Author's Note: This story is the prize awarded to and the result of a prompt from Siarh (totally check out her work, if you like Walking Dead stuff) for winning one of the most random contests I've ever thought of (long story, ask me over a drink sometime).
Set during the Christmas season before the outbreak; much like the show, I won't pin an exact year on it. Set post All Saints Day. If either character seems a little AU, please remember this is Maggie as she was before the outbreak: college student in last or second-to-last year of school, not too long after her rebellious teenage years. This is Connor after the death of his father, Greenly, Rocco, and his experience at the Hoag, as well as some other things we'll get into later. Thanks, as ever, for reading.
…
"It hurts, Murph. Ye said it'd be better by now, but it hurts...An' I'm pretty tired, so…I'm gonna…sit down fer a bit. Might…be better after I sit down."
…
"Maggie? Is that you?"
"Yeah, Annette, just headed out for a walk to stretch my legs after the drive. You need somethin'?"
"You mean you're goin' out to the woods to smoke while your dad's still in town?"
"Of course."
"Glad you're home, sweetheart. Just be back in time for supper."
"Glad to be home, Annette."
…
Day 1:
The cigarette is the first one Maggie's had all semester. She promised herself if she made it through the last final without cracking she could smoke herself into a disgusting, tar-saturated mess over Christmas, and, God, is it a good feeling to keep that promise.
She'd gotten into the habit of sneaking out into the woods to smoke back when her Dad and Annette first started dating. Rebellious, surly teenager phase. The shoplifting and sullen fits faded out eventually, as most ridiculous juvenile habits should, but the smoking stuck around.
It's become a ritual since she started college: meet and greet the family for a few hours on the first day of winter break, wait until her dad runs out to town for something, then strike out on her own to stretch her legs after that "long drive."
She realizes she's being chicken shit on several levels, not the least of which is denying herself smoking at school so that none of her upstanding, respectable, trendy school friends know that she has such a "publicly loathed and reprehensible habit." Their words, not hers.
She snorts to herself as she lights up her first smoke in five months. As she wanders through the woods she knows better than anywhere else in the world, she silently admits that she likes being someone else when she's alone, that she likes being different from everyone she knows.
At school, she's the smart, pretty girl who's just popular and sought after enough. At home, she's the level-headed and practical daughter who grew out of her rebellious streak and into a "fine, responsible young woman her family can be proud of." Pastor Bill's words, not hers.
To her friends, Maggie is fun, friendly, and funny. To her family, she is reasonable, rational, and reliable. In her own opinion, Maggie is a little of all of these, but mostly none of the above. She's a little different, a little confused, and just a little bit fractured.
And that's the way she prefers it.
The man Maggie literally stumbles over as she roams deeper into her woods is also splintered, though in a much deeper and more fundamental way. She's startled, rightly so (though less frightened than she probably should be), and nearly spits her cigarette out on the ground. The filthy, broken stranger reclines on the ground, barely upright against a massive oak, and she has apparently tripped over his outstretched legs.
Though Maggie wonders how she could have possibly missed him, he doesn't seem to notice she's there.
"You alright?" She regrets the words the moment they pass her lips, silently cursing her stupidity. He's very obviously far from alright. Again, he doesn't seem to hear her; he's muttering incoherently, eyes closed, his limp form useless and deflated against the base of the tree.
She realizes several things in rapid succession: he's clearly not a threat to her physically (she's not sure he could move if he wanted to); he's in serious need of medical or professional help (or both); and both of those are probably the last thing he wants right now, judging from the ragged gray jumpsuit he's wearing that reads "Hoag Maximum Security Prison" across the chest.
It takes her all of thirty seconds to decide she needs to help him more than she needs to turn him in. She has very little rational basis for this decision, but aside from being a little fractured, she's also stubborn as hell, and God help anyone in her way once she's made up her mind.
She kneels next to him, careful to move slowly and deliberately in case he might become aware of her presence and spook suddenly like a wild animal.
"Can ya hear me? Are ya hurt?"
His eyes flick to hers, unexpectedly alert, and Maggie has to force herself not to start backwards. His gaze is a hazy, pain-filled blue that steals a little air from her lungs. She thinks simultaneously of the day a tornado ripped through their barn and took most of the building with it, and of the way her father looked when he held her hand at the foot of her mother's casket.
He croaks something, a horrible, dried-out whisper that she can't decipher, and tilts his head towards her. She cautiously leans closer and asks him to repeat what he said.
"Ye…gonna…finish dat?"
She glances down, for a moment not recognizing the cigarette still clamped between two fingers. Without thinking, she dashes off the accumulated ashes and holds the smoke up to his lips. She's pretty sure he can't hold it up himself, and she'd rather not set the fugitive or the woods on fire just now.
He draws in the first lungful slowly, visibly relishing the inhale as if it's the most miraculous thing he's ever experienced. Maggie reflects for a moment that she can relate to the feeling, and marvels that they have even this small thing in common. He raises a trembling hand, fingers brushing accidentally against hers as he very carefully and deliberately takes the cigarette, making a noticeable effort to keep the small object between fingers that seem to have lost most of their dexterity.
