Life at the prison is tolerable, Milton supposes, though that thought itself is something he never imagined he'd be in a predicament to agree with. The world goes to hell, he ends up in the one place on earth he thought he would never be: jail. It's a relief though, in a way. It isn't as welcoming or beautiful as the town had been, the food isn't as good, the resources at hand aren't quite as varied, and it's a scare to see the things at the fence every day, interesting as they may be. He can still picture Rick's stare perfectly after he had asked the man if instead of being on the line to kill them, if he could have one to study. It had been a definite no (though Rick had let him off of the hook in regards of line-up duty). Despite all of this though, Milton felt safer in a way. Rick seemed, as far as he could tell, to be more agreeable than Phillip had ever been. Besides, all of the new faces around him, people he could pick for information, was nothing to put aside either.
"Struggling man, no time to lose..."
Milton's eyes follow Merle as he passes by, humming along to the song that the Greene girl had chosen to bless them with. Of course, not all of the faces at the prison are new. He isn't sure how exactly he feels about the other man staying with them. It's good for the added protection, he's not foolish enough to disregard that. At the same time though, Merle has always had a way of getting under his skin, and he doesn't appreciate the lack of control that it causes him to feel, something he is having to deal with at this very moment as the taller man pauses in his steps to speak to him.
"A bit chilly out, don't ya think?"
Milton watches as Merle studies him with what he would guess is an expression often on his own face: disection. He feels as if his skin is starting to crawl as heat rushes to his face. He takes his glasses off to clean them, avoiding eye contact.
"I. . ." He glances up, meeting Merle's eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away. "I can handle it."
Of course he could. He would go inside otherwise. He was rubbing his arms because he was uncomfortable, not because of the temperature. (He hadn't realized he was rubbing his arms at all until Merle had said something.)
"Right." Merle nods but something in his tone tells Milton that he's skeptical. "Did that big brain o' yours forget to grab a coat before you left Woodbury?" He doesn't wait for an answer; Milton doesn't think that he would believe that it was in the wash anyway. "Just make sure to hurry on in before you catch a cold, princess."
Merle spits out the tobacco that he's chewing and walks off, not bothering to see if Milton has anything as a reply. Real conversation is something that they rarely ever has, so he isn't sure why it irks him so much, but it does; Merle is far from the first person to treat him like he can't take care of himself. Perhaps it's because the Governor isn't here to bring it to an end, to him him feel like there's a resolution, to get onto Merle for bullying him. Even though Merle really didn't mock him too badly, he's still embarrassed in a way that's far too familiar to him, and he can't shake it. He considers asking Rick to say something to the man about it, to get him to leave him alone, but it seems a bit much; it would probably make Merle worse.
In the end, he does nothing; there's nothing he really can do but confront him, and instead, he chooses to avoidience-as if avoiding Merle Dixon was something that someone could actually do.
Milton chooses to stay inside the safety of the prison while the others go out on runs. He knows what they must think of him, but "coward" isn't something that he's never been called before. It bothers him, but he knows that he's better off where he's at, that he would slow them down and probably get bitten within the first twenty minutes out. Still, knowing that and hearing it from someone else are two very different things.
"You go on all the time about contributin'. Don'tchu want to be somethin's snack? I'm sure it'd be a real contribute!" Milton isn't sure if Merle is making a snide comment about his slight pudge or not, but he certainly isn't going to ask. "Not whatever it is yer doing today."
He hadn't actually had much planned for the day. He was going to ask Hershel again about his leg, maybe see if the preist, Gabriel, that they found a week or so back, had anything interesting to say. Both would probably be loose ends though. He was in desperate need to find something to study, something his brain could pick at before he went crazy. He didn't want to turn out like Phillip, though he's sure the man's slow insanity came about more from grief than anything else.
"I'm. . . not entirely sure what I'll be doing today, but I'm sure it'll be just as productive as you bringing back whatever it is you're after. And what exactly would that be, anyway? What you're going after, I mean."
