Merle has a hole in his life.

A hole Woodbury cannot fill.

One might think we're referring here to the absence of his brother, (off god knows where with Officer Friendly and co.), but sadly, that isn't it.

Not that he doesn't miss Daryl - he's worth a million of any of the bozos Merle has to deal with on a regular basis, but no, the roots of this emptiness lie with old habits. To be more specific, old drug habits.

This is what people never think about when they make the decision to go down that road - the fact that these substances make an imprint on your brain that never leaves you, damning you to spend the rest of your days chasing that high or trying to forget it.

The apocalypse had forced Merle into sobriety, just as it had countless others. It wasn't an easy transition, but then for whom had it been? Amongst the millions addicted to illicit substances, there were also those who relied upon meds to treat their illnesses, suddenly confronted with the nightmarish scenario of no longer having access to what they need. So yes, a raw deal for one and all. And even if you manage to ride out withdrawal with some semblance of sanity intact, there's no telling what your brain is going to make of your new reality once the dust settles.

Merle had a cushy deal with Woodbury and was smart enough to know it, but that didn't mean he felt at ease in his surroundings or anything approximating contentment with his lot.

Misery loves company, or so they say, but to be honest, most suffering is done alone. For all you can tell your story, can anyone really know what you've been through? Woodbury, like anywhere, had its share of sympathetic souls, but beyond the usual conversations about how one got to this point, did anyone really care much about anything beyond their own private hell?

Merle knew the deal. Had known it all his life. Knew better than to expect otherwise... but… free from old routines and deprived of the drugs that made his life tolerable, he had all the time in the world to reflect on his situation and found he didn't much like that at all.

Perhaps it was inevitable then, that in searching for something to distract his restless mind, he ended up in the cellars of Woodbury once more.

To the place he swore he would not go.

To the girl he'd decided to leave well alone.

He never had been one for keeping promises though. Not even the ones he made to himself.

"Well, hey there Twitchy, you remember me?" he greets with a broad smile, striding into the room as if their last sorry meeting had never taken place. She startles; caught unawares and whilst she hadn't been sleeping, (do walkers sleep?), a visitor had clearly been the last thing she'd expected. She calms a little and relaxes her posture from the usual curled up in the corner arrangement to take a wary look at him.

"It's me, yer ol' buddy Merle," he says, a genuine smile fighting its way through to tug at the corners of his lips because he can tell she recognises him.

He pulls off his prosthetic and lays his weapons on the floor, but not before jamming a crude doorstop he's hacked out of a chunk of wood beneath the door to the corridor and another under the door to her cell. He looks up to find an awed expression. Decidedly uncomfortable about the weird sensation in his stomach this look provokes, he clears his throat and casually tosses some jerky strips inside the cell.

She pauses a moment to look at him, a tumult of emotions written across her face, confusion and unease chief amongst them, suspicion and distrust hot on their heels, and then slowly she moves forwards, eyes never leaving her 'benefactor'.

To his surprise, she does not go for the meat, but instead to the door, which has Merle (once again) perplexed.

What is she...?

She grips the fat end of the doorstop and wiggles it out from under the door, curling her fingers around the wood with the sharp end jutting out of her fist.

Merle's mouth drops open.

He's only gone and given her a weapon.

Holy f...

He makes a silent vow in that moment to never enter her cell.

Oh, he could take her down in an instant, no doubt about that, but he's quickly learning never to underestimate her. As he continues to watch her, eyes zeroing in on those bony fingers locked tightly around the new prize, his brain is trying to compute what this new development might spell for the future ahead, i.e. what she might do with this new gift he's bestowed upon her.

Perhaps she'll murder her tormentors and as far as Merle's concerned, good riddance… but... What if she manages to get out of her cell in the bargain? Armed and on the loose, who knows what she might be capable of?

He sinks his head into his hands because he's done it now. Pandora's box is wide open. He'd walked away, he'd kept at bay, but now it was all for naught.