There's no magical tingle or spark of electricity jumping between their hands when they touch, not like in those trashy romance books she constantly catches Beth reading. What his cool skin brushing against hers does, however, is remind her that it's December, and even though they're in Georgia, it's a bit cool out today.
"I, uh…got a few things back at the house might help ya out, mister," she says suddenly, straightening. "Gimme an hour or two, I'll see what I can get together."
She turns her back on the broken wreck at the base of the tree and starts toward home. A nagging thought in the corner of her mind makes her pauses, turn, and look at him. She watches him inhale and exhale for a couple of moments, his eyes either distant or just plain vacant again as the smoke curls around his face.
"Don't…don't leave, alright? I'll be right back."
They both know she doesn't mean the kind of leaving that involves getting up and walking away.
She takes much longer than she meant to, and it's several hours later when she's finally able to leave the house without anyone noticing that her arms are full of things she'd have no explanation for taking outside.
She's absurdly relieved to find "Prison Man" (as she's taken to calling him in her head) in the same place that she left him. Then she freezes.
There's a terrible second where she can't tell if he's still breathing.
There's a worse second where she's sure he isn't.
There's a light-headed second when he finally moves.
This is followed quickly by a rather confused second where she wonders why she cares so much.
He tilts his head a little to the side, and as his cloudy eyes roll to meet hers, she's surprised to hear the flustered apologies and excuses spilling and stumbling from her lips as if they've found their own convicts in the woods to trip over. She fumbles her armload of supplies to the ground next to him and trails off, mumbling something about having to help with chores and having dinner with the family.
Her face is flaming in the chilly darkness, and she doesn't know why.
He watches her dully, silent and shivering as she pulls containers and clothing from within the folds of the blanket in which she's bundled her stash. Maggie bites her lip as she moves, forcing in the babbling and feeling very young in this haggard man's presence.
She opens a container of homemade soup still warm from the stove and realizes that in her belated haste to get back to him she's forgotten any sort of utensils.
"I don't suppose you can hold the soup up to drink it, can you?" she asks, not sure why she's speaking so quietly. There's no chance anyone at the house can hear them out here.
"C'n try," he mutters, reaching out once more with trembling hands.
It's clear after a brief, awkward attempt that he just doesn't have the strength. Maggie repositions herself on the leaves, sitting cross-legged and facing him. Instead of taking the soup from him, she wraps her warm hands around his frigid ones and guides the container back to his lips.
Between sips, he whispers, " 'F I ferget t'say so, thank ye." She blinks hard for a moment, clearing her throat, and nods.
"Welcome," she smiles, glad the darkness hides the flames that simmer on her face again.
The darkness does not quite hide the old tear tracks running through the layers of grime on his face, but she's polite enough to not notice this aloud.
When he's finished, she pulls out another Tupperware container that has several warm, wet rags inside. "I thought ya might want to clean up some. An' I brought ya a change of clothes, somethin' a bit warmer than…what you've got on. Didn't know if you were hurt, so I brought a first aid kit if ya need it."
Judging by the increased heat in her face and the slight, mischievous twinkle in his otherwise scattered eyes, the fact that he obviously can't bathe and dress himself occurs to both of them at the same time.
"Oh, Lord," Maggie mutters. There's another tiny flash of humor in his eyes, but it fades just as quickly as the first. "I guess, if ya don't mind too much, I'll help ya do that part, too."
"Pretty girl…offerin' t'undress…me an'gimme….a sponge bath. Can't really complain, can I?"
If there were any actual lasciviousness or threat in his tone, Maggie would be gone in an instant. His comment seems automatic, though, a habit pulled from the faintest echo of a past life that doesn't exist anymore. Comments like this are expected of him, and it comes out reflexively rather than offensively.
She can't say she ever expected to spend the first night of her winter break in the woods, helping an escaped prisoner strip and bathe. She'd be lying if she said this wasn't the strangest thing that's ever happened to her. Up to this point, life's been fairly typical, if not storybook, but Maggie feels she's handling the unorthodox situation rather well.
Diplomatically, if you ask her.
After thirty cold, exhausting (and slightly embarrassing) minutes, she's gotten him mostly cleaned up and changed into some dollar store sweats and socks she lifted from Shawn's room. She couldn't swipe any shoes, and anyway, there's no way she could guess his size. The shoes he had on aren't in the absolute worst shape, so she slides them back on his feet. She barely manages to keep the heat contained in her face when she stammers out that she didn't get any underwear, and he graciously murmurs that she's done enough and he'll surely be fine in what he's got on.
He rouses himself enough during the tedious process to help as much as he can, especially to ask her to please be careful of the pair of rosaries he wears tucked into his undershirt. She takes a moment to delicately wipe a rag over the beads, and he takes a moment to thank her again, though she can see he's quickly running through what little strength he had to start with.
She doesn't ask him what a Prison Man could possibly be doing with one rosary, much less two. That's not really her business.
She pulls out the last clean, damp rag and warms it between her hands before reaching out to his face. His attention has wandered, or he's dozed off for a moment, and he flinches from the sudden contact. Years of helping her daddy deal with skittish animals at his office and on the farm have taught Maggie patience, though, and she holds her hand steady and murmurs soft, consoling words.