He he hopes that it's desperation, not the beginning of craziness, that made him ask. Merle seems slightly surprised either way, and Milton takes a small pride in it. Maybe they'll have an actual conversation for once, he thinks.
"So sure I'll bring it back, are you? Glad to see you have such faith in my abilities." The pride dies. "Food, clothes. The usual." He's sure that by 'the usual' Merle means alcohol and cigarettes, but he doesn't ask. Even if he wanted to, he'd be too shocked by the man's next words. "Why?" Merle again spits out the tobacco he's chewing on; it almost makes Milton flinch with distaste. "You wantin' anything?"
Milton is stunned into silence for approximately twenty seconds before he snaps back to reality. He isn't sure whether or not Merle is pulling his leg, so to speak, so he lists whatever comes to mind:
"Oh, um, sure. A toothbrush; I think three other people are using the same one that I am. Something to read; you know, the book selction is kind of limited here. A dog. I've always . . wanted . . a dog. Something else to wear. Glasses cleaner. New sheets; prison sheets actually make my skin itch. Um...That's-that's it. Any of that would be good."
Whenever he can think straight again, he will be mortified to realize that he asked for a dog. He hopes that Merle will just put it off as a joke.
"You sure don't ask for much, do ya?" Merle sounds friendly, at least, so Milton relaxes the best that he can. "Get a feller bit for somethin' to read."
He isn't surprised that he was tricked. He's still oddly disappointed though.
"Right. . ."
He doesn't say anything else. Merle laughs as he walks away, shaking his head.
Milton skips dinner that night, opting to only eat an oatmeal bar that he found in the kitchen area. He hopes that someone doesn't hold it against him for doing so; there's no way to repay it. He fiddles around in the small prison library until he tires enough that he decides he's had enough of the day, choosing to get some sleep. What he finds in his cell keeps him up for the rest of the night though, thinking.
He sleeps on the bottom bunk. The objects are there waiting for him. A folded jacket and shirt along with a stuffed dog. He picks the dog up first and looks at it; a collie with blue eyes. He hurries to sit it down, the shade reminding him far too much of someone else. After looking the clothes over, he picks up a note that was sitting on top of them.
Sorry about the other things. Maybe next time.
Wear the jacket. You can't do your important job if you get a cold.
Hope this stuff is to your taste.
He stops himself from crumbling it, the sarcasm rubbing him the wrong way. He moves the items to the top bunk, out of his line of sight. He gets in bed, trying to calm down, but when his head hits the pillow, he realizes that there's something under it-a male pornography magezine.
Hope this stuff is to your taste.
"Taste."
He understands now the true meaning of the note. His face is red from embarrassment. He feels sick to his stomach, thinking of the mockery the group must have had at his expense tonight. He doesn't know if he can bring himself to leave his cell the next morning. He considers pretending to be sick but he's sure Andrea would drag him to be looked at.
By the time the sun comes up, nearly everyone else in the prison is awake. He can hear them bustling about. It's Rick though, who finally comes to look in on him, knowing by now that he's usually up by this hour. His new leader knocks on his cell door hesitantly.
"Milton?" He's poking his head in, aware that the man is awake under his sheets. "Are you alright? Merle said that he figured you'd be in bed today. That you were out the other day without a jacket on. Said that I should go easy on you." There's a smile at the end of that, obvious in his voice, and Milton relaxes once he realizes that Rick is joking with him; he was supposed to help in the vegetable garden today. "You want me to get Hershel?"
Knowing that he's behaving like the child that Merle portrays him to be, he pokes his head out, hoping that he at least looks sick. With his eyes, he's sure he looks bad.
"Uh, no. . . I think that I'm just gonna get some rest, if you're sure you don't mind."
Rick nods and disappears; Milton thinks that he can hear him down the hall, telling Andrea that everything is okay, just to let him sleep.
Milton relaxes back into his bed, glad that he doesn't have to move for a while. His brain is going over the gifts though, and he sits up to get the dog down, inspecting it in better light than he had the night before. It's not really the dog he's thinking of though but the person that gave it to him.