Yay! I finished chapter 2! :D I don't know if anyone is actually readin' this, so please leave a review if you are and tell me what ya think. I probably won't keep postin' after this chapter if there aren't any reviews that show people are readin' it. I just wanted to get a couple chapters up so that I could see if people would like it. I'll just have to wait and see.
Disclaimer: I do not own the walking dead or any of its characters. I own Nashoba and the story plot (Minus the prologue).
Also, if I do end up continuin' this, will someone let me know if the rating needs to be changed because of language? I'm tryin' to keep the language as low as possible, but for anyone who is a Walking Dead fan, we all know how the Dixon's and their mouths are. :) Foul language is just part of the package. Anyway, read on and please review!
Merle wasn't sure what was worse, the pain in his hand or his head. He couldn't remember what had happened; everything from the past two days was a fuzzy blur. He remembered waking up two days ago with a craving for a fix, which he had sated. He also remembered getting into a very heated debate with his little brother about going with the Asian kid to Atlanta for a run. Daryl, his little brother, had all but begged him to not go but Merle went anyway. He thought the reason why he had wanted to go had something to do with wanting to find more drugs but he couldn't be sure. Speaking of drugs, he was in dire need of a fix.
Merle went to reach for the pocket he kept his stuff in. He reached, like always, with his right hand. What wasn't like always, was the jaw breaking pain that accompanied this reach. Merle grunted in pain and clenched his teeth tight. What the hell was wrong with his hand?
He tried to sit up but found himself too weak to do so. He really needed a fix and to know what was going on with his hand. He also needed to know what had happened after he had went with the Asian kid to Atlanta. The pain from his hand combined with the need for a fix rendered him immobile. Withdrawal was something Merle had gone through a few times before, when he had tried on his own to quit his addiction, and he now knew that it was the reason why his head felt as if it was about to explode.
Merle did a mental once over, trying to find out what all was wrong. His hand hurt like a bitch, his head was throbbing, for that matter his whole body hurt. He hated withdrawal. Merle had always prided himself on being able to stand high amounts of pain and with that tolerance one would have thought him capable of kicking his addiction. In reality, while Merle did have a high pain tolerance, the tolerance was only for more physical things such as broken bones or bruises. The deep, whole body ache that accompanied his withdrawal was something Merle Dixon just couldn't handle. He groaned out loud, or at least tried to. He found that his throat was bone dry and any sound came out as a low hiss. He also noted that he was starving. When was the last time he had eaten?
Gritting his teeth, Merle tried to push himself into more of a sitting position, wary of his right hand. He succeeded, leaning back against the headboard of the bed (A bed? When had he gotten in a bed?), he looked down to examine his hand only to find it neatly wrapped in what he suspected was gauze underneath some blue tape like stuff. He knew the name but it didn't come to him in that moment. He was shocked. What had happened to his hand and who had bandaged it? Merle mentally groaned, this day just seemed to get better and better.
"Starin' at it ain't gonna make it magically heal up." A voice that sounded strangely familiar stated from the doorway. Merle's head snapped up to find a woman with hair as black as midnight and eyes like turquoise leaning against the door frame watching him. Merle's eyes wandered her frame, examining her.
"Who're you?" he asked. He couldn't shake that she looked familiar but with his mind in the foggy haze that it was, he probably could've danced naked on a table with a dog and not remembered it.
The woman's eyebrows creased as she continued to watch him. "Ya don't remember anythin', do ya?" she asked. Warily, Merle shook his head. She sighed, pushing herself off the door frame and taking a few steps into the room, her turquoise eyes still watching him. "So ya don't know who I am?"
"If I did, ya think I'd be askin' ya who the hell ya're? Jeez, ya need ta get yaself a brain." Merle snapped at the woman. Her piercing turquoise eyes narrowed and Merle had to resist the urge to squirm.
"Forgive me for wantin' to be absolutely sure." She spat out sarcastically. Merle glared at her. They stayed like that for a matter of minutes, glaring at each other. Merle had to force himself not to look away. The damn woman looked like she was staring into his soul with those eyes.
"Wha' 'appened to mah hand and where the hell am I?" Merle growled out to change the subject and hopefully get her eyes off his. His efforts weren't successful. She took another step forward, her eyes never leaving his.
"I found ya, yesterday evenin', handcuffed to a pipe up on the roof of this buildin'. You had a hacksaw and were sawin' at your own hand. I tried talkin' to ya but ya passed out 'fore I could make any real progress. I got ya outta the cuffs and got ya down here. It's an apartment. I'm guessin' the owner's." she explained. Images flashed through Merle's head. No, not images. Memories.
