AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
Just a quick reminder that I'm reimagining things, so what you've seen on screen may have nothing to do with some of what happens here.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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"You've met my daughter," the Governor said.
Merle kept close to the same pace as the man, not really caring if the Governor outwalked him by half a stride as they made their way through Woodbury.
"Penny?" Merle responded, rubbing his eyes and wishing the sun wasn't half as bright as it was.
"I only have one," the Governor said with a laugh.
"To be honest, I met her, but I ain't paid that much attention to know she was your only one," Merle said. "No offense to your kid, but…I've kinda had my own shit to think about."
"That's partially why we're taking this walk," the Governor said. "You're a good guy, Merle, and one of the best people we've got in Woodbury…"
Merle laughed to himself, nearly choking on the laughter.
"I'll take shit you don't hear every damn day for a fuckin' grand, Alex," Merle mused, reaching in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter and, as he did about a thousand times a day, silently cursing the asshole that had taken every damn thing from him—his hand being, really, the very least of the things he'd lost to the dickhead.
"Penny was only five when her mother died in a car accident," the Governor said. "A few years ago."
"Shit," Merle said. "I'm sorry. I just figured—she didn't make it through…all this shit. Not that that makes it any better…"
"I was at work," the Governor said. Merle looked around. He got the feeling that they were going somewhere, but they were purposefully taking the most meandering route possible to get there. He accepted that. He didn't really give a shit, anyway, where they were going. He was only following the Governor because they had him under some kind of neighborhood watching thing lately, so if he didn't come out of his room on non-workdays for enough time, someone was outside his door—usually Alice or the Governor. It was easier just to humor them. "It was a terrible job. I worked in an office. Nothing like my life now. I hardly ever saw the sun. It was dark when I got there most mornings, dark when I left, and there weren't any windows if you didn't have the corner offices."
"Sounds like what the hell I spent my whole fuckin' life avoidin'," Merle mused.
"I got the call from the hospital in the middle of my workday," the Governor said. "The whole world just stopped. She was already gone. They wanted me to come and positively identify the body, though it was just a formality."
Merle's stomach ached for the man simply because he could mentally put himself in that position. He could imagine, though he didn't want to, what it would feel like to hear those kinds of words coming at him from over the phone.
"Sorry," Merle said, the word sticking in his throat. It sounded like nothing to him—and he was sure it felt like nothing to the man walking beside him. Words were empty, sometimes. The Governor nodded his acceptance of the words and, maybe, his thanks for what they were worth. Merle expected no more than that.
"The worst part about it was—she'd called earlier and I'd been busy. I'd put her through to record a message so I could keep working. I listened to it after they called. While I was just sitting there—sitting with it. My whole—destroyed world. She asked me to call her back. I hadn't called her back, and then she was just gone."
Merle swallowed against the uncomfortable scratch of his throat—it felt like he'd been chewing up briars and swallowing them. Suddenly, he wished for water.
"Last time I saw her, before I left the camp, I told Andrea—I loved her," Merle said. He laughed to himself. "Told her—not to worry about me because…it fucked up her face."
"At least you got to tell her you loved her," the Governor offered, "and didn't leave her talking to a machine. I can't even remember if I told her I loved her that morning. She was getting Penny ready for kindergarten and I was running late. She was late. Everything seemed so important. At least—Andrea knew you loved her. You know she knew."
"She ain't dead," Merle said quickly and sharply. "I'm sorry. I really am. Sorry you lost your wife and—that's a fucked-up way for shit to go down. But my Andrea—she ain't dead."
Merle felt the tension in his body. He realized, from the very slight shift in the Governor's expression, that he had noticed the accidental aggression in Merle's tone. His features softened quickly—evidence that he was going to ignore it. He didn't want conflict and, honestly, Merle had heard plenty about getting his emotions out from everyone that seemed to make it their business to try to look out for him. It was one of the reasons that nobody stopped him when he wanted to sign up to fight the harmless Walkers—Biters, to the Governor—when they stepped into the arena to entertain the people of Woodbury.
"Maybe she's not," the Governor ceded. "Maybe she's—out there somewhere. Moved on a long way from here by now, but…alive."
Merle's chest ached. His stomach hurt. He wanted something to hit. Something to twist, and tear, and break. He wanted to run, and scream, and tire his body out until he collapsed. He wanted to feel his hands hurt and his muscles ache from exertion. He wanted anything besides the gnawing, clawing, terrible hurt that felt like it was constantly ripping him open from the inside out.
He wanted Andrea, but he'd accept something to distract him from the pain.
"That's all that fuckin' matters," he said. "Wherever the hell she is, she's alive."
"I seem to have gotten off track from what I wanted to say," the Governor said.
"Then get back on track or let me be," Merle said. "I got shit to do."
The Governor laughed to himself.
"Sit in your room and drink until you pass out?" He asked. "Again?" He added.
"You police the way every damn body spends their time?" Merle asked.
"I'm concerned about the wellbeing of everybody in Woodbury," the Governor said. He stopped his steps—or at least he slowed them enough that Merle understood they'd finish this conversation before they ever reached any kind of destination, though they'd really been practically walking in circles. "The people here are good people. They're my people. We're—a family. In many cases, we're all we have left. When my wife died, it was just me and Penny. In some ways, I've found more in this world than I had in the world before. We're your family now, Merle. And we care about you."
