Sinclaire forced her hands to relax around the steering wheel after she realized that there was pain radiating up both arms from her grip. She glanced at her passenger and then pulled off the road. There was no sense in going on until she had someone capable of watching her back.
She stepped into the back of the truck even though it basically felt like an oven, and lay down on the sleeping bag she'd laid out there last night. She had a killer headache and she felt vaguely nauseous. She wondered how old Morales' daughters had been. She closed her eyes, even though she told herself firmly that she was not going to sleep.
"Hey."
The gruff voice broke into her dream and she jerked upright, pressing her hand to her head when the sudden movement only intensified the pain. She could tell by the sun, and the coating of sweat on her skin, that hours had passed.
"What?"
"Gotta piss."
"Sounds like a personal issue," she muttered, swallowing back the urge to throw up.
"The hell's your problem?" Merle stared at her as if her behavior was unfathomable.
"My head is killing me; I just shot a man and I'm stuck in a box truck with a racist jackass who wants me to unzip him!"
"Ya want me to piss in the truck?" Merle drawled.
"Fuck you," she stood up and snapped her fingers at him. "Let's go then."
"Don't fuckin' talk to me like a goddamn dog!"
"Oh? You don't like it? You don't like being treated like an inferior? Then maybe you should watch how you treat other people. Ever think about that?"
"You're givin' me a fuckin' lesson in manners? Don't ya think it's kinda late for that shit?"
"It's never too late. If you've always been like this I can understand why they left you on the damn roof!"
It was the wrong thing to say. His paranoia wasn't altogether relieved and her head was killing her and when he shoved the passenger side door open she yanked up the back door of the truck and met him at the side of it.
"Ya sayin' I fuckin' deserved this?" Merle yelled.
"I don't know! All I know is that you're a douchebag! You watched me change clothes! You yelled at a man who'd just had to eliminate his entire family! You…"
Her sentence ended when he slammed her against the side of the truck.
"Now you listen here Princess," he began.
"Don't fucking call me Princess!" Sinclaire drew her knee up quickly and forcefully, slamming it into his balls as hard as she could.
"Jesus," he groaned, stepping back.
She shoved him as hard as she could and he landed in the dirt.
"We clear on that?" she asked, standing over him. "Maybe we can get a few points of order together while you're down there…"
He reached out and grabbed her ankle with his left hand, yanking hard and throwing her onto her back. She kicked out with her other foot, connecting with the inside of his thigh, a kick that was slightly off target. He dragged her underneath him, holding her body down with his, bracing his right forearm over her neck, since he didn't have a hand to catch her around the throat with.
"You might want to rethink this," she gasped out.
He didn't have to ask why, she had one free hand and she'd used it to grab her knife. Her knife that was currently resting against the back of his neck. He eased back on the pressure, but he didn't let go.
"You're fuckin' fast," he remarked.
"Yeah well, so are you. Most people don't get me on the ground. You've got about ten seconds to let me up though."
"What happens if I don't?"
"You won't be making it back to your brother."
Merle eased his arm away from her throat, "I can't move much with that knife right there."
Sinclaire lowered the blade and he got to his knees in front of her. She sat up and they stared at each other for a long moment. She pushed her hands through her hair and sighed. At least she'd finally had a chance to utilize one of her best skills, hand to hand fighting. It wasn't exactly suited to this apocalypse.
"I am who I am," Merle said after a while. "I ain't gonna change."
"You might have to," she said. "I've had to do a lot of stuff I said I'd never…"
"And you think you're so much fuckin' better than me don't ya, Yank?" Merle drawled brutally. "I bet you've been a damn saint through this whole thing ain't ya?"
Sinclaire laughed. She covered her face with her hands and laughed until she wanted to cry.
"You havin' a breakdown?"
She could tell that he was trying to sound distant, but she heard worry creep through his voice.
"Can't do that can I?" she took her hands down from her face. "Who'd handle your zipper?"
"Yeah, well if ya don't soon, ain't gonna be no point," he pointed out.
She stood up and he joined her. As she dipped her head, focusing on his belt, she said, "I'm not holding myself over you. A saint is far from what I've been. But respect isn't optional. You respect me and I'll respect you and maybe we'll get through this."
"This is a fucked up conversation to be havin' while you're undressin' me."
"Yeah? Hookers don't have a spiel?"
"Yeah. But you get it before they get near your belt."
She shook her head and said, "You know the drill. Let me know if you need me. Zippers can be handled one handed you know."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"It might prove to me that you could handle a gun."
Merle frowned thoughtfully and nodded.
Sinclaire stepped up into the truck, digging through for something that might relieve her headache. She found some generic pain medicine and swallowed it dry, hoping for the best. A sudden spate of swearing several minutes later made her eyebrows go up.
"That my cue?"
"Motherfuckin' belt buckle!" Merle walked over to where she was sitting.
Sinclaire buckled him up and said, "Well, at least you got the zipper."
"And the button. That ain't the point." He sat down beside her. "It's like I'm fuckin' helpless."
He expected Sinclaire to say something comforting, something the average woman would say. Instead she just nodded in silence.
"Hell. That's it? Ya ain't gonna tell me I'm lucky to be alive? Ya ain't gonna tell me I'll learn to do shit one-handed? Ya ain't gonna…"
"Why should I?" she cut in. "It seems like you've been telling yourself all about it. I don't know if anybody is lucky to be alive to be honest with you. And it's obvious that you can learn to live with one hand. People have in the past. I do think you should let me bandage it up though."
He nodded after a moment and held it out. She washed it off and disinfected the area, then wrapped it with clean gauze.
"Try not to get it dirty," she said with a sigh, leaning her head against the side of the truck.
"Still feelin' sick?"
"Yeah. I get migraines sometimes," she rubbed her forehead. "It doesn't help that it's 5000 degrees here."
"Feels like it," he agreed. "Might be better to pull the truck into the shade over there," he gestured to the tree line as he spoke. "Ya wouldn't make it in the city feelin' like ya look like ya feel."
"Think you could drive it over there?" she asked.
"Can't switch the gears."
"Fuck. Okay." she stood up and her stomach turned. Damn stress migraines and lack of medicine worth having. "Hang on."
Merle grimaced when she disappeared around the side of the truck, gagging. He hated puking, hated it when other people puked too. Daryl never seemed to care, which was weird in his opinion.
Sinclaire punched the side of the truck when she was done and then stood up straight, wiping the tears from her eyes. Merle hadn't come to check on her. She wasn't surprised. He didn't seem to be any more the nurturing type than she was. She moved the truck into the shade and they sat in the back, trying to get the cooler air into the hot inside of the truck.
"Ya could go on back to sleep," he said after watching her nearly doze off a few times. "The front's closed up and if I see any of those fuckers I can close up the back here."
"What if you go to sleep?" she asked. "I think it's cool enough. Why don't we just close up now? We'll hit Atlanta in the morning provided you don't kill me in my sleep."
"If that's how you want it."
Merle stood and closed the back of the truck. It had cooled down a lot and he moved to the front, rolling both front windows down just enough for a bit of a cross breeze. She was asleep by the time he got back.
He glanced down at her. She seemed to be really out. It must have been one motherfucker of a headache. He started to unroll the other sleeping bag he'd found in the corner by the driver's seat but then he had a better idea.
"Sinclaire?" he whispered.
She didn't move.
"Princess?" he tried that, a bit louder.
Nothing. He took her one of her M9's from her tactical vest and spun the silencer down on the barrel. He checked once more for signs that she was awake before rolling up the door and getting out of the truck.