notes: cross-posted from ao3
the beginning
"That's the deal, Greene. Y' want it?"
Hershel stares hard into his whiskey glass, the last drops pooling into a thin amber lake at the bottom. He tips the glass to his mouth, sets it on the damp bar counter, and tugs on his suspenders, righting them, struggling for respectability. There are tears forming in the corners of his eyes and the tremors he feels in his body may either be from drunkenness or from shame. Probably both. Yes. Both.
The man next to Hershel studies his face carefully, like a hunter. The dive light is dim and hazy, and there is something so satisfying for him to see old Hershel Greene, the good and decent farmer, smack dab in the midst of redneck peccadillo. Licking his finely shaped lips, he grins exposing chompers grayed with ciggy smoke and decay.
"Naw, but y' needin' it," he drawls.
Hershel nods, resigned. "Yes, William, I am desperate and I need it."
His companion swishes his saliva loudly and hocks a load of dip spit into his beer can, pausing to study the spittle on the pull tab before saying anything like he's resting comfortably on the tension. "Three years is all y' got. I'mma come after y' lookin' for my dough in three fuckin' years, y' hear? And if it ain't ready for me—yer girl is mine."
Wincing as if struck by a blow, Hershel mutters a prayer before looking the man in the eye—they gleam wetly with slosh and wickedness, and Hershel knows what he is about to do is wrong. Desperation does that to a man—takes him by the hand before hacking it off. You don't come back unscathed. It's an illusion, a nasty trick, held together only by the string of need, and Hershel needs what is being offered. It takes all his breath to simply whisper, "Yes."
Will Dixon holds out his palm.
It's a deal.