MILTON

"What's the matter, haven't you ever seen a baby before?"

It wasn't that Milton hadn't seen a baby before, but it had been about six years since he was in such close proximity to one and he remembered how fragile and unpredictable they were. One second they were nestled quietly in their caregiver's arms and the next they were shrieking at the top of their lungs, attempting to communicate some sort of discomfort without the ability to speak. Milton was quite sure that he had never been so fussy as an infant, partially because by the time he was a year old he had overcome separation anxiety from his mother and sought out corners to sit and play in rather than snuggle up to her and listen to her read from colorful, pointless storybooks. Babies always needed something or another and so Milton found them to be quite irritating and foreign, which was why he promised himself that he would never have one of his own—but that would mean overcoming the obstacle of attracting a woman and then having to participate in much more than touching.

Still, he didn't want this young lady to know he was afraid of a baby, though he probably wasn't doing a very good job since he was sitting at the top of the stairs, eyeing the child warily as she lay cradled in the woman's arms.

"It's okay, really," said Beth. She had a soft quietness about her like her father, but Milton couldn't see much family resemblance. At the moment she looked highly amused at Milton's discomfort.

"She seems healthy," said Milton evasively.

"She is. Do you want to hold her?"

The notion was almost laughable. Almost. But Milton rarely laughed.

"Come down here; she won't bite," said Beth. "She's probably the only creature on this planet at this point who doesn't bite. Come on."

"Actually, I think I should be reporting to Rick for—"

"Milton, come down here," said Hershel, hobbling out of his cell on his crutches.

Hershel had spoken out for Milton when his fate stood in the void, so Milton figured the least he could do was walk down fifteen steps and see what the elderly man had to say, but he had a feeling that he knew what was coming. Four steps from the bottom he paused, waiting for Hershel to speak his peace, but the older man motioned with one of his crutches to where his daughter sat with the baby and Milton slowly sank down onto the rung beside her, keeping at least five inches between the two of them.

"If you're going to be staying with us, the baby needs to know you, familiarize herself with your touch," said Hershel. "If something were to happen and we became separated or had to leave the prison and by some chance you ended up with her, you would need to know how to keep her quiet and calm, which she might not be if she doesn't know you. Spend a while each day with her and by the end of the week she'll trust you."

It's a baby, thought Milton. She doesn't have the brain capacity to trust yet.

"Here, hold out your arms for her," said Beth but Milton drew back instantly.

"I did mention last night that I'm not favorable towards physical contact, didn't I?"

Hershel came down onto his knee in front of Milton and put his hand on Milton's wrist. The touch was not forceful and not threatening, but still awkward and though every instinct within Milton was begging him to retreat from it, all he did was stare at Hershel's weathered hand as his heart pounded in his chest.

"You're breathing heavily," said Hershel. "Take it slow and calm down. You're not in any danger."

Count to ten, focus on something else. You're safe. He repeated the words his mother had taught him as a way of coping with his disorder. It had been a long time since he was forced to resort to counting but he still zeroed in on the concrete floor, observing the cracked pattern and smooth, bland coloring. Ten seconds passed and Hershel's hand was still on his wrist, but Milton's pulse had returned to normal.

"Good. Now, do you think you're up for holding the baby?"

"Um," Milton glanced at the infant in Beth's arms whose rosy little face was lax in her sleep, "maybe for today I could just watch her. Besides, she's asleep and moving her now might wake her up and I don't think a fussy child is the best way for me to adjust to dealing with one."

"Fair enough. I'll leave Beth to talk you through it then."

Hershel stumped back to his cell and Milton was about to make a noise of protest when the baby gave a small whimper. Milton froze, praying that she wouldn't wake up and after several tense seconds, she slept on with no complications. Beth smiled at him and shook her head.

"Her name is Judith. She's Rick's daughter."

"Who's her mother?" asked Milton. He had been trying to pair up Carol or Maggie with Rick and make the image of the baby fit with their genes, but since he was never very good at studying faces anyway, the effort was a lost cause.

"She didn't make it," Beth whispered. "Walkers got into the prison and we were separated for a while. Judith's momma couldn't deliver her normally and she had to be cut open."

The image Milton had of this birth occurring was not what jarred him, but rather the expressionless way Beth talked about it as if death—and a gruesome one at that—did not affect her.

"Anyway, we have to make formula runs to substitute for breast milk, so maybe Daryl or Glenn will take you with them. It'd be useful for you to get some practice."