His eyes, panicked and a little wild, finally focus on her mouth as she continues talking, inane babble whose only purpose is to provide a soothing cadence to reassure him of his safety. After a moment, she presses the rag to his cheek again, gently wiping away grime and small bits of dried blood, effectively erasing any evidence of his apparent weeping.
When he speaks, his voice is so faint Maggie has to lean in to hear him, pausing in her ministrations.
"What'd you say, Prison Man?"
"Do ye know…any church songs? Voice like yers…seems made fer church singin'…And I ain't…seen th'inside of a church…nor heard singin' fer…ages. If it's not askin' too much…maybe a...hymn?"
Definitely not how she pictured tonight going.
Quietly, with more than a bit of rust in her pipes, Maggie manages to get out the first two verses of "The Old Rugged Cross" as she carefully washes his face clean. She hasn't sung for anyone but church and family in a month of Sundays, but if she sounds particularly out of practice, Prison Man is polite enough to not say anything.
The parts of his face that aren't covered in what looks like nearly a month's growth of facial hair slowly give ground to her efforts. She finds several scratches under the filth, though nothing too deep or severe, and a couple of bruises. He's so exhausted the circles under his eyes almost seem like the result of a physical altercation except there's no signs of swelling or damage.
As she cleans a vaguely nasty looking scratch running through the bristles along the right side of his jaw line, she nearly apologies for not thinking to bring shaving supplies. The absurdity of the whole situation stops her from sharing this thought, though, and she bites her lip to prevent further slips.
She's fairly sure he's asleep now, and though she's not one hundred percent, she thinks his breathing might be a little deeper and a little more regular than when she first found him. She covers him with the blanket she brought then quietly sets about gathering the rags, Tupperware, and tattered jumpsuit to take back with her.
His fingers on her bare elbow are so unexpected she tips over sideways from her precarious crouch and spits out a string of expletives that would have Annette threatening to pull out a bar of Dove, no matter that Maggie's a junior in college.
"Didn't mean…t'startle ye."
"S'alright," she huffs out. "What…what do ya need?" She has no idea in how he managed to catch her so off guard in his less than prime condition. She's really got to pay better attention.
"Hate t'ask after…all ye done, but I was…wondrin' if ye had…somethin' t'drink an' maybe…another smoke?"
"As a matter of fact," she says, a relieved smile spreading over her face, "I think I can help you out on both counts."
Five minutes later sees the two of them sitting side by side, the trunk of the massive oak wide enough for the two of them to sit shoulder to shoulder and hardly be facing in different directions. They smoke contentedly, one empty and one full bottle of water between them, and Maggie wonders for a moment how it is she can feel so relaxed next to this escaped convict that she doesn't know from Adam.
"Feelin' a little more yourself?" Maggie asks. He nods, the glow at the end of his cigarette dipping drunkenly in the darkness.
"Feel like sharin' any personal information yet?"
A long, loaded pause, then—
"Name's Connor."
She nods; she doesn't figure many escaped convicts are likely to be the sharing type. "I s'pose that's better than Prison Man. I'm Maggie."
Another pause.
Inhale…
Exhale…
" 'Twas a lovely song, Maggie. Can't tell ye how much I appreciate what ye've done."
The shyness hits her like a like an entire flock of butterflies landing in her stomach at once, and she's suddenly jittery and restless without any real understanding as to why. She's unable to sit still any longer and hastily stubs her cigarette out on the sole of her shoe. She climbs to her feet, brushing leaves off her backside.
"Alright, Connor, I've gotta head in for night. I've left ya a sandwich if ya feel up to it, there's another water, and you've got the blanket to wrap up in. I'll, uh…take care of your other clothes for you." She forces herself to stop rambling as she gathers her return bundle.
"Thank ye, again." His voice is faint, barely audible, and she has the feeling exhaustion is finally claiming him completely.
"You're welcome. I…Good luck, I guess." But he's already out, snoring lightly with his head titled back against the bark. She leans down, taking the smoldering cigarette from his nerveless fingers, and stubs it out against the trunk of the tree. She looks him over again, taking a moment to tuck in the blanket a little more securely. Before she can talk herself out of it, she takes the small first aid kit from her bundle, places it beside the bottle of water, then straightens and turns, heading quickly back home.
As she walks through the woods so familiar she doesn't even need a trail to find her way, she lets her mind wander over the fact that although Connor is an escaped convict, he is very much not from the nearby prison and therefore must have come quite a ways before collapsing in her woods. She spends part of the walk back wondering where he might've come from and the other part thinking about his request for a hymn. It certainly matches up with a lot of the tattoos she noticed while she was helping him change clothes. Not to mention the two rosaries.
It doesn't occur to Maggie to question the fact that he's very obviously Irish until she is tucked up safe and warm in her own room with his ragged, filthy prison uniform stashed in the corner between her bed and the wall.
When she falls asleep, she dreams of funerals, tornados, and rosary beads.
Author's Note: If you've made it this far, please take a moment to leave a few words in the review box on your way out. Thank you for reading.