AN: I don't know what to say about this one, really, so…you let me know what you think…

Part Three

Merle

He likes to hang out at the library. It feels old in there, weathered and calm with intelligence fairly bouncing off the walls. Most of the time it isn't manned, but he never goes there when it is—Old Mr. Wilson has a mean eye and as Merle has his own mean eye, he doesn't need to clash with someone else's. He likes to read, but that doesn't mean every fucker in the place needs to know that Merle Dixon is more than the redneck hick muscle they all think he is. Doesn't mean they all need to know that he knows shit, that he thinks about things and has an opinion on just about everything. And most necessarily, Phillip Blake doesn't need to know that Merle has a brain in his head that he likes to regularly feed with words on a page.

Merle is no stranger to the Old or the New Testament. When he was a kid and his ma tried to pretend all was right with their world, she'd teach him the scriptures and the gospel in the hopes he'd learn something important down deep into his soul. That he'd learn from the Good Book what was wrong and right in this world, not be guided by what his pappy deemed the proper way to pass on the lesson. She'd known even then her old man had a skewed sense of morality and Merle would give her her due, she'd tried to pass on something more meaningful, and as is always true in this world, she'd died before he'd ever shown her he understood. He knew right from wrong, always had even though he'd struggled with it. Just sometimes it didn't really matter what the difference was, or what side you wanted to stand on, circumstance was always the bitch that would guide your hand and then it was how hard you could become in your own head that decided if you survived the lesson or not.

In Woodbury, his days are made up of more wrong than right, and he has to be good with it lest his own head cave in from the pressure. Always wary of too many eyes logging him as he walks around the town, Merle slinks toward the darkened corner in the street and slips into the small building that serves as the town's library. His nights have been lonely, lately, surprisingly through choice, but he finds he needs a book to get him through the long hours now that he has banished all other company from his presence.

He can't avoid people in the day. His confidence in daylight has never faltered, his brash, crude words bouncing off more than one of the residents as he follows orders and keeps the town safe. Keeps them in the dark. At least once a week the Governor has his private circle go out beyond the wall, scavenging, exploring, searching for survivors that have anything that might positively enhance the town's own store of supplies and Merle has come to both hate and love those days. He loves getting out beyond the wall, feeling the fresh air in his face, the scent of nature in his nostrils—even if it is tainted now by the persistent stench of death—freedom beneath his feet. Sharing it with the other boys is hard, though, when all he longs for is to know that Daryl is still alive.

Most trips out they find little, but now and then they encounter a small pocket of survivors, groups of people that have banded together due to circumstance and a desperate will to survive. And every time he's torn, hoping that it isn't the Atlanta group with Daryl still tagging along, yet wishing for word of his brother. When it is expected, he steps up, kills, winding his way into the Governor's inner circle, benefiting from the Governor's solid trust. He's mastering the art of ignoring the small pieces of his soul that wither and die each time he commits murder, and he's excelling at forgetting their faces, except for those hours when he's asleep. When his eyes close, he remembers it all, and it eats away at him until he fears one night he'll wake up and there will be nothing of him left.

The world outside the library begins to darken and Merle takes a seat at the long table at the back of the little room, half hidden by one of the book shelves in case anyone comes in. He doesn't think anyone will; Mr. Wilson would have left hours ago to sit with all the other old farts that commiserate half the night about the lives and family they've lost but how grateful they are for Phillip Blake who has taken their care on. Merle thinks they're all fucking stupid and blind and he's disgusted in them. Old people are meant to be wise—they should know better. They should see better, and as his resentment builds that they see fucking nothing, vengeance burns a hole in his gut. He wants to leave, stop pulling the line that's attached to the Governor's dick so that he has a half-decent life while he waits for some clue to where Daryl might be, but when he's alone in his room, when he's blanking out the faces he's had to shatter with his gun, he thinks of all the ways he can kill Phil, and how he can make it hurt like a bitch.

"Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell."

Good old Walter had it right, Merle thinks and on impulse starts searching the shelves. He feels inspired all the sudden and as his roughened finger pad rubs across the spines, he suddenly grins when he discovers it. Sir Walter Scott, The Heart of Mid-Lothian. Suddenly he feels a sense of positivity wash over him. There was nothing like a good prison drama. He heads home feeling satisfied and eager.

He's barely shut his door when there is a tentative knock and anger blitzes him. He knows who is on the other side and just imagining her face makes his fist squeeze tight. He flings the door open, staring at her completely speechless. She'd prettied herself up, he sees, make up tinting her lips and her cheeks blushing peach. A pretty, breezy top buttoned almost all the way to the top reveales just a hint of cleavage and a lacy pink bra that he has absolutely no interest in knowing about.

"Thought I told you not to come 'round here after curfew?" he says angrily, not giving two shits as her colour heightens and she looks between the floor and him nervously.

"It's not curfew yet, and I needed to talk to you about something." Before he knows what's what, she's put her little hands against his chest and shoves and then she's in his space, and he's spitting mad about it.