They'd gotten to Atlanta, him and the band from the quarry. They'd made it to the department store. They'd gathered supplies and were ready to leave when things went to shit. The geeks had surrounded the entrance and they were left without a way out. He remembered the Asian kid, Glen, leaving the building. He'd said something about trying to find another way out or something like that. They'd went to the roof for a while before everyone but him had left to go back downstairs. He'd gotten bored and decided some target practice was in order. He'd gotten up on the edge and had started shooting geeks down on the road.
The rest of the group had burst out onto the roof and were yelling at him. He remembered getting into a fight with the black man, T-dog? Was that his name? Merle thought so. Anyway, he remembered beating the shit outta the man before being pulled off by a cop. The cop had handcuffed him to the roof and to top it off had thrown his stuff off the edge of the building. Merle scowled at the memory. They'd left him there like a trapped animal to die. His scowled deepened. Assholes.
"Ya look like ya remember somethin'. How ya got like that maybe?" she asked, her voice quiet. Merle scowled at her.
"Ain't none-a ya business woman." He growled. The aches were starting to get worse and Merle's patience, which was very little on a good day, was getting less and less by the minute. Plus, that damn woman kept watching him with those knowing turquoise eyes. He needed to get out of there, away from this woman and to go find his little brother. He tried to force himself to sit up but the ache and the pain in his hand was just too much. He dropped back to the bed with a hiss of pain.
"You won't be movin' much for at least a week. Not with the withdrawal. You'll be lucky if ya can talk." She told him. Merle scowled again.
"I'll move if I wanna. Ya ain't keepin' me 'ere." Merle snarled.
"Oh on the contrary. I give it another half hour/forty five minutes before the withdrawal really kicks in. You're screwed then. Stuck with me 'til it's over. Even with the withdrawal not as bad yet as it will be, you're still not movin' with your hand the way it is. You try and you're likely to rip out the stiches. Ya almost lost your hand as it is, don't need to go and make it any worse." The woman told him calmly. Merle glowered at the strange woman. He opened his mouth to yell at her or cuss her out, he didn't know for sure, but the pain intensified and Merle cried out in pain as his stomach heaved.
"M'kay, maybe I lied. Looks like the withdrawal starts now." Merle could see the woman smirking through tear filled eyes. He growled in anger and in pain. Merle wanted to shout at her, yell and scream until his lungs hurt. He didn't know this woman, for all he knew she would kill him in his sleep. From what she had said, she'd fixed him up but that didn't mean she was good. He needed to get away from her but he also knew that she was right. He was stuck here. With her. For, at the very minimum, a week. Without his stuff, he wouldn't get a fix because he knew damn well that this woman wouldn't give him anything. He could tell that by the way she was smirking. He was in for a very long week full of shaking, sweating, nausea, aching, and cramps.
I watched the man in front of me as he writhed in pain. His eyes were clenched tightly and I let the smirk fall from my face. Sure, he seemed like a complete jackass, but that didn't mean that I wanted to see the man in pain. He was still a human being, and though I had learned in my time on the road since this had all started that the living could be just as dangerous as the dead, I had been brought to Atlanta to save this man and I wouldn't have been brought here if he wasn't a good man. At least, I believed that. Maybe I had been brought here because he wasn't and he would end my life quick and easy instead of a slow and painful death by the shufflers. I didn't know but I knew I would find out.
I watched the man, whose name I still didn't know, for a little while longer. I knew what was coming, it wasn't the first time I had seen someone go through withdrawal. I'd met a girl in college who had gotten addicted because of a boyfriend she'd had. After he left, she wanted to get clean and asked me if I would help her. I'd agreed and I'd been with her for the entire week that it had taken her to overcome it. I knew what this man would go through and I knew how to help him. I turned on my heel and walked out to gather the things I would need. I couldn't take away his pain, I couldn't even ease it really, but I could give him someone to lean on. Someone that could at least try to distract him from the pain he was feeling.
Three days later
The first three days had been taxing. I had gotten very little sleep as I was with him most of the time. I kept a damp rag on his forehead so that it would soak up the sweat and keep him as dry as possible. I kept some water by the bed but I knew he would be drinking any of it. He'd just throw it back up if he did. I didn't even try offering him any food for the result would have been the same. There wasn't a whole lot that I could do for him physically, the pain was something he'd just have to go through. I did keep his hand bandaged and well looked after. The last thing he needed at that point was an infection.
