down the rope. And he watched as Medina – a nasty little weasel of a wetback – snaked his arm out, and gave her a hard shove.
It was easily a ten foot fall to the ground below, and Merle almost winced in sympathy as he heard the hard thud of the Cajun hitting the ground.
"Lantier! What the hell happened?!" Sgt. Balcom demanded, stepping around the wooden platform to look at the girl. "First day on the new feet?!"
"Sir... No, sir," Lantier bit out, and even from where he stood a few feet away with the others who had completed the exercise, Merle could see her grit her teeth.
"Then get your ass up, and get to the medic! Dixon!" Merle pulled himself up a little straighter, yanking his eyes away from the still-prone form of Lantier, and looking towards the sergeant. "Since you can't stop making googly eyes, make yourself useful, and give her a hand! The rest of you, move on!"
A few groans, and more than a bit of muttering followed the sergeant's last order, and the other men gradually started to fade away as Merle walked over to Lantier, frowning.
"Ya gonna get up there, Frenchie, or ya jus' gonna lie in the mud all day? Waitin' for ya damn poodle ta come an' save ya?" He asked roughly, setting down on the balls of his feet, resting his elbows on his knees.
The woman cracked open one eye, and shot him a glare that matched anything his father had ever given him.
"Fuck you, couyon."
"Aw, is the little girly upset now? Then why don't ya get ya ass up off the damn ground?
"Merde, but do he ever shut his mouth, him?"
Merle flashed the woman a grin. "Oh, I'm sorry, Frenchie; thought ya wanted ta be a Marine. Ballet is down the road aways; want me ta carry ya there?"
His words had the intended effect, as Lantier pushed herself up on her elbows, grimacing in pain as she did, but keeping her glare fixed on him.
"You gon' help a fille up dere?" She grunted finally. "Tink Ah sprained my ankle."
Merle stood, and offered her a hand, helping pull her up, before wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders.
"Ah'm sorry, cher. Dis gon' hurt some tin fierce. C'est la vie. Always knew you mouth was gon' get you into trouble someday, me. Too charming for you own good, what Maw Maw would say."
Pain. Burning, searing, red-hot, fiery, agonizing, indescribable pain.
"You jus' hold on dere, cher. Hold on to ol' Savannah's voice, you. It's gon' all be over soon. You jus' listen to ol' Frenchie, de pouille. She gon' get you safe. Don' you worry."