Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Because reality is for suckers and this is my version of: "if the knife hadn't actually hit anywhere vital and Milton and Andrea live" as an end point for season three.
Warnings: AU on the end of season three, adult language, sexual content, blowjobs, voyeurism, porn with plot, blood, minor injury. This is basically porn without any sort of plot tbh.
Dehydrate (my demons) and help me live
He had always been more of a planner than a doer. Before everything had fallen apart his life had been meticulously sectioned out. By the time he'd started first grade he'd already exhausted the pithy limitations of the junior science set his Aunt Shannon had sent him for Christmas and had long since decided that he preferred his books, calculations and hard facts to the company of most people.
It wasn't exactly normal childhood behavior, but it had worked for him.
Normal was a word for the unimaginative and uninspired.
Their ignorance was not his problem to solve.
He'd been like that for as long as he could remember. Always prepared. Always on time. Always fully cognizant of consequences, of the protocols and possibilities for every possible scenario. Spouting out facts from his books rather than begging his family to let him watch just five more minutes of television. Or why they should buy him the shoes that the popular kids were wearing at school rather than the plainer, but far better quality pair on for cheap a few shelves over.
He'd always preferred hikers anyway. Soothingly multipurpose and rarely inappropriate – depending on the social setting.
It'd worried his parents at first - true and tried free spirits that had filled the house with knickknacks and colorful murals of stained glass. Designing off-center mosaics on the weekends, forever raving about some new wine they'd just tried and never leaving for work on time. They'd taken him to a specialist once. Where the words Aspergers and Compulsive Disorder were thrown around. But they'd never stuck and weren't discussed by either his parents or the doctors again after the thick stack of test results came back.
And why would they?
He just liked things in order.
Neat.
Controlled.
Where there was a straight line that led to a pre-set number of possible scenarios he had already foreseen and prepared for accordingly. He was goal driven and the rigid structures his mind provided had been key to his success. To finishing school two years ahead of the curve and being accepted into the university of his choice on full scholarship. Working directly under a man who would soon become his mentor within the scientific community. And later, a surrogate parent after he lost his own in a car crash just before his second year.
Professor Matthaeus had understood him in all the ways his parents hadn't. They'd tried, of course – even loved him fiercely. But they'd never been able to wrap their heads around him. How their only child could be so dissimilar from them in almost every respect. Matthaeus had been the first one who'd taught him – in real time – that the world had little use for 'pre-planning' and the perfect possible solution. Life was a living, breathing organism – interchangeable, dependable and inherently tricky. And that sooner or later, it would find a way to break ranks on you and flip the score – often ignoring all the rules to do it.
The real word, as he soon came to discover, was a mess. It was filthy and complicated and loud in every way he hated. And Matthaeus forced him to face down every inch of it. Challenging him to impose a little of himself into the process and dedicate his life to teasing out its mysteries.
"To know, you must first understand. Don't let the world fool you, Milton. It's a slippery slope and your own hubris will always be your constant companion if you're not careful. You and me? We are explorers. Children. Children in a vast cosmic world that only want to understand. Never let other children tell you that you are wrong just because they came to a different answer than you. Challenge yourself to understand why they did it and you will never be guilty of being truly wrong. Never forget that."
Professor Matthaeus was on a flight back to Georgia - less than forty-eight hours before the FAA grounded all air traffic in the continental U.S - when his plane went down, a hundred miles outside of Tampa. There were no survivors. No living ones at least. He found that the choice of phrase the media used to explain how the bodies - some still strapped into their seats and torn into, kept moving and reaching - never quite left him.
Still, when the news reports started. Confirmed all around the world as the Government tried desperately to keep things quiet. Reports of a new virus, something different and frightening and fascinating all at the same time. He did what he'd always done and started planning.
Amongst other things, he picked up a "How To" survival guide and started reading. He learned that animal droppings, if properly dried, could be used as a fuel source when wood was scarce. And to break logs into a usable pieces over a rock for a fire, rather than with an ax to conserve energy. He learned that Yew, Cedar and California Laurel (also known as Oregon Myrtle) were poisonous, whereas Birch, Maple and Aspen had the best inner bark to eat in spring when the sap had started to flow. That you could eat it raw or boil it. That it could be roasted and ground for use as flour. That if you put a plastic bag on a tree branch overnight you could collect the condensation in the morning for clean drinking water. He even learned that you could do the Heimlich manoeuvre on yourself with a tree truck of specific height to your torso, effectively saving yourself if you were alone and choking.