"I'm not entirely sure that either of them would appreciate me accompanying them. Neither of them have any reason to respect or trust me after the situations they've been in, which is understandable. And I would only get in the way if I were to go with them because I haven't mastered any weapons yet."

"Neither have I, but you learn out of necessity, so don't worry."

Beth turned her head towards him, her eyes wide and alert. "Is it alright if I touch you?"

"Um…"

No one had ever asked if they could touch him before. They either grabbed him or stared him dead-on in the eye as a way of telling him that they were about to put their hands on him. The fact that she had asked caught him completely off guard so that all he could do was nod.

She patted his arm with her free hand, her touch gentle like Hershel's but comforting. She wanted to reassure him, not try to prove a point with how interaction worked. And with that gesture, she was more sincere than anyone else had been so far.

"You're a good man," she told him. "Rick will see that soon enough."

Someone cleared their throat at the cellblock entrance and Beth quickly withdrew her hand as Maggie stalked in, arms folded crossly. She glared down at Milton as if he had done her a personal wrong.

"Merle wants to see you in the cantina," she said.

"Okay, thanks."

Without another word Maggie left and Beth frowned in her sister's absence. "Sorry. She's still upset about what the Governor had Merle do to her and Glenn. And the fact that you were there—"

"I didn't know what he was doing," said Milton earnestly. "I didn't even know that Glenn and Maggie were there. If I'm going to constantly be blamed for being a citizen of Woodbury just because it means I was in the same vicinity as Phillip, then how am I ever supposed to get anyone to trust me?"

"I believe you," said Beth. "I do, really, but no one here can confirm that and Glenn and Maggie went through a lot so they're not very forgiving."

"That's reassuring."

"Don't worry about it, they'll come around." She didn't sound hopeful. "You'd better go and see what Merle wants."

"Yes, because we all live to appease Merle," Milton added darkly, but went anyway. He found Merle selecting weapons at random from the supply spread out across two tables and wondered briefly, even with some excitement that was quite unnatural for him, if he was going to get to use something from the deadly arsenal.

Upon seeing him watching in reluctant awe, Merle straightened up and set aside the machete he had in his hand. "Mornin' Miltie, how'd you sleep?"

Surprised that Merle would ask such a thing, Milton blinked and began, "Well, since you ask—"

"That's great. Pull up a seat, science boy, I'mma learn ya some weapon training."

Annoyed, Milton sat down in front of the weapons, thinking that at least one of them would be a proper fit for him, something manageable for a man who might accidentally shoot his toe off if he panicked.

"So…what exactly are you going to attempt to do here?"

"You've gotta prove your use somehow, Miltie. Baby's the only one here who can't use a gun besides you, but what's your excuse?"

"I don't know the first thing about firing a weapon, you know that," said Milton a bit crossly. "I know they're dangerous and that they should be respected, but I've only ever held one to pass it on to someone else and once to load it for Phillip."

"Which is why we're startin' small and workin' up to it. Today's lesson is the basics. We'll be studying the ancient and delicate art of the stick. Catch."

Merle tossed Milton a fire poker which Milton promptly dropped on his knee and then let clatter to the floor. Embarrassed, he bent down to retrieve it and bonked the back of his head on the table as he tried to sit up. Now with two throbbing limbs he sheepishly set the poker back on the table and saw Merle fighting to either keep from laughing or rolling his eyes.

"We've got a long way t'go, knucklehead."

"Are you sure you're the best person to be teaching me how to use weapons? You're not exactly good for anyone's moral."

Merle prodded Milton roughly in the chest, making him sit so far backward that he was in danger of overextending his spine. "Look, Mamet, are y'lookin' for someone t'hold your hand with every little mistake you make, or are d'you want t'actually learn how to shoot one've these damn things like a man? We ain't got time t'smell the roses here, numbnuts, and I'm the only one who's got military experience so that makes me qualified t'teach you. Also, since Officer Rick and Company aren't as trustin've me or you, they've seen fit t'keep the two've us together where they can watch us so's we don't stir up trouble. Now pick up the poker and stand up!"

Milton had his hand extended towards the close combat weapon when Carol came sprinting inside, hollering, "Everyone come out, there's a convoy coming up the road!"

Swearing, Merle chose a rifle, shoved another one into Milton's hands, and beckoned that he follow him outside.