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THIS OLD DEATH
Fandom: The Walking Dead
AU; canon divergence
Pairing: The Governor/Rick Grimes
After all this drama, the way the Governor ends up deciding to deal with Merle Dixon is by approving an idea Miton's had for ages, but never quite managed to get voted through council (thus far). Predictably, it's one that Rick's always considered borderline insane, but Philip doesn't care all too much about that—he's making a point here, as well as doing his very own version of the time-honored Godfather move: keeping his enemies close, ostensibly by turning them into friends.
“What do you care?” he has the unbelievable stones to demand, when Rick objects. “You know damn well it'd be good for morale, 'specially now we're so well-defended that if we want to keep people sharp, we essentially gotta go looking for fights.”
“Oh yeah, that's