Surprise! Fanfic

Well, no one else was likely to do it...

THIS OLD DEATH
Fandom: The Walking Dead
AU; canon divergence
Pairing: The Governor/Rick Grimes

NOW:

The meet is at some farm store Daryl found, three miles from the prison. They get there early, let Morgan find a position, then wait—Michonne and Daryl outside, Rick in, watching through the shades. He's still all taped up underneath the kevlar vest he got off what used to be a guard, throat brusied extensively but ribs not actually broken, for all they feel it. Shane's doc, Hershel, says he's lucky, which he already knows; having Philip Blake on top of you is never anything to laugh about, no matter the circumstances. Offered Rick what drugs they had, which he refused. He needs to be upright for this, with all his faculties about him, or he knows he might yet be overborne, if push comes to shove. Charm is Philip's strong suit, after all, once the blood-tide dims. He can be...persuasive.

That last wound, though—maybe it'll throw him off, even now he's had some time to recover. Especially once he sees Daryl sneering up at him, still holding the crossbow which dealt it.

The Governor's escort pulls in late but not overly so, a tight cordon—two SUVs plus a military truck, Philip's favourite car in the middle. Had to stop and ask for directions, maybe. The usual suspects pile out, taking up defensive stance: Martinez, Shumpert, Garjulio. Rowan, her hair cut raggedly short since the last time Rick saw her and eyes red, like she's been crying, hugging that asthmatic kid Noah's AK like it gives her strength. Since he'd be there if he could—worships Philip, that one—Rick can only assume he didn't make it.

I'll bet you know the names of everyone who died that night, a dim voice says, from somewhere deep inside him. Not like at the prison, 'sides from Lori, Carl...Shane.

Herschel's daughter, the fierce older one, with her boyfriend, that Korean kid; that quiet woman Carol, with her headscarf, and her knives. Andrea, a good three months along to where Lori was, the first time Rick saw her again; just starting to show, and carrying high. Odds are it's Philip's, though by her own admission, might be just as well be Shane's too. That'd be lightning striking twice.

At which point, like he heardd Rick think his name, comes the man himself—Philip Blake, Woodbury's self-elected “Governor,” unfolding quick from seated to full height in one quick twist, like a magic trick. Standing there with hands braced on hips, wavering too slightly for most to notice, they hadn't seen him all day, every day for the last three years. He looks like he's lost ten pounds in a week, rangier than ever, close-wrapped in a long black preacher's coat Rick thinks must be new; head cocked just a bit too much to the left, like he's having trouble hearing, or holding it straight. That bandage over his arrow-split left socket looks vaguely yellow-tinted, which might just as easily be pus as disinfectant, and his usually neat-groomed hair sticks up here and there, sweat-messed...but then again, it is hot. Doesn't mean anything, not necessarily.

Stop trying to read him from twenty damn feet away, for Christ's sake. Think about what you're gonna say once he gets here, instead, 'fore he sidebars you, like he's no doubt planning to.

Michonne's sources—the Woodburyite Fifth Column, those same elusive mystery traitors Philip used to rail about, back when—all claim the infection Daryl's arrow left behind almost spread to his other eye before the doctors caught it, which implies he's probably still hopped up on as much painkillers and pennicillin they could pump into him. In and out for ten days with fever, give or take, whispering to proxies and getting his bidding done long-distance while he lay there studying the ceiling, listening to Woodbury cleanse itself after Rick's three-way pod attack. They've had protocols in place for a cut-and-run scenario since the beginning, drilling for it as recently as three months ago, but if Rick knows the Governor, he won't give up “his” town 'til it's nigh uninhabitable; probably got at least one wall back up by now, what with the surviving citizens working hammer and tongs, though he doubts they're gonna be holding any more walker-fight barbecues anytime soon. Still, “Life During Wartime” always has been his favourite song, at least metaphorically speaking.

Outside, Philip pauses to stretch, taking his sweet time, before waving towards the treeline. “Morgan,” he booms, affable as ever, like he can see him. Then turns to the others with similar nonchalance, nodding first right, then left: “Michonne. Dixon Junior.”

“Fuck you, you big bitch,” Daryl greets him, deadpan.

“Bodyguards stay outside,” Michonne warns, at almost the same time, “or Morgan starts taking headshots. Understand?”

“Sure. Exactly the way I'd've handled it.”

Daryl: “Uh huh. No surprise there.”

'Cause: He still doesn't trust you, not really, that same dim voice comments, inside Rick's aching ribcage. Thinks you're Philip's stooge, and why not? He's never known you any other way, beyond that night, or every night after. You're gonna have to work, you want to prove your bona fides. Think you can do that, Officer Friendly? Think it's worth the doing?

