A.N.
Hellooo! So this is my first Walking Dead fic *confetti* and I really liked the ship of Milton and the Governor. This is after the big final battle at the prison when Philip is stabbed. This is slightly AU because...Milton. So enjoy. This might become more than one chapter, I really don't know :)
Milton re-wets the cloth and wringing it out, gently wipes the perspiration from Philip's pale, marred face.
The Governor makes a small moan of pain, large calloused hands lifting slightly from the quilt only to fall back weakly.
"Everything is going to be alright, you'll be alright." Milton tells him quietly, carefully moving around the place where Philip's eye had once been.
But even as he says it the researcher feels a stabbing pang of doubt. The scent of blood and gunpowder hangs heavy in the cold living room, the screams from earlier that day still ringing loudly in his ears.
His gaze moves to the loaded pistol on the coffee table. It made his stomach turn and he quickly turns his attention back to Philip, not wanting to think about what he would have to do if Philip did not pull through.
The gathering storm clouds beyond the wide living room windows give off an eerie purple light as Milton smooths the pained crease in Philip's brow. What he wouldn't give to be back in Woodbury at this moment, with Dr. Stevens and the medicine room full of antibiotics and painkillers. His gut twists at the sound of the Governor's ragged breathing, watching the shuddering rise and fall of his broken chest.
So useless. He was so utterly useless.
Milton curse himself, dropping the rag in frustration back into the bowl of water.
He was not a doctor, not a surgeon, just an awkward paper pusher who worked the nine to five and went home to an empty apartment. Who watched game shows and ate soup out of the can because ordering from the take out place down the street required too much human interaction.
Now he regrets it terribly, he could have taken survival classes, could at least have watched one of those medical soaps...could have done something.
Philip coughs, a weak bubbling noise, jerking Milton from his thoughts.
His light blue eye is open, blearily looking up at the ceiling above as he struggles to take in breath; large hand pawing feebly at the soaked bandages wrapped around his chest.
Milton has been sitting on the edge of the bare mattress and now slides closer, slipping an arm carefully behind the Governor's broad shoulders and angling him up.
Human contact was not something he liked but with Philip it had been different, he did not shrug away from the firm grip on his shoulder or the occasional clap to his back and now he draws the wounded man close against his chest.
Rasping, Philip leans his head back into the researcher, feeling the gentle pressure of Milton's hand over the exit wound as he draws in a unsteady breath.
"W-Why?"
"Don't talk Philip, please, save your strength." Milton urges, anxiously feeling the weak pulse in the Governor's neck.
"Why...did." Philip tries again, swallowing slowly against the blood in his throat, "W-Why are you...doing...this?"
Milton checks that the bandages are secure, mumbling, "Because you're all I have left."
Philip twist his head around weakly to gaze at him for a long moment before his eye rolls back and he slumps unconscious against him.
Milton eases his arm carefully out from behind the wounded man's back and tenderly lays him down on the sagging stained mattress.
Tender was not a word Milton would have used to describe himself, more like freak or wimp like everyone always had.
But tender is what he is being as he lightly draws the dusty quilt up around Philip.
With a glance at the pistol on the battered coffee table Milton leaves the Governor to rest.
Protective is another word Milton would never have associated with himself but as he walks from room to room of the empty farm house making sure everything is secure for the night he finds that that too is a feeling growing within himself.
Protective of a man who tried to murder you. The small voice in the back of his mind whispers and Milton finds his hand pressed unconsciously against his side. He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses before taking a final long look at the barren stubble fields surrounding the two story home and pulling the curtains against the gathering dusk.
Fumblingly he lights a fire in the cold fireplace, crouching in front of it to warm himself.
He would have felt safer sleeping on the second story but Philip had not had the strength to climb the steep stairs.
The mattress left on the living room floor by whoever had been squatting in the place before them had been the only option, couches had all been scattered in the front lawn as some sort of barricade.
Milton opens a can of pineapple cubes and sits listening to Philip's wheezing gasps. It almost sounded like a biter was in the room with him.
By morning it very well could be. Milton reminds himself bitterly with another glance at the gun. He was not sure he could do it if the time came. He may just sit and wait until Philip's sank his teeth into him. Really that did not sound too bad. He would rather it be Philip than anyone else.
drinking the sugary juice out of the can Milton watches the expressions crossing Philip's face in his feverish dreams.
Anger, pain, sadness, utter despair.
Each emotion so raw Milton feels almost like an intruder.
Philip tosses fitfully on the pillows Milton had scrounged up, his brown hair damp and messy, clinging to his forehead with sweat.
"Penny."
His faint voice breaks the silence of the empty house and Milton sets aside the now empty can, coming to sit beside him on the mattress.
"Philip?"
Cautiously he brushes his fingertips against the Governor's burning cheek, "Philip can you hear me?"
Slowly the blue eye cracks open, lips moving as he struggles to speak.
"Shh, don't talk." Milton murmurs, taking the glass of water and crushed aspirin from the coffee table and holding it carefully to Philip's cracked lips.
"Here drink this."
The Governor eyes the murky water for a moment before allowing Milton to tip the mixture down his throat.
Soothing the aggravated choking that follows Milton sets the empty glass aside and awkwardly lies down beside Philip.
Watching the wavering shadows the fire casts around the dark living room he can feel every labored breath the wounded man takes as he slowly falls asleep.