Runaway-zebra: And of course if that HAD happened, then the incident probably never would've happened.
Summary: This once again has Lucy, and it's more of an extension from 'Savior'. It's sort of a, 'what if Lucy wasn't crazy and all of that did happen' kind of thing. Once again, takes place on the rooftop in Atlanta.
Merle sat on the roof and sighed. He had his arm propped on the pipe he was cuffed to. His other arm was propped up on his bent knee. He wasn't sure how long he had sat there, the Georgia sun beating down on him. Eventually someone would come for him, right? Daryl wouldn't abandon him, at least he hoped not. Lord knew he deserved it. "How ya feelin' Merle?" came the voice next to him, right in his ear.
He groaned, turning to face the hallucination, "You ain't here, Lucy."
She pouted dramatically, her bottom lip sticking out as she stood straight, crossing her arms over her chest, "Sure I am." He sighed heavily, he'd lost track of how many times he had seen her since being left on the rooftop. He was being punished, seeing her ghost. She stepped around him and knelt in front of him, her black hair falling over her shoulders in curls. It shined blue where the sun hit it. "Who knew you didn't need drugs to start seein' shit."
"Shit like you?" She grinned and pinched his cheek. "Go away!" he swatted his hand at her but she vanished before he could make contact. She reappeared on the other side of the roof, laughing. "Yer jus' a figment of my imagination."
"I wasn't always."
"If yer not leavin' any time soon, at least make yerself useful. How 'bout ya put on a show fer me?"
She grinned, "You'd like that wouldn't ya?" She took a few steps towards him, an extra sway in her hips.
"You know what I like," he grinned at her.
She danced slowly, the rhythm and music all in her head, or his. She grabbed the hem of her shirt, slowly pulling it up to reveal her tanned stomach.
"That's right, sugarplum," he smiled, "Dance fer me."
She let the hem of her shirt fall back down. Lucy ran her tongue suggestively over her lips.
"How 'bout ya get yer ass over here?"
She laughed before disappearing again. "Fuck!" he shook his head. It was a combination of the heat and the come down of the high he had been on that morning that was playing tricks with his head. "Yer fuckin' losin' it, Dixon," he muttered to himself. It had to be more than just that. Maybe he was dead, rather than her, and this was his own personal hell. Chained to a roof, in the heat, tortured by the girl he never truly appreciated.
And if he wasn't dead, he clearly needed to be locked up. It couldn't be sane to want a blow job from a ghost. He sighed heavily. At this point, he didn't care if he was dead or insane, she was a distraction. "Where'd ya go, sugarplum? Ya aren't mad at me, are ya?"
He felt her arms around his neck and she said in his ear, "I knew ya didn't want me gone."