Well: Yeah, he can, and yeah, it is. Though mostly 'cause there's nothing else, in context.

“See y'all soon, boys,” the Governor calls back to his entourage without turning, and strides inside, shutting the feed store door behind him—into the cavernous cool and dark, sawdust-smelling, where Rick's already taken up his place at table, trying not wince as he sits.

“Philip,” he says, not looking up.

“Richard,” Philip replies.

***

“The people at the prison says they need your word you're gonna leave 'em alone,” Rick repeats, patiently, as Philip's long fingers drum the table between them. “They don't want anything but to be left in peace. No competition. They're nowhere near you, or Woodbury. They're gonna start a garden, a farm, get self-sufficient. No need for us to even interact, you don't want to.”

“Uh huh. And this is Shane's group, right, with Daryl, Lori—Carl? Michonne and Andrea?” Rick nods. “You, from now on?”

“That's right.”

“Not acceptable.” Philip shakes his head, firmly.“There's gotta be restitutions, Richard. These people rely on me, and they just lost thirteen good souls. I can't go back to 'em with nothing.”

“Not my concern.”

“It used to be, though, didn't it?” Leaning forward, pressing harder, as Rick pauses to think. “I'm tellin' you, folks are spooked—that's the most successful attack we've ever lived through. Milton dead, me—like this...they need reassurances. Just like they need to know where you went.”

“That's not gonna happen, Philip.”

“And why not?”

“Because I led a damn walker army across your doorstep, that's why—three, from three different directions. The perfect storm we always feared. You have that bunch under your thumb, true enough, but with the best will in the world, I still can't see any way they'd just let that one side.”

Philip laughs. “Oh, Rick. You really think I told 'em you were involved? Thought you knew me, buddy. No, the way I put it, you must've gotten yourself kidnapped by Michonne and Daryl here on your way out—they saw a chance to pay me back and took it by taking my good right hand, same's I did with Merle, sort of. And believe you me, that particular legend went 'round like wildfire, whipping folks into a frenzy; got more volunteers wanting payback than I did for last year's Fourth of July, with no fried chicken involved. 'Cause those people love you, Rick, and that's the plain truth...they'd do anything for you, without you even havin' to ask. You know that.”

“And they believed you.”

“They do tend to,” Philip points out.

More fool them, Rick thinks, grimly, though he can't disagree. Still: “I can't believe you did that,” he says, which is an outright, bald-faced lie. If Philip knows he knows so, however, he gives no sign; just shrugs, sighing. Like they've been playing chess and Rick just once again threw away an opportunity to mate him two moves over, in order to save some stupid pawn.

“Walk outside with me, then,” he suggests, “if it disturbs you so much that even after all this, I still want them to think well of you. Show 'em all. Explain how you put their loved ones in danger, to the point of gettin' some of 'em killed, just 'cause Shane Walsh, Daryl goddamn Dixon and little miss No-Last-Name Michonne somehow convinced you I might be contemplating something you don't have a shred of genuine evidence I ever intended to go through with, concerning your lovely wife and that bastard daughter of hers.”

“You said yourself how I know you.”

“Ah yes, and isn't that the truth of the matter, Officer Grimes? So very well.” Rick finds he's already glancing down, face heated, before he can quite think to stop himself; sees Philip's remaining eye flash a little as he makes himself look back up, insulted, annoyed. “Aw, c'mon now—don't tell me you're embarassed. Hell, I got more to lose on that scale of public opinion than you do by far, with your still-alive wife and kid. Kids, you count the bastard—”

“Don't call her that.”

“You're right, Not my business. Never was.”

“Listen, your wife, Penny—they're not gone, not forever, just 'cause they're not here anymore. You did your best by them. They'll always be there for you, Philip.”

“Hmmm, yup. Well, Penny sure would've, at least—if somebody hadn't convinced me to put her down, that is, like a dog.”

That darkness in his voice sending it even deeper, dipping it 'til he doesn't sound entirely human. It wasn't so hot, Rick might actually be inclined to shiver.

“Your choice,” he reminds him. “You know it was the only thing left for her. What any good father would do.”

“Maybe. Let's hope you never have to find out.”

“That a threat?”

Rick's already on his feet, creaking ribs and all, but Philip just sits there, looking at him. “It's a certainty,” he says. “You know it, I know it. This is how we live, now. We kill or we die; we die, and we kill. Nobody's exempt, whether you love 'em or not.” He leans forward then, swifter than Rick's ready for, and continues: “One way or another, though, you can't stay with them, anyhow. Not now I know where everything that can hurt you most lays down every night, and you've already put the idea of acting on that knowledge in my mind.”