He surprised me by speaking. I know my friend, Molly, hadn't spoken much if at all but this man was speaking quite a lot. Granted most of what he said was either begging me to find him some drugs or cursing me for not finding some, he was still speaking. I tried engaging him in conversation, asking him his name, where he was from, his family but it only brought more cursing. I'd eventually moved on to just rambling about anything and everything that came to mind. Music, school life, television, shopping and anything else that seemed logical to talk about. I even talked about the weather, as cliché as it is. It never really seemed like he listened to me, but I figured it was worth a try.
There were times, of course, when I would leave him alone. I knew he wouldn't go anywhere but I kept anything that he could use to harm himself or me away from him and locked the bedroom door when I left. I'd leave to eat or use the bathroom, normal things that every human still had to do. I'd left once, towards the middle of the second day, to look around the floor the apartment was on. I looked for medical supplies mostly, things I could use on his hand to make sure it stayed clean but I also searched for food and weapons. Though I was well outfitted with weapons, one could never have enough in the world that we now lived in.
My most trusted weapon was my bow. It had been my fathers, he'd crafted it himself years ago when he was young and had given it to me for my fifteenth birth day. I'd asked him why, why he would give up his most prized possession, and he had told me that while it was his prized possession and had made him very proud, he was older and couldn't use it like he had when he was young. It was time that it make someone else proud and do good things for someone else. I had cherished the old, worn bow ever since and it had made me proud beyond belief. I'd killed my first deer with it. It had taken some time until I was able to use it, as it was much larger than I should have been able to handle. I'm a small woman, only standing at around 5'5" and it had been made for my father, who stood a little above six feet. The tension in the string had taken me weeks to be able to pull back but once I had, I had never stopped using it.
I had an assortment of other weapons; a pistol, a handful of knives, a katana, a hatchet, a baseball bat and several other things I had found that could be used as weapons. I didn't carry them all on my person, a couple of them were in the pack I carried with me and the others were in the truck that I used. I carried the katana, some of the knives, the pistol and the hatchet along with my bow. The rest of the knives were in my pack as well as a crowbar that I had found. The baseball bat, a shotgun, a rifle, a spear like weapon, and more were all stored in the bed of my truck. The truck had a cover on it and I had used black paint to black out the windows. No one could see anything I had and even if they were still curious, they couldn't get into it. All the supplies I have were safe.
The start of the fourth day was almost identical to the three before it. There was just one difference. The man was quiet. For a moment, I panicked. Had he died while I was asleep? I bolted up from my spot on the couch and scurried to the door, unlocking it with the key I had found on the kitchen counter days earlier. I shoved the door open, stepping inside. I stared at the hulking figure of the man I was trying to save, watching his chest. It rose and fell with each steady breath and I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't died. He was still alive, just asleep. Looks like the exhaustion had finally caught up with him.
I let out another quiet sigh as I shuffled back out the door and around the apartment. I went to the kitchen first, cutting open a can of mixed fruit and having something that resembled breakfast. When the fruit was gone, I grabbed my water bottle and gulped down two mouthfuls. I screwed the lid back on, walking into the living room and tossing the bottle down on the couch. I went to my pack, pulling out some fresh bandages, tape, salve and alcohol. I carried everything into the bedroom, setting it all down as carefully as I could on the bedside table.
I pulled up the chair I had been using for the past three days and sat down. Slowly, I began peeling back the tape and gauze that covered his wrist. The wound still looked pretty bad; it was angry, red and puffed up. My stitches were simple thread I had found, probably not what a hospital doctor would have used but I worked with what I had. They had worked well enough so far and as long as he didn't bust them, they would continue to work. I was probably halfway through cleaning and re-bandaging his wrist when I was scared out of my focused stupor.
"Ya still ain't told meh ya name." his deep, gravelly voice rasped out. I froze up, my hands freezing in mid-air, the gauze still in my hands. I turned to look over at him.
He was still lying on his back, but now his midnight blue eyes were open and watching me as I sat frozen in place. His gaze was still filled with pain, as it would be for another three or four days at the very least, but it was also now filled with curiosity. When I didn't respond, he raised a dirty blonde eyebrow. "I ain't gonna bite. Couldn't even if I wanted." He grunted, shifting his weight slightly. I blinked a few times before turning back and focusing on his hand again.
