Chapter 4: Monotone

Night is quick to fall on the prison. Even if he wanted to talk to the others, Marshall finds himself more often than not standing awkwardly with his hands digging into the pockets of his ragged jeans. Part of him wonders if he'd dig deep enough, maybe he'd find the answer to getting the folks at the prison to trust him more. It's like a thought that's wedged itself in the recesses of his mind and he can't pull it out.

It's past the point of a curious, simple want. It's almost a need now, fueled by the faint smiles he gets and idle chit chat. It's like a small ember in his chest getting fanned into growing. "We all have our jobs to do," Beth had told him before smiling cheekily, "You just have to find yours." That's something easier said than done, he figures.

Marshall sighs softly into the dark of his cell. It's small... secure. A few personal touches and maybe it could start to feel like something other than a cage, but that's exactly what it feels like. Only it's gilded under the pretense of safety… not that he doubts the group's ability to defend their home. It's just… something about the small quarters. He feels trapped, like the walls are going to close in on him. He can't even remember the last time he'd slept indoors. It's got him on edge.

He props himself up on his elbows from lying down and turns to sit up on the edge of the bed. He frowns slightly as he digs his palm into the thick padding. Maybe it's a silly thing to be stressing over, but it's too sudden a change for him. He'd gotten used to taking a moment every night before shutting his eyes and just watching the stars dance in the night sky. The only thing on top of him now is a gray bunk followed by a gray ceiling surrounded by gray walls in a gray building. It's suffocating, but he feels like an ungrateful prick for wanting to get outside.

Hell, Rick's group was willing enough to let him stay with them in their cell block (he chose a cell on the upper level) when they didn't have to. He'd overheard that they had another cell block cleared, probably the one they had him waiting in before they made it official that he was staying with them, but… apparently the only two inhabitants were now dead. It's kinda funny in a self-loathing way. They'd probably figured it would be better to have him with them than leave him all alone in an empty cell block full of ghosts, probably out of pity. The irony is that being alone might actually have eased his nerves this first night more than, well... this.

There's a knot forming in his stomach urging him forward until he finally can't stand sitting any longer. He steps over to the corner with all his gear and slides on his boots before crouching down to rummage through his rucksack. He grins faintly in the dim light as he pulls out a bent carton of cigarettes and a half-empty plastic yellow lighter and tucks them into his back pocket. If it wasn't for the fact he's trying to be decent around these people, he'd already have it lit in his mouth.

Out in the lower level, he can hear Beth and Maggie singing together in harmony. The girls can sing, he has to admit. Their voices bounces off the concrete walls and Marshall can't help the smile that crept onto his lips as he wonders if this is a common thing for them. It's nice, he figures, and cozy, seeing everyone huddled around some candles candles and spending the evening together. It makes the prison almost feel like a home.

The corners of his lips dip as he shakes the feeling off. Getting his hopes up would be one of the dumbest things he could do right about now. There's too many unknowns for him to even risk that. Hope is... scary, he admits to himself. The closest thing he can do now is take a drag of his cigarette and let the buzz wrinkle out the anxiety he feels building up.

His boots thud along the concrete floor, drawing a few quick glances from the others as he makes his way down the metal stairs. Carol gives him a small smile and nod from the crate she sits on near the base of the stairs before going back to resting her head in the palm of her hand. She's a kind woman with a strong soul; he'd gathered that much from his small talks with her. It's also in the way she carried herself. She's lost a lot and yet managed to become so much stronger from it. He envies her a bit.

Rick and Daryl are leaning against one of the walls near the small circle where Beth, Maggie, and Hershel sit. Marshall'd caught on that something's going on between Maggie and Glenn, but he figures he shouldn't pry, especially when the Glenn still has faint bruises healing in sickly greens and yellows on his face. Plus, he's got no business messing with lover's quarrels. He folds his arms across his chest as he makes his way over to the two men by the wall.

Daryl's the first to notice his approach, sharp blue eyes gleaming in the faint candlelight, "'sup."

"Hey." Marshall murmurs in response, not really feeling comfortable enough yet to join them in leaning against the wall.

Rick looks at him with tired eyes, "Kind of you to join us." The man seems better, though. There isn't any blank look in his eyes, and thankfully no high strung muscles ready to spring. Hershel's words must've gotten to him.

Marshall huffs a little, kicking at the ground with the tip of his boot, "Yeah," He draws out the word, peeking a glance at the other members of the group, "I was starting to feel a little cooped up."

Daryl hums with what he can only figure is agreement. It makes sense. Out of all the others, Daryl (and his brother, he remembers) are the only two that seem a little out of place. The way they talk, the way they walk, it all speaks of a life lived outdoors. Marshall isn't a hunter, Merle's right about that, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the open air. If the redneck even did that much. Right now, the air inside feels like it wanted to choke him.

Marshall clears his throat lightly, "Hey, Rick," He feels small at that moment, not wanting to look the other man in the eye, "Think I could step outside for a few minutes?"