“I don't—”

“Sssh, Richard. Just listen.” He's talking faster, voice lighter, yet no less disturbing. “They'll be fine, won't they? Sure they will; Shane'll die takin' care of 'em, whether you're around or not. And the prison's a pretty good place to hide, in the usual run of things, but me, I'm not gonna stop 'til you come home. You know how many guns I got, don't you? Did Michonne tell you we found this other camp, where a guy has a tank?”

“...she did.”

“Perfect. Well, this guy seems to know what he's doing, so I'm willin' to bet he can bring those walls down pretty damn quick. After that, meanwhile—we been banking biters, one in the kitty for every one we burn, just waitin' to send 'em back your way. Weaponized zombies, now; that's a damn smart idea. Wish I'd thought of it...but then, that's what I used to have you for.”

Rick stares at him, caught, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skull, an invisible fever-crown. He feels his world start to reel. How this get so out of control, so quickly?

“What is wrong with you, Philip?” is all he can think to ask, finally. To which Philip simply shakes his head, and answers—

“I don't know, Rick, truly. Never have. And here you were, always telling me I was a good person!” The laugh is bitter, twisting in his throat. “Did it so convincingly, I almost got to believe it myself. But we can pretend again, can't we? I mean, if you just worked on it long enough, hard enough...”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Point is, you can't leave me like this, goddamnit—not alone. I killed my little girl for you.”

“Philip, for God's sake...she was dead already.”

“You don't know what I was like, before, or what I'll be like after, either. I don't even...”

“That's not my fault.”

“Oh yes it is. Everything I do, from now on, it's all gonna be your fault. So know that, Richard. Everywhere you go, I'm gonna be two steps behind, and gaining. It's just gonna go on and on. And in the end, whoever you fetch up with, they're gonna get down on their damn knees and beg you to come back to me.”

They're both on their feet now, Philip looming, Rick panting a bit, chest constricted under tape; his heart poounds, breath harsh and loud in his ears. Philip looks like he doesn't know what to do with any given part of himself, every trace of the affable politician simply gone; he seems drunk, berserker-tranced. Something—not a tear—streaks from beneath his bandage, but he doesn't move to wipe it away, just stares at his own raised hands until he calms far enough to lower them, cross his arms, jam them beneath his elbows.

“My mistake,” he says, slowly, “was in treating you like you were me, 'cause you're not. But that's okay. You care too much, that's your problem, and it's a good problem to have, for P.R. purposes. Someone should.”

“Philip—”

“I'm going now. You think it over a couple of days, and then you decide what you want to trade me, in return for me leavin' them alone: Daryl, for my eye...Andrea's baby, when it comes. 'Cause you know damn well it's mine, already...”

“Philip, shit—”

“...or you. Him, or her, or you. That's the deal. I'm only gonna say it once.” Rick swallows, tongue dry, mouth gone dumb. “You don't have to lose face. Just get Michonne to tie you up, throw you back towards Woodbury at the point of her sword. People'll be cheering in the streets to see you again, Rick. And things'll go right on back to the way they were.”

His voice getting fainter now, as he retreats through the gloom, towards the door. Rick leaning on the table, feeling like he's about to faint. Jesus, he thinks. Oh, shit. What a mistake this all was.

“I'm not angry,” the Governor lies, logical, plausible, as though he's explaining gravity. “Just need you to stay with me, Richard, and remind me how I'm not too far gone, even now. I need to trust you on that. Or...well. All things considered, I just don't know what might happen.”

Uh huh, Rick thinks, sick. But I do.

Remembering the tanks, the heads. The mortal remains of Penny Blake worrying at her leash, determined to reach whoever came within range. The gladiatorial pit. Merle Dixon's hand, there, then not; his stump, gushing blood. Him tumbling out through the fence, borne on the force of Philip's kick, as the walkers clustered and yowled; fresh meat, for once.

And then, at the same time, superimposed: faces, mostly innocent, aside from “betrayals” so long gone they pre-dated this sorrowful current world. Carl, Lori, Shane. The baby.

There's a sound of tires screeching on blacktop, and Daryl looks in, Michonne at his elbow. She's doing that thing that's not quite a scowl, her “concerned” look.

“Looks like that didn't go so well,” Daryl says.

“Nope,” Rick replies, doubling up. And pukes on the floor, all shock and bile, right into the sawdust in front of his chair.

End Part One