I was silent, wondering if I should tell him. Sure, I had told him when he was still on the roof, but I had been trying to get him to let me help him then. He didn't have a choice now. He was stuck with me at least until his withdrawal was over. Then he or I, or both of us for that matter, could be on our way and never have to see the other again. He didn't need to know my name. He didn't need to know anything about me. But my momma and my daddy had raised me better. I had saved this man's life, the least I could do was tell him my name.
"Nashoba." I spoke quietly. I tore the gauze and reached for the tape to hold it in place. I could see the man turn back towards me out of the corner or my eye.
"Nashoba?" he asked "The hell kinda name is tha'?" I rolled my eyes. He had said the exact same thing on the roof three days earlier.
"It's my name and I'd 'preciate it if ya didn't make fun of It." my voice was hard and cold when I spoke. He grunted in pain as I put a little more pressure on his hand than I should have. I was very defensive of my name. It held a special meaning to me. My mother had told me that there was a story behind why she had named me Nashoba and when she had told it to me, I was in awe. It seemed like such a fictive story but everyone I asked said that the story was true. My name had been precious to me ever since.
I tore the tape, pressing it against his skin so that it would hold the gauze to his hand. He grunted again I looked up at him as I set the tape back on the bedside table. He was sweating heavily again. I grabbed the supplies I had used on his hand and stood up, turning and heading into the living room. I dumped the supplies on the couch and went to get a washcloth. I dampened it slightly so that it was cool and headed back to the bedroom.
His eyes were still open and watching me, but I could tell that it was getting harder and harder for him to stay conscious. "Go back to sleep. I'm not goin' anywhere." I said quietly as I sat down. I half expected him to glare at him and make some smartass or rude comment. Instead, I saw a little relief in his eyes before they were closed. It wasn't long before he was once again asleep.
Later that evening
He had slept most of the day. He had woken twice, dry heaving both times. He had nothing left in his stomach, he couldn't have. He had thrown so much up the first two days and he hadn't had anything to eat since whenever the last time he had eaten was, which was before I found him on the roof. I only left the room once and it was just to get my water bottle, the one lying on the couch. Otherwise, I stayed in the room with him the whole time. I had gotten up and looked around the room a little more, even looking out the window at the street below. It was littered with shufflers. I had wondered how he was going to get out of the city. With his hand the way it was, it would be quite difficult for him to go up or down a ladder. It was possible, but it would also risk hurting his hand farther.
I had eventually abandoned the window, not quite ready to think about the possible outcomes that awaited both myself and the man lying on the bed, whose name, I'd realized, I still didn't know. He knew my name now, and I still had yet to find out his. I had wondered over to the shelves, finding pictures of a man in his late forties to early fifties standing beside different people. A woman with strawberry blonde hair about his age and a younger version of said woman stood beside him in one. His wife and daughter perhaps? In another was a man slightly younger than him and one slightly older than him, both looked similar to him. Brothers most likely. In a third, the man was standing between an elderly man and woman. Probably his parents. A small smile had graced my face as I looked at the pictures. They looked like a happy family. I'd briefly wondered if any of them were still alive, looking for the man the resident of this apartment, the man that had turned into a shuffler, the one that I had killed. I'd pushed that thought from my mind and examined the rest of the shelves, finding an old book. It was a Stephen King book. Cujo was the name.
I had decided that I had nothing better to do while I sat beside the man. It would have been useless to talk, seeing as how he was asleep. So I sat in the chair, opened the book, and began reading. That was my current position, curled up in the chair with the book resting on my pulled up knees. I was startled from the book by his husky, sleep filled voice.
"S'a good book." I jerked, the book falling from my hands and landing on the floor with a thud that sounded much louder than it really was. His chuckle turned into a coughing fit and curses. I wanted to say something smart or sound concerned but the only thing I said was a stupid "Ya've read it before". He nodded at me, still coughing. I sat up, putting my feet back on the floor.
I didn't say anything, even though I probably should have. I just reached over and placed the back of my hand against his forehead as he lied back down. He was still burning up and for a moment, the fear that he was somehow infected flashed through my mind. I pushed it away, grabbed the washcloth and stood up. "I'll be righ' back." I muttered, turning and heading for the door.
I dampened the washcloth again and headed back to the bedroom. The man was dry heaving again. I winced. I wished there was something I could do for him, but there wasn't. I just went back to my chair, setting down as I folded the washcloth and placed it on his forehead. He sighed a little when the cool washcloth touched his heated skin. He had to have felt like he was on fire. I pursed my lips, leaning down and picking up the book, placing it on the table.
"Why ya doin' this girl? Whadda ya get outta helpin' meh?" he grunted out. I blinked in surprise. He thought there was some kind of catch to me helping him?