He'd only made it as far as the section that detailed how to construct your own rudimentary shelter when the bus he was taking back to Woodbury from Atlanta crashed into a highway median due to the driver having a heart attack. He barely got out alive. Managing to get himself and a handful of frightened, panicking people out of the emergency hatch and down the embankment into the woods before the muffled sound of gunshots started echoing from the freeway.
As far as he knew, it was probably still sitting there. Dropped open-faced on the ridged plastic floor. Blood dried and smeared rust-red across the cover. Blood spatter from when the body of the driver sunk his teeth into the throat of the young woman with the spiky hair and nose piercings only two seats in front of him. She'd slept through the whole thing due to the truly dangerous amount of sleeping pills he'd seen her toss back the moment the engine started.
She'd been one of the lucky ones.
Or so he'd told himself.
"I told you. You were gonna do it. And now you're gonna die. And you're gonna turn. And you're gonna tear the flesh from her bones. In this life now, you kill or you die. Or you die and you kill."
It was ironic, he decided. How he realized that in spite of everything that had happened since the world had gone and broken on them, he was still him. Still alive. Still the same person – more or less – as he'd always been. Ironic considering how his first instinct had been to inform the Governor that he would in fact, not be dying. And certainly not turning for that matter. Movement might be difficult for some time and he would have to be careful to watch for infection after the wound was properly dealt with, but death? Laughable. Not at that angle.
His second instinct had been to ignore the sour taste building in the back of his throat and lie – playing the part that was expected of him as Andrea cried out and he slumped onto the floor. Limp and shocked as a disturbingly self-satisfied glint glowed like lit explosives in the back of his friend's eyes.
He was half certain Andrea's heart only started beating again when the door finally slammed closed and he smiled at her from across the room. Tremulous and shaky as the lancing burn in his side turned into crippling throb, but unquestionably encouraging as her mouth clicked closed and she nodded – determined.
He lost track of things after that.
He regained consciousness around the same time Andrea finally dragged the pliers he'd dropped for her into reach and freed herself. Slithering through the widening pool of blood and tepid rainwater, all the way to his side. Mouthing something. Kissing into his lips and palming at the soft curl of him through blood-stiff trousers like the fact that the Governor was probably waiting in the hall and ready to finish the job if necessary, was of no more importance than-
Wait.
Pardon?
To be honest, he wasn't exactly sure where all this was coming from. He wasn't sure if this was a spur of the moment, adrenaline fueled and fly by the seat of your pants kind of reaction. Or if it had been something they'd been working up to during the past few weeks of solidarity and shared confidences and he'd been completely clueless about. Or, going a step further, if he'd been hurt worse than he thought and he was in fact, hallucinating.
And while he was aware of the bias, the former, at least in his mind, was just as possible as any other explanation. After all, he'd been known to miss out on the odd social cue in the past. Bias because, as he slowly, hesitantly, returned the pressure of her lips – tasting blood, dry-tongue and desperation – he realized that more than anything, he didn't want this to be a hallucination. He wanted it to be real. He wanted her. Wanted…just wanted.
"Andrea?"
It wasn't until she'd moved downward, letting her teeth graze down the flush of his neck that he was inclined to believe it was a mix of both. It sounded better in his head. Giving him an idea of a future rather than something impermanent and shallow. He wanted more because he wanted her. He wanted that future. Everything that hadn't been in that survival book but should have been.
Because living?
Like this?
It didn't mean anything.
Not when you didn't have someone to share it with.
"Shhh," she breathed, apparently unfazed by the borrowed time they were now chancing as one thing led to another and suddenly it was desire – rather than pain – that was searing down his spine. Making him arch and strain as much as he was able as she kept him pinned against the wall – safe - determined to investigate every inch of him with- oh god her tongue.
He returned her caress, hesitantly breaking character as something in his hind brain snapped. Registering nothing but heat and wet-pressure, suction, warmth and belonging as it all flashed across his mind like highlights. Garbling her name on his tongue when Andrea got his pants open and suckled his head through the thin material of his briefs. Cupping him gently until she had him straining upwards, desperate for her mouth before she petted down the crinkled-velvet of his sack – tongue curling and-
"Yes. This," his mind asserted. Keeping with the same trend of stubborn forcefulness that had seen him all the way to this point. Blood drizzling quietly out of his side, dried over his skin and trickling past his parted lips. The taste of her spreading across his tongue like a balm.