He can feel Rick's gaze boring into him. It's a small request, really, but he's technically a guest under their roof, and… maybe he's pushing his luck, but he has to ask. It's probably better to ask than risk freaking the fuck out in his cell. Much better. When he finally brings his downcast eyes up to meet what he expected to be a suspicious look from Rick, he finds the other man looking unnervingly neutral.

"Why?" comes the cool response.

His shirt's starting to feel tight around his chest, prompting him to drop his hands down to his sides, "I need -" air. I need space. I need time. He bites at his lip as he brings his left hand to tug at the hair on his nape, "- a smoke." He finally says. He doesn't notice his hands started to shake until he catches a glimpse of Daryl watching them.

A flare of panic runs through his nerves and he clamps his eyes shut, willing his body to cooperate with him at least this one time to cut that shit out. His hands tense unnaturally still, but when he opens his lids, he spots the hunter looking him straight in the eyes. Marshall balls his hands into fists and narrows his eyes at the other, daring him to say something.

What Daryl says isn't what he'd been expecting, and apparently neither was Rick. "I'll go with 'im."

Rick arches a brow at the hunter, "No," He raises his hand when the hunter looks just about ready to argue, "I'll deal with it. You get some rest – all of you" He adds, addressing the group.

No one says a word as they pull themselves from their spots and start to wander back to their cells. Daryl's the last to go, looking almost unsure of what to do with himself before letting out an angry huff and pushing himself away from the wall. Marshall locks eyes with Michonne from where she watches him from the shadows before turning to follow Rick. The way she looks at him sometimes only serves as a reminder to him that sometimes people are more terrifying than the dead themselves.

It isn't long until Rick leads him out to the small gated space at the entrance to the cell block. The second the brisk night air hits his face, Marshall can't help but smile in relief. He ignores the look Rick's giving him and puts as much distance as he can between them. It's bad enough that he isn't allowed to take a break without being babysitted, for whatever reason.

His hands are back to shaking when he fumbles to pull out the small box and lighter from his back pocket. He tugs out a cigarette and sticks it between his lips before shutting the box and tucking away roughly. It's easy up until that point, but the second he tries flicking the lighter on, he can't fucking manage to keep his hands steady enough.

Marshall grunts in frustration to the point he can feel Rick getting ready to help him out, but he doesn't want that. The thought alone is enough to get him to steady himself, and when the small flame finally lights, he can't hold back his groan of relief as he sucked in the first puffs of smoke. He's finally starting to feel his nerves loosen up when he hears Rick clear his throat behind him.

"This… shaking thing of yours." Rick says, voice low.

Marshall furrows his brows, "It's nothing."

"You sure about that?" Not really.

"I said it's nothing, Rick." Marshall lets out a shaky breath, "Really."

Silence falls over them for a while before Rick speaks up again.

"We're going on a run tomorrow. King County. There's an armory in the old sheriff's department that has the guns and ammo we need." Rick combs his hand through his hair, "I was going to bring you with us, give you a chance to prove yourself, but if I can't count on you to cover us–" He walks over to stand beside Marshall, trying to draw his gaze, "-if you compromise the safety of this group, I won't just leave you out there. I'll kill you."

Marshall watches the other man silently. Rick looks absolutely lethal at this moment, pressing close and imposing. He means what he says. "Relax. When I'm out there," Marshall points out past the fence with the lit end of his cigarette before taking a drag, "when it's about life and death, I can shut it down like that." He snaps his fingers together. "But in here, man… I just. You gotta understand. I've been alone for months. I used to climb onto whatever I had to crash on. A tree, a roof, it didn't matter. At least I was safe up there."

Rick backs up a bit, looking a mix of confused and curious, "We're safe here."

Marshall nods, "Maybe we are, yeah." He takes another drag and blow out the smoke slowly before continuing, "But I don't know that yet. Old habits die hard, I guess." He laughs harshly before glancing at the other man, "You don't have to worry about me." It's a half-truth. With enough time, he'll be all right.

Rick doesn't seem too convinced. He stares at him for a few seconds before nodding, "Okay."

"Okay?" Marshall repeats, peering at the other man warily.

"Yeah." Rick responds gruffly, "Just remember what I said and we're good. Let's get back inside."

He hears the creaking of the metal door sliding open behind him when he realizes it wasn't a suggestion. It's an order. Marshall takes one last drag and let the smoke billow out between his lips slowly before letting the cigarette drop and crushing it under the hell of his boot. He bites back a sigh as he feels a new pressure weighing him down: Rick's threat.

Maybe this is how it feels to have clipped wings.

.:|:.

The crying wakes him up. It's late morning, with beams of sunlight shining in through the barred windows, but he heard it. It's a faint sound, like an echo that's just barely reaching the quiet corners of his cell. It's a baby crying. Marshall shakes it off lightly, stirring in his bunk. It's probably just his mind playing tricks on him again. Only it doesn't stop, even as he tries to will it away.

His eyes slide open groggily as he turns to ease off his bunk and onto his feet. There's concern starting to seep into his tired features as he runs his hand through the oily locks of his hair before shuffling out onto the catwalk where he hears the faintest of voices chattering. A closer look around and his question is answered: Carol's cradling a fussing baby near the top of the stairs.