"I got a family," Merle said. "I may not know where the hell they are, and I might not ever fuckin' see 'em again, but…I got a family."
"You do," the Governor said. "And that makes you luckier than most of the people here. No man is an island, Merle. We need people. We need each other. You're an asset to Woodbury and to the people here. And I consider you—something of a friend."
Merle laughed to himself and the Governor made an expression of question. Merle knew it was meant to prompt him to explain his laughter in what was clearly meant to be a touching moment.
"I don't even know your damn name," Merle said. "And although I ain't against usin' nicknames in the slightest—give 'em to damn near everybody—I prefer to know what the hell the person's real name is 'fore I consider 'em my bosom pal."
The Governor laughed to himself. He started walking again. Merle followed.
"We're concerned about you, Merle," the Governor said. They'd veered down one of the side streets of Woodbury. The walls they'd put up hadn't swallowed the entire town. The walls had only encircled the downtown area and enough of the residential surrounding areas that they could provide housing and some space for growing crops and raising a very limited supply of livestock. Slowly, they were making plans to further expand the walls—building walls on the outside and, eventually, taking down those that separated them. In this way, they could encompass more land, provide more opportunities for growth, and give those that lived there more space to move around.
Merle had hardly even taken account of what there was in Woodbury. His interests kept him going to places that were necessities for him—home, work, and to pick up food and other supplies.
He followed the Governor into a building. What it had been before all of this, Merle didn't care to imagine. What it was now was obvious—a bar and café type setting. Merle furrowed his brow at the Governor.
"Nearly everyone comes here on their time off," the Governor said. "Get a drink, a bite to eat—share some conversation. Be among friends."
"Lovely," Merle said.
The Governor waved him forward and walked with him. The space was made up of several rooms and there was an upstairs to the business.
"A lot of people have lost everyone and everything," the Governor continued. "They come here to—to feel some connection."
"Good thing you got 'em a place to go," Merle mused.
The Governor seemed slightly amused. As they walked, people called out to him, got his attention, and seemed pleased with a wave from him. He was nothing short of a celebrity in Woodbury since most everyone who lived there had some story about how the Governor or, at the very least, his people, had saved them from the world outside the walls.
"I know what it's like to feel guilt, Merle," the Governor said, keeping his voice low and making it clear that they were sharing something of a secret. "I know what it's like to feel—like you owe homage to something from your past. But nothing requires you to be isolated and alone. We all benefit from a little company." He gestured toward the people around them. "You're an important figure in Woodbury, Merle. And you can be as popular as you like. I recommend getting to know some of the locals."
The Governor put on one of his award-winning political smiles, as Merle often thought of them, and waved toward some women sitting in the corner. When he signaled his interest in speaking to them, they came like children being beckoned—pleased to have his attention.
"Rebecca and…?"
"Sarah," the woman who had been unnamed offered quickly.
"Sarah," the Governor repeated. "This is Merle."
"Everyone knows Merle," Rebecca said with a laugh.
"I was just telling him something similar. He's lonely and could use a little cheering up," the Governor said. "And it's a beautiful day—I'd enjoy some company on a walk. I was thinking of taking Penny to play at the playground, if either of you ladies might be interested."
Merle opened his mouth to protest the Governor's insistence that he was lonely and wanted or needed the company of anybody in Woodbury. Before he could do too much protesting, though, Sarah had attached herself to the Governor and Rebecca had wrapped her hands around the upper part of Merle's arm in a somewhat overly familiar gesture. She was already tugging him toward an empty table in the corner while Sarah began tugging the Governor toward the door.
"Wait just a minute," Merle said. "Listen—why don't you just go…sit or something?" Rebecca accepted Merle's suggesting, clearly believing he was soon to follow her. The Governor, understanding that Merle wanted to talk to him, sent Sarah to wait for him out front. He turned back to Merle and laughed to himself. "I get it. Maybe brunettes aren't your thing. But, if brunettes aren't your interest, there are plenty of wonderful women in Woodbury. Most of them are single, Merle. Widows or—they were alone to begin with. There are plenty to get to know."
"I ain't lookin' for a wife," Merle said.
"There's no need to marry any of them," the Governor offered. "I'm not talking about marriage, Merle. I'm talking about—companionship. Getting out of your room. Hell—drinking with someone instead of drinking alone."
"I'm married," Merle said. "And I don't think my wife would like me huntin' up too much companionship, if you know what I mean."
The Governor nodded.
"It's Philip," he said.
"What?"
"You said you expected to know my name before you considered me a friend. Philip. Merle—I know how hard it is to accept. Your whole life gets—destroyed—in an instant. But if Andrea was everything you say she is? She wouldn't expect you to be alone forever. Life is short, and company makes even the mourning easier."
Merle frowned at him and Philip reached out a hand and patted him on the shoulder.
"We do what we have to do to get through it," he said. "It's about distraction, not commitment. And it's a healthier distraction than the alcohol, Merle. Saves your liver, too. I'm going to get Penny. At least—consider it over lunch. A little lunch conversation never hurt anybody. If I don't see you later, I'll see you for work in the morning."
He walked off, leaving Merle to digest the conversation and to face the woman that was sitting at an empty table, watching him—and she certainly wasn't the only woman in the space that seemed willing to invite him to have a seat.