He wouldn't have done anything differently.
The realization was sudden, like an aftershock.
He would always exist here.
Even if that knife had sunk a few inches to the left, even if-
It was a first for him. Not the sex part, but the passionate mess of a frenzy all this had turned into. There was no finesse, only animal wants – animal needs. Her mouthing the head of him through spit-slick material. Teasing, he realized later. Necking and kissing and squirming on the concrete floor in a puddle of his own red. Probably five seconds from Phillip barging in to finish the job.
Getting stabbed was also new.
And unlike what was happening right now, he hadn't enjoyed it. But in all honesty, even the pain paled in comparison to the feeling of Andrea's breasts pressing across his chest – panting into creamed skin as Andrea hitched her hips into his. Giving in to the race for friction.
He made a noise that could have been a word just as easily as it could have been him choking on his own spit when she swung a leg over him and snapped his briefs aside. She wasn't much better. Pants gone, underwear gone, completely bare and unprotected as she grasped him by the base. Tossing back her head and sinking down on him without warning.
And for a strange, terrifying second it actually hurt.
Because it was too much too quick and she was so tight he didn't even know what to do with himself until neurons and receptors sorted themselves out and he was resting a careful hand on her waist. Shy in spite of it all as she laughed like the rain and covered it with her own. Leaning down for a long, predatory-pleased kiss before she started moving.
The line of his briefs was like a band around the left side of his cock, adding a sliver of pressure that he wasn't quite sure what to do with as she flexed around him. Making him gape and squirm and instinctively try to get moremoremore as he tried to thrust up into her on his own. Gritting his teeth and making base sounds as her thighs quivered, keeping him down and grounded every time he forgot about his side and tried to do something foolish, like maybe even flip them.
It was rude.
Maybe even presumptuous.
A coded response written into the after-behavior of male pleasure.
The need to establish a rhythm - control.
Only he wasn't in control.
She was.
And he was quite sure he'd never flown higher than he was now.
His head thunked back against the metal wall, hoping The Governor would think he was just getting weaker. Pulse pounding in his ears as he watched her move, struck by the carnality of it – the freedom. Watching her find herself every time she slid back home.
God.
He dug his hands into her hair, swallowing the sound right from her lips when she moaned in approval. Was this normal? The flush of adrenaline and dopamine gift-wrapping a shared traumatic experience or-
He felt- Christ.
He felt like his brain was about to explode.
He was so close, so-
Someone cleared their throat across the room.
The sound made Andrea stall. Hips hitching just before the drop as he groaned in frustration. The implication of the cough not quite sinking in as he pulled at her desperately, working himself deeper with micro-bursts of movement that made him gnaw on the inside of his cheek as his injured side cried foul. But when it finally did, he froze only because she did. Too far gone for modesty or terror or any other of the half a dozen emotions a normal person might be feeling in such a situation.
Professor Matthaeus would have been delighted, no doubt.
Seeing himself proven right.
He looked up, squinting. Heart in his throat before relaxing fractionally when he recognized the looming shapes. Rick Grimes. Michonne. Tyreese. Daryl Dixon. Too high on endorphins and blood loss to get embarrassed as Andrea pulled off him gently – cheeks burning. Leaving his cock wavering, hard and slick before she covered him with the underwear she'd shunted aside. Pressing an apologetic kiss across his temple as his head slumped back against the wall again – pleasure drunk and slightly annoyed.
Still, the thumb she brushed deliberately – and oh so bold - over the crown of him felt a whole lot like a promise as his hips jerked. Hiccuping once then twice, drawing the interested gaze of the other four as she coaxed a low moan clear out of his throat before he could stop himself. Finding a secret sort of thrill slam through him when he realized they were still watching, eyes dark and wanting and turning their bodies just slightly to the side like-
And, oh-
Well then.
That was also new.
Seemed like he was experiencing a lot of firsts today.
Interesting.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.
Reference:
- The name: "Matthaeus," derived from Ancient Greek, means" "gift of the Lord."
- Thank you to gunslingerdixon for the bit of dialogue from the Governor to Milton from their final episode.