Marshall stands there dumbfounded. He would've noticed – no, he should've – if there was a baby involved, but he didn't. That only complicates things. Carl, he can understand. The boy's old enough to survive in this world, but… a baby? A baby can't do anything. It' just another mouth to feed and make noise. He grunts as he mentally smacks himself. Crawford really did a number on him.

Carol notices him then and gives him a wry smile, "Morning, sunshine."

"Morning," he drawls out as he steps closer to her and folds his arms across his chest, a frown tugging at his lips, "Didn't know there was a baby here."

"Yeah," Carol coos lightly as she tilts the bottle of formula up for the grabby baby to suckle on, "She's a quiet one when she isn't hungry. Why, did she wake you?"

Marshall hums in response, taking a closer look at the squirming bundle. She's a pale, little thing with light wisps of hair. He smiles sadly as he looked at her, silently wondering just how long she could last in this world.

"Well, good," Carol teases, "It's about time you got up." Marshall raises an eyebrow, "Beth was on her way to get you when Rick stopped her. Told her to let you get some rest." She shoots him a questioning look that he quickly dodges by looking anywhere but her direction. It's then that he notices the crate padded down like a crib with the words 'Li'l Asskicker' scrawled on the side and little flowers drawn around it in sharpie.

Marshall can't hold back a laugh, "That's her name? Li'l asskicker?"

Carol purses her lips, obviously not too happy about Marshall dodging the topic, "No. That's what Daryl calls her." She breaks into a smile, "Her real name's Judith."

Marshall shifts slightly, "Is she..." He clears his throat, "Is she yours?"

Carol stiffens for a second before her eyes got heavy with sadness, "No. She's Rick's."

Ah. The missing pieces on the puzzle suddenly clicked into place in his head, and Marshall finally understands. He'd seen it, the loss that just seemed to ooze from Rick when he was trying to protect his people. It was almost a craze - it scarred him, and it's still a fresh wound, barely scabbing over. He doesn't have to ask where his wife is. The answer haunts the air.

"Why don't you go get changed," Carol speaks up. He guesses she must've noticed he got lost in his thoughts judging off the sad smile she's giving him, "I'll make sure they're clean when you get back."

"Oh," The word slips out of his mouth as he glances down at his strewn, dirty button up. "I don't really –" He cuts himself short, choosing to give her a warm grin instead. Now he just has to remember to try and find some new clothes on the run, "Thanks."

"It's no trouble," Carol says, gently putting Judith back in her box. "Now go on, shoo. I'm sure Rick'll come looking for you soon. You missed breakfast." His stomach grumbles at the mention and he moves his hand to try and quiet it, but Carol heard and starts laughing at him. "I'll go pack something for you."

And with that, Carol's gone, leaving him to stand there alone in his socks. Judith's stirring a little, but the baby seems more than ready to get back to napping. Fuck… If he hadn't wanted to stay before, now he does. As tough as Rick's group may be, they need more people. If they want Judith to live and grow up, they needed him now more than ever.

He hurries back to his cell, determination lining his steps. If they want to win against this Governor, they need those guns. Once he steps inside, he starts undoing his shirt and yanks it off before dropping it onto his bunk. He wanders over to his rucksack and crouches down before unlatching it. He shivers a little bit, slightly unused to the feeling of being shirtless. He spills all its contents into the dusty corner. before digging into the bottom of the pack. He's sure he has at least one other shirt tucked in here somewhere…

"Why are you still here?" A woman asks from the behind him.

Marshall glances over his shoulder at the stranger. It's Michonne. He's yet to actually talk to her. The most he'd caught was her name. She's just as much a stranger to Rick's group as he is. He lets his head drop for a second with a sigh. There it is. He grabs a tattered, rolled up olive green v-neck and slides it on before standing to face her, "What do you mean?"

Michonne lifts her chin, "They patched you up, fed you. You could've left, but you didn't. Why?"

He shrugs at her and tucks the hem of his shirt into his jeans, "I owe them." He says honestly.. They took a risk in taking him in. He can understand where her suspicion's1 coming from, but that does nothing to ease the irritation he feels starting to prickle.

Michonne blocks off the exit with her body and slouches against the metal frame, "Why?" She repeats.

Marshall groans and turned his back on her. He bends over and shoves everything back into his rucksack and tossing it onto his bed. He picks up his glove and slides it on, fastening it into place before grabbing his jacket. He runs his hand over it and does something he hasn't done in months: he puts it down. "You wanna know why?" he starts to say while grabbing his bow and quiver before turning to look her square in the eye, "I'm tired of being alone."

Michonne says nothing but her features seem to ease up a bit. He takes it as his cue to keep going.

"I could keep at it, yeah, but I don't want to. Not anymore." He breaks eye contact to wrap the strap of his quiver around his waist and buckle it with a faint click, "I have a chance here for something good." He smiles faintly, more to himself than anything, "You do too." He adds.

Michonne pushes herself away from the frame. She almost looks offended, "What?"

Marshall shrugs again but chooses not to push, "Did you come here just to ask me that or what?"

She gives him a side glance before turning to leave, "Rick sent for you."

"Let's go then."