It was carnage.
Body parts everywhere.
Limbs severed with efficient precision.
Merle is running so fast he thinks he might cough up a lung. The sight would no doubt cause a few raised eyebrows amongst the good citizens of Woodbury but screw them. They have no idea of the danger in their midst.
He's not one to blanch at the sight of slaughtered walkers. Nor is he some mollycoddled city slicker, cheerfully planning picnics whilst a whirlwind blows through. Panic grips him, but not so hard that he cannot recognise what has happened here.
Their visitor has armed herself.
Now she's in the compound.
He wishes more than anything he had Daryl at his side. Had their leader been so gracious as to throw him a bone, he could have been out there searching for him right now, but no...
F*ckin' Guv'ner and his dumbass town...
He arrives at the threshold to the cellar and the breath dies in his throat. The door is wide open. The work of an axe if his eyes do not deceive him.
Well, ain't this peachy?
The part of him that values self-preservation above all else is screaming at him to get the hell out of there, but the image of butchered walkers etched into his retinas won't let him.
She is in there, you see.
The prisoner.
And all he can hope for is that the lock to her cell will hold up because medical scissors certainly won't. Not against a katana and an axe.
He moves as swiftly as he can down the steps, his heart beating at deafening volume in his ears. His brain is in on the act as well - bombarding him with a film-reel of worst-case scenarios that get considerably more gruesome as he catches sight of the splintered door to the captive's domain.
He rubs a hand over his face and tries to drag air into his lungs. It doesn't help in the fight against the rising dread, but he steels himself anyway, reaches for his gun and pushes through the doorway to find whatever he may find.
"Put the shit down now!"
He's yelling so loud, his throat aches. He fires a round into the ceiling - an unmistakable call to back off if ever there was one, but his opponent barely flinches. The woman is all poise; eyes firmly on her quarry, every inch a rattlesnake about to strike, and under any other circumstances, he could admire her for being the badass she so clearly is, but right now she's pointing a blade at the girl's head and he's having none of it.
"I mean it! Shit down on the floor!"
Michonne's gaze whips round to take in a very aggrieved Merle Dixon and her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. If she didn't know better, she'd think he looked scared.
He allays any suspicion of that however, by firing a round into the wall just to the right of her.
Her eyes practically bug out of her head. She tries to get a measure on the situation, but is struggling, because yes, this is her being threatened for doing the only reasonable thing to be done here: putting down the dead.
One look at Merle, however, and she abandons all moral high ground. He's angry in a way she never envisaged he could get. Slowly and very reluctantly, she places the weapons on the ground, and gesturing with a sharp nod to the third party in the room she says, "You keep that thing away from me Dixon, y'hear me?"
Merle risks a look at the girl. She's crammed herself into the corner as tight as it's possible to do so and is looking up at her aggressor with eyes wide as saucers. His temper rises a notch as his eyes zero in on blood. Lots of it. Bubbling out of the palm of her hand and streaming unimpeded down the arm she has raised in surrender above her head. He spits on the floor.
"She wouldna bothered you none if you'd left her alone ya dumb bitch!"
There are voices in the corridor - Milton and Martinez - and Merle thinks it's a good job they're here because otherwise he'd be tempted to put a bullet in Sheena's swordhand and see what she makes of that. As it is, he merely grabs her by the bicep, (with definitely more force than necessary), and escorts her out.
"What took ya so long?" he snarls at Martinez, tossing the swordswoman in his direction. "Any longer an' she'd 've made a wood-carvin' outta my balls!"
Martinez raises an eyebrow but is quick to deal with the snark.
"Shame we didn't wait. Woulda paid money to see that."
To his astonishment, there comes no reply. The reason for this is because Merle is gone. Turned heel and strode off back down the corridor. He trades a surprised look with Milton, because this is so off script as to be disturbing, but the sight of a pissed-off Michonne snaps him out of it and he gets her moving before she can cause any more damage.
Milton does not follow.
Normally, he wouldn't pass up the chance to see the intruder dealt with, but there's something else that piques his interest here...
He rounds the corner, head tilting in confusion as he takes in the scene before him.
Merle is kneeling in front of the prisoner - her hand in his, inspecting the wound. Low murmurs take form in Milton's ears as he comes closer and he freezes because he can hardly believe what he is seeing and hearing.
"Hey now, don't you be frettin' chickadee, we'll get this cleaned and stitched up an' have ya good as new 'fore you know it."
A gasp leaks out of Woodbury's best scientific brain, because for all his intelligence in that field, he's lacking in this one.
Merle's expression darkens as he turns on the gormless spectator.
