Notes:

This is a story about Merle Dixon and as such, contains a lot of Merle Dixon. I figured I ought to mention that, in case it isn't your thing.


Disclaimer: all The Walking Dead characters and the show are the property of AMC Networks.


The Prisoner of Woodbury

1.

He supposes she might have beautiful once.

Well, before the Governor got his hands on her that is.

And if Merle hadn't already gotten their illustrious leader pegged as a cold-hearted son of a bitch, he'd certainly have done it now.

He doesn't know what brought him to the catacombs of Woodbury. He's not usually so curious when it comes to things that are so clearly none of his business, but then again, his impulse control never had been up to much and he figured a sneak peek wouldn't do any harm.

Turns out, he was wrong.

Because as much as he likes to pretend he's a badass who doesn't let anything get to him, that's clearly not the case. He curses under his breath, as he brings his gaze back to the pathetic figure cowering in the corner of the cell, and is surprised at the wave of pity that washes over him.

Why was he like this? She was nothing to him. He knew nothing about her. Had only learned of her existence the previous day. He makes a mental note to close his ears next time he stumbles upon the boss and Milton deep in conversation, and to quit using his brain as well, because if these are the places it's bringing him to…

Should've stayed in bed, y'idiot.

The deathly quiet of night gives ample room for this and similar sentiments and Merle is readily taking himself to task when he notices the captive has shrunk further into the corner as if to shield herself from view, which isn't really happening because the cell hasn't a stick of furniture to hide behind. Merle scoffs because they haven't even done her the courtesy of dimming the lights, leaving her painfully exposed in a ghastly glare of fluorescent lighting.

"Darlin'," he rasps with a smirk, because he never could resist the opportunity to be a facetious asshole, "they must really hate you."

All things considered, it's a fair assertion. Her skeletal frame folds further in on itself, knees tucked into her chest, head bowed - skull adorned with a myriad of welts and scars just like every other inch of flesh uncovered by the tatters of what's left of her clothes and hair.

"I mean, seriously," he chuckles, wry grin spreading over his face, "just what the f*ck did you do?"

It's a valid question and Merle's understandably irritated not to receive an answer. He tries to establish eye contact but she won't raise her head, nor does she respond to him repeating the question.

"You deaf or sumthin?"

No answer.

"Stupid?"

She curls in on herself even tighter and turns her back.

"I asked ya a question!"

Nothing.

He snarls as he approaches the bars, eyes narrowed to slits, head tilted to one side.

"Well, ain't you a stuck up lil' bitch?"

Not a peep.

His eyebrows fly up to his hairline, because last time he looked, there wasn't a woman alive who took being called a bitch lying down. Which has him wondering if there's something wrong with her. The fact that she's cramming herself into the corner as if trying to push herself through the wall merely supports this theory.

"Hey, c'mon now, I ain't gonna hurtcha..."

That this assertion might seem dubious to her doesn't occur to him. He was also apt to forget that he hardly looked like a friendly sort at the best of times, add to that the huge blade jutting out in lieu of a hand.

"Hey now, I ain't one o' them," he adds, to which even his brain protests because, well, it was utter nonsense wasn't it?

He moves to open the door and her distress ratchets up a notch; she's pawing at the walls now and the sight of one arm swinging limply, clearly broken in several places, engulfs him in yet another swell of pity. Indeed, her distressed state - physically and mentally - has him so spooked, he's backed off without even realising it. He raises his arms in surrender, his expression softening (as much as his harsh Dixon features allow him to do so) and lowers himself into a crouch, cursing at his complaining joints all the way down. Noticing she's a little calmer, he slowly shuffles forwards, tallying injuries and scars as he does so and where she says nothing, they speak volumes.

He sighs because, well, what exactly had he been expecting to find here? The Governor was what he was. It didn't sit easy with him, but what could he do? He made his bed and has to lie in it, but jesus christ, did there have to be so many lumps in the mattress?

"Lookie here sweetheart, I can see he's done a number on ya, but I done told ya I ain't gonna hurtchu, so how's about you spill the beans? You know, give ol' Merle the low down here."

He watches her closely, waiting for a response that isn't coming. He crouches lower to get down to eye level and it occurs to him then, that at no point during this encounter has she looked at him directly. At no point whatsoever. He can hardly blame her for that because, well, this is what it is, but it also offends him a little because it's as if she's written him off from the start and that might be something he's all-too-familiar with (he is a Dixon, after all) but even so, it never fails to rub him up the wrong way.

His patience worn thin, he yanks the door to her cell open, any agitation on her part be damned. She frantically squirms to get away, dragging her legs across the cold stone floor and it's a sorry sight that fills him with no small portion of guilt, but he tells that part of him to shut up because he just wants to talk to her for god's sake, to find out what got her into this misère. Maybe then he can go back to bed and get some shut-eye, as normal people do at this hour, morbid curiosity sated…

What he gets, when he finally gets his hands on her, is exactly what he asked for: his curiosity sated. Alas, as so often in life, he's bitten off more than he can chew.

He's up and out of the cell like a shot.

Out the building. Door slammed behind him because screw this town. Body bent double. Heart trying to beat its way out of his chest and lungs somewhere up in his throat. A medley of curse words are begging to be let loose into the world if only he could dial up the ability to speak.

The reason for all this lies with two revelations he made in that cell.

Two revelations that became clear with a single look into her eyes.

1.

She is a walker.

and...

2.

She is terrified.

.

The thing is though, walkers don't get scared.


Notes:

Hey there.

For those who don't know me or haven't read any of my stuff before, (which is probably most this time around because The Walking Dead is a new fandom for me), I post every week and am going to try for Sundays, I reckon...

And if you fancy giving my story a chance then here's a big thank you from me for that - this is a big fandom, there's a lot of stories to choose from, I'm just happy to hope that this one might end up being someone's cup of tea, y'know?

Cheers


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