"I'm doin' it 'cause I wanna. That an' the naïve hope that if I was ever in a situation like this, that someone would do it for me. An' the only thing I get outta it is the satisfaction that I managed ta help someone in this shitty world. S'all I'm really lookin' for anyway." I explained. He scoffed, shaking his head.
"It'll get ya killed, bein' nice ta people like 'is. People ain't no good no more, not 'at 'ey ever were 'fore anyway. Ya only gonna get yaself inta trouble." He cried out then, his left hand encircling his midsection. I moved forward in my chair, but sat back again. I couldn't do anything. It was silent for a while. I knew he wasn't sleeping, his breathing was too erratic for that and his muscles were too tense. The silence was beginning to eat at me. I needed to talk, to get a little bit of noise in the too quiet room.
"It means wolf." I didn't know where the statement had come from or why I was telling him. But it got conversation started, which is what I was hoping for.
He turned his head, his midnight blue eyes open and staring at me with confusion written in them. "Wha' the hell ya talkin' 'bout?"
"My name…" I trailed "It means wolf. You asked, at least, you might as well have. It's Native American. Chickasaw."
"Yer an Indian?" he asked. A smirk played at my lips and I nodded. He smirked too before wincing. The room went quiet again and I started fidgeting. There needed to be some noise. Anything to fill the quiet. I tried to stay quiet, to keep myself contained. Usually silence was something I treasured. The city life that I had to live in when I was in college was too noisy and I had often longed for the quiet of my village. Now, the quiet only meant death.
"There's a story behind it. My name, that is…" I said quietly, pulling my knees up. I set my chin on my knees and watched the man in front of me. He was obviously in a lot in pain, yet surprisingly still conscious.
"Ya gonna tell meh 'is story?" he asked gruffly. I shrugged.
"If ya wanna hear it." I answered. It went quiet again and I thought that meant that he didn't want to hear it. I pursed my lips and steeled myself against the quiet. So much for conversation.
"Well, g'on." I raised my head and looked at him in confusion. "Yer story, g'on wit it." his gruff voice grunted out. My eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Ya wanna hear it? I thought your silence meant ya didn't." I admitted. He just grunted in answer. I took a deep breath, ready to relive the night my mother had told me the story of my name.
Merle laid on the bed listening to the woman's soft, quiet breathing. Nashoba, that was her name. An Indian, a Chickasaw Indian. He wondered what she had been doing in Atlanta in the first place but didn't ask. He still didn't understand why she was helping him. He was Merle Dixon, drug addict, asshole redneck Merle Dixon, son of the legendary Buck Dixon. Granted she probably didn't know his father, but she had already said that she knew he was a drug addict, hell his current predicament proved it. His attitude towards her so far probably proved his asshole capabilities as well. What did she get out of helping him? She had said that she was helping him just because it was how she was raised but that couldn't be it, could it? There had to be some sort of catch.
"There's a story behind it. My name, that is…" Nashoba said quietly. Merle didn't answer, just continued to lay there, his left arm slung across his stomach, his right laying where she had placed it hours earlier after re-bandaging it.
"Ya gonna tell meh 'is story?" Merle asked when the Nashoba didn't start talking again.
"If ya wanna hear it." she answered. It went quiet again. Merle didn't answer, figuring she'd take that as the clue to go on. Merle did kind of want to hear the story. Hell, he honestly just wanted her to keep talking. Her quiet voice was actually kind of soothing and it helped distract him from his pain riddled body.
"Well, g'on." Merle grunted out when he realized that she wasn't going to talk without him saying something. "Yer story, g'on wit it."
"Ya wanna hear it? I thought your silence meant ya didn't." she admitted. Merle just grunted in answer, the pain flaring up badly again. He didn't trust himself not to whimper like a child if he opened his mouth again. He heard her take a deep breath.
"My mama was the one that named me. It was a late summer night and there was a storm goin' on when she told me why she picked it to be my name. 'It was late into the summer,' she'd started 'and I was out pickin' berries in the woods one evenin'. I was still pregnant with ya, of course. Ya could've came any day and your father urged me to stay home but I wouldn't have any of it. I went out and picked berries like I would've any other time. Turns out I probably Shouldda listened to your father.
"'I was still out there when a storm came in. It was a bad one and I was still a good ways from the village. I found a small cave, figured I could wait there until the storm passed, the bad ones like that never usually lasted long. It lasted longer than the others though and I was stuck there. I was scared, I was out there all alone but I knew I just had to wait out the storm. Then it started, the labor pains. You were comin' and I was far from the village and from anyone that could help.