"If ya done gawpin' already, why don't ya make yerself useful and go fetch me some supplies so I can clean this up?"
Milton stands rooted to the spot, but as Merle makes to get up, he can't get out of there fast enough.
It's a testament to Merle's concern that he wastes no further time insulting the man, but instead turns his focus to the girl, tearing the sleeve off his shirt and wrapping it around her injured hand.
"I'll give him 10 minutes ok? Any longer than that an' I'll havta go beat some sense into 'im."
.*.
"Quit skulkin' around, an' say whatcha gonna say already."
Merle is just about done with this day.
His patient clearly finds having her hand stitched painful, but is taking it like a trooper. The wuss lurking in the corridor is another story however.
Milton pokes his pale visage through the doorway and seeing Merle's attention is occupied, timidly approaches the pair. In his fascination at what he's observing, he forgets he's been spoken to. Merle looks up from his task, all the more difficult for having only the one good hand to work with, and fixes him with an impatient glare.
Milton swallows hard and says what he wants to say before he can take it back. "You're good with her."
Merle scowls and ties off. "Stitched up a lotta wounds over the years. Had no choice wi' the daddy I had."
Milton would love to know more about that, but is terrified what Merle might do if he asked and therefore remains silent.
"S'pose he was good for that if nuthin' else."
Merle looks up to find pale eyes upon him. She is always listening. He feels a strange warmth spread through him and the part of him he keeps buried deep, claws its way to the surface to declare how fortunate he is to have gotten to her in time.
"She wouldn't let me near."
The spell is broken with these words from Milton and Merle feels a sting of sympathy for him but crushes it straight away.
Silence follows for an uncomfortable length of time before Merle deigns to give his verdict on that one. "Maybe if you weren't so thick with him, you get me?"
There's no need to elaborate. They both know it is their leader he's referring to. Milton sighs. For a man he considers a goon, Merle can be extremely perceptive.
"Yes, I suspect that's what did it."
More silence follows. Merle fills it with bandaging her hand and he's about to ask one of the many questions on the tip of his tongue when Milton throws him a curveball and half.
"I watched her die."
Ooof.
How does one respond to that?
Merle feels an acute animosity towards the man, but it dissipates as fast as it arrived, because he knows what he's about to say and naturally, as in all things, Milton was never in a position to do much about anything.
"He killed her."
Merle closes his eyes. Unsurprised but sickened all the same.
"Choked the life out of her."
The air leaks out of Merle like a tire that's been slashed.
"I wanted to help her... but... I froze."
Merle feels his jaw clench so tight his teeth might shatter. His impulse control is on the point of collapsing and he's two seconds away from tearing Milton a new one... but then he feels a bandaged hand gently curl around his clenched fist and the anger bleeds out instantly. He sighs long and low – feeling tired like he hasn't felt in years.
"G'won now, get outta here," he tells Milton, "before I do somethin' else I learned from my daddy."
The conversation with Milton is far from over.
They both know he will seek him out. He needs to know what, if anything, the Governor knows about this thing...
This thing he has with her...
This... connection he has to this girl...
This dead girl. Murdered by him.
Milton knows. Merle is not sure what exactly, or how much, but he'd hardly have left her to his care otherwise.
This naturally leads to the question of how much does he share with the Governor?
Prob'ly everything.
Yes, the main man will certainly be informed of this. If not by Milton, then Martinez. But as luck may have it, the problem with Michonne could eclipse all other concerns. A security breach such as this one was a serious matter and it might have only been a few walkers this time, but it could've been far worse.
Speaking of which...
"C'mere."
Pale eyes lock onto his. A timid tilt of the head.
"S'alright."
She shuffles towards him and before he can overthink it, he's pulling her into his arms. She's skittish as a colt and rigid as a plank, but after the day they've had, he's prepared to work with it.
"Jus' remember, you bite me an' yer stuck wi' me, y'hear?"
A nod and the beginnings of a smile. It's more than he dared hope for. He soaks it in - a rare moment of peace in the current chaotic state of affairs, but it isn't long before the usual troubled thoughts muddy the calm waters and the potential fallout of all this gains upper hand in his mind.
"Was a close call today, huh?"
She nods and to his surprise, leans to rest her head upon his chest. He sighs because she fits perfectly. A brief scan to check for further injuries comes up empty, but he frowns nonetheless, because she's practically held together with bandages and tape.
"Wish I could take you outta here."
It is the truth but not the whole story. What he actually wishes, is that he'd got here sooner so she'd never ended up in here in the first place.
Would she have given an asshole like him the time of day back then?
Prob'ly not.