"You got thirty seconds before I throw your ass out into the street," he growls at her, prowling up close until he's staring down furiously into her face.

She's all nerves, backing up away from him and wringing her hands together before she makes some kind of decision and her back straightens. He knows that steely-eyed look of determination that's blossomed on her face and he feels like kicking her for trying it on with him. He'd have thought most folks around here would know by now that it's useless trying to pull that shit on him. If he says no to something, they'd learned pretty fast there is little point asking again, but this pretty little thing seemed braver than most. Braver, but shit for brains stupid as well.

Briefly Merle wonders why he's so resistant to her. He's never been above accepting a bit of pussy whenever it's been offered, and she's offering herself up on a silver platter with bells on. Maybe that's what turns him off—the fact that she's played the same game on all the single men in this town. He knows she's afraid—she's a woman in her thirties all on her own and all she wants is someone to look out for her. He knows the other boys have used her then kicked her to the curb, and ordinarily he'd have jumped right on in and taken all she has to give, but maybe his multiple bouts of the clap have finally started to sink in and maybe the world being destroyed by biters has made him a little more choosy about where he decides to stick his dick. And maybe, just fuck it all, it really pisses him the hell off that any woman would dare come up to him and beg him to protect her. That's not who he is. Merle Dixon doesn't do anything but protect his own fool skin—and that of his brother's, whenever he's got Daryl around.

She's nervous, and strangely silent as she watches him in hopes of gauging something from his stance to give her encouragement. His demons are starting to come crashing in and he's entirely sick to death of this shit, day in and day out.

"Clock's tickin', sweetheart."

She jumps at the harsh boomof his voice as it bounces around the small apartment and he can see the second that she realises she's made a mistake coming to him.

"Why don't you like me?" She looks like she's about to cry and it pisses him off even more, that she'd come to him, burden him with her fear and then just about burst into tears and expect him to do something about it.

He ain't inclined to do shit about it.

"You're lookin' at it all wrong, darlin'. I don't like or dislike you. Your problem is in assumin' I think anythin' about you at all."

She gasps and he feels slightly guilty for being cruel, but Jesus Christ, can't she latch onto Martinez or any of the other fellas and leave him the hell alone?

"Do you have a wife? A girlfriend? Is that why you're not interested? I can wait, let you grieve, or…whatever."

Her spiel comes to an abrupt end as she watches the storm he's sure is washing over his face.

"I ain't got a wife, or a girlfriend, or even a fuckin' dog. You know what I found out real quick out there, Ava? Life's short. Too short to sell yourself just for a man's protection. I stand on that wall and I keep the biters out. That's me doin' my service for you and the others in this little corner of paradise. If I got an itch to scratch, I'll do the chasin'. Now get the fuck home, I got shit to do."

"It don't have to be about that, Merle. We could get to know each other, be friends first?"

He can't stop the laughter that erupts from him like a boiler blowing off steam. He's shaking his head, amused at how persistent she is and for a minute he wonders why he doesn't just do it. Suddenly he feels far too weary to resist anymore.

"Why the fuck not? Fine. Friends. Now go home."

Her smile is one of success and he guesses she thinks she's finally got him where she wants him, but he knows something she doesn't. He'll never be where anyone wants him, let alone her. He doesn't do friends—never has, never will. He has allies or enemies, nothing in between except his blood. Family. Daryl's the only one he'll ever let get that close and he's certain no fucking woman has a chance of breaking through that wall, especially not a twisted little bitch that thinks she can trade her pussy for a sure thing that she'll never get bit. He looks after his own ass, first and foremost. Other than his duty on the wall, he doesn't give a shit whether these people live or die and when Jesus Christs sees fit to rain hell down on their heads, Merle's going to be sure he's as far as he can be out of the place.

He waves her away, cringing at the newfound confidence in her step, hips swinging. She looks back over her shoulder to check to see if he's watching her ass and he's furious that she catches him doing just that. He's not fucking blind, he knows she's got assets and he wonders if he should maybe kick his own ass for not tapping that when she's offered it to him so many times already. The pursuit is half the fun of the conquest, and she just keeps making it too easy. There's no hunt, no skill involved with catching her and it turns him off. She turns him off, and he wonders when the fuck he suddenly got standards when it comes to bitches.

He slams the door on his thoughts and on her retreating ass, and plucks the book out from where he's held it under his jacket. Night is pushing through his windows now and Merle stomps angrily to his window, drawing the curtain closed. Before his hand reaches the fabric he can see Phillip across the way, the man toasting him with the glass of whatever is in his hand. Merle tips his head in acknowledgment, wondering what Phil must have made of the little scene that has just played out in Merle's apartment, before drawing the curtain closed. He feels sick that if Ava had had her way, Phil would be watching a show right about now and he can't help but sense that the Governor's dissatisfaction will somehow come back to bite Merle on the ass.