A defiant thought claws its way to the forefront of his mind to declare that this is how it should be. They have no right to do what they've done to her. She's not a punching bag nor a lab rat. Why shouldn't she have the possibility to defend herself? Why shouldn't she meet her abusers on a level playing field so-to-speak?

But what if she has other ideas? What if she's had her fill of pain and wishes to end it all? Would she even know how? Is she about to start lacerating herself in hope of inflicting the terminal blow?

He raises his head once more to find she's finished her food and is staring intently at her new 'dagger' as if the myriad of possibilities (beyond defending her meal) are now occurring to her.

It's too much for Merle. Whatever she decides, he wants no part of it. He should've left well alone what feels like years ago and now the tendrils of this mess he's created are dragging him down into the mire.

He turns his back so he doesn't have to look at her whilst he gathers his things and is about to leave when, for reasons that are beyond his poor muddled brain, he feels compelled to take one last look at her.

What he sees, is not at all what he'd expected. She's trying to attach the piece of wood to her bad arm in a crude attempt to splint it.

That she would think of such a thing, in this world where people would throw each other to the walkers, is unfathomable to him. Unfathomable and yet strangely touching. She has every reason to seek revenge or opt out of her miserable existence and yet her first impulse is to find a way to heal…

And that makes her braver than most anyone Merle can think of.

"I could bring ya a better one," he offers, noticing how poorly the wedge does the job, "y'know, somethin' tha' fits the length of yer arm, whaddya reckon?"

Her head shoots up and she looks as if she's about to cry, which has him squirming something awful. He instantly wishes he hadn't said anything, because now he's back to where he was on their previous visit, wanting to help her for reasons he can't comprehend, but not wanting to help her because of the potential consequences.

The Governor was dangerous and demanded subservience... and yet... a part of Merle could not fully submit. He did what was asked of him because that's what he had to do, but he didn't sign up for this and couldn't condone it.

'M not some goddamn robot.

"Caint promise y'anythin', but if I find somethin'…"

He leaves it there because those eyes are upon him and they might be unnerving as only walker eyes can be, but they are currently glassy and that does things to him he doesn't like.


The Governor has a strange allure.

It is hard to define precisely what it is, but if Merle could describe it, he'd say he can see through to your bones.

This sensation of being stripped to the core is wildly unnerving, bringing with it a weird impulse to confess your darkest secrets. Or at the very least, to things one probably shouldn't.

It is how Merle finds himself one evening on the cusp of asking about one particular dark secret that has been occupying him for quite some time. The shift from a mundane conversation about the security rotation to asking why in god's name their leader has a human walker hybrid in his cellar came about astoundingly easy. The words had been on the tip of his tongue. Had it not been for interruption in the form of Martinez, Merle is certain he would've uttered them.

It left him reeling.

Evidence of how ill-advised such a question would have been was plentiful in the days that followed. Unbalanced behaviour resulting in unpleasant consequences no seldom occurrence. It was also a timely reminder of how dangerous his curiosity had become. How foolish. It didn't take much to get on the wrong side of their chief and if Merle was any judge on the subject, he'd say it was getting worse.

What to do then? Stick to the rules and hope for the best? Short term, it wasn't a bad idea, but what if things go pear-shaped? Who can you rely on to have your back? To put in a good word for you when the shit hits the fan?

Nobody in this town.

Not for the first time, he thinks of Daryl and laments the loss of his fierce loyalty. He conveniently forgets how having him here would put him in the same sorry predicament, but then recalls that the quarry camp has its own loose cannon in the form of Shane.

It's all one big crap shoot.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, wondering if he could somehow get a break. Woodbury was a time bomb waiting to go off. The question was, how was he going to get through it? And what about her when it does happen? Will she be left to rot?

Anger curls low in his stomach, making him wish he'd never laid eyes on the place. Never laid eyes on her... because then he wouldn't have to think of her or the sorry mess they're both in.

Screw it.

He goes looking for drugs.