"'I was terrified. The thunder and lightnin' crackin' made me jump every time and I knew if I didn't get back to the village or someone didn't find me that there was a possibility that one or both of us would die. Then I saw it.
"'Two glowin' eyes in the dark. I thought for sure I was gonna die, that I was a bear or somethin' and it was hungry. I scooted back s'far as I could but it wasn't far. The eyes kept comin' forward until they weren't even two feet in front of me and then they stopped. Another strike of lightnin' revealed that it. It was a wolf, a real young one. I was frozen, sure it was gonna attack me. But it didn't. It just sat in front of me and started whimperin'.
"'I didn't know what to do but it didn't matter. The labor pains were gettin' worse and I needed to get back to the village. I muttered under my breath 'bout gettin' to the village but I couldn't move. The wolf was still whimperin' but when I started mumblin' 'bout the village it stopped. It barked at me once, turned and disappeared into the rainy darkness.
"'I didn't know how long I sat there but then I heard barkin'. At first I thought I was just imaginin' it. It kept gettin' louder and louder though and eventually a pair of glowin' yellow eyes appeared in the cave entrance. Followin' behind those yellow eyes was a group of people. Your father and some of the others from the village. They were around me and were helpin' me and I knew we were both gonna be okay. In that chaos, I looked for that pair of eyes but I didn't see 'em. I haven't seen that wolf since and I wish I would. I'd like to thank it, take it some meat or somethin'. It's the whole reason your name is Nashoba, 'cause that wolf saved your life.'" Merle listened as she told the story. It was interesting but it sounded too far-fetched to be true.
"I thought she was just thinkin' up a good soundin' story but when I asked my daddy, he said it was true. So I asked some of the others that she said had come and they all said that it was true. I was still skeptic, especially since Mama said no one had seen it since. It was a little over a year later when I found out that it was true." Nashoba said. Merle turned his head and opened his eyes to look at the woman. She was still sitting with her legs pulled up, her chin resting on her knees.
"I was seven. It was in December, there was a good amount of snow on the ground. I was out with some of the other children. We were playin' tag in the woods. I got pretty far away from 'em and didn't know how to get back when the blizzard started. I was lost and cold. I found a cave, I didn't realize it at the time but it was the same one my mama was in. It went into the evenin' and then the night. I was gettin' colder and colder. Then somethin' warm pressed against me in the cold. I ended up fallin' asleep against whatever it was. I woke the next mornin' to find that it was a wolf that had come in and kept me warm all night. It grabbed my sleeve, pulled me up and took me back to the village. I don't remember much else but the hugs that I got and people tellin' me not to run off like that again. It wasn't until later that mama told me that the old wolf that had brought me back was the same one that had found her seven years earlier. I asked her how she knew and she said it was 'cause of the eyes. 'They were the same ones that appeared to me in the darkness, I'm sure of It.' she'd said. We never saw it again. Wolves didn't live very long lives and it was old when it found me. It probably died not long after that. I'm just happy that I know it was true." She said quietly. Merle could see the truthfulness in her eyes. Every word she had said was true.
"S'one way ta be brought inta the world." Merle muttered. She glanced over at him, a small smile on her face and tears in her eyes. She wiped at the tears.
"Yeah, I guess it is." She murmured back "I didn't bore ya did I?" Merle shook his head.
"Not a bit, darlin'. Was a good story." He drawled, wincing as another bolt of pain shot through his abdomen. She sniffled a little and Merle hoped to the high heavens she wouldn't start bawling. He didn't know how he was managing to talk to her without making a complete ass out of himself as it was, if she started crying he was shit out of luck. He could see her eyes start to flutter. She was sleepy. He was too, but he wasn't about to show it. What kind of man gets sleepy after a story? Not Merle Dixon.
"Ya never did tell me yer name." she yawned, sliding down in the chair to find a more comfortable position. Merle, who was suppressing his own yawn, froze. Should he tell her? She had saved his life and patched him up. Plus she wasn't anyone he wanted to hang around once he was free of the withdrawal. But what could it hurt? It was just a name. He could tell her now and in a week when they went their separate ways she'd forget all about him.
As sleep started to overtake him, Merle glanced sleepily at the already half-asleep woman in the chair beside him. "Name's Merle Dixon, darlin'." He muttered out, closing his eyes.
"Merle Dixon… Well Merle Dixon, it's nice to meet ya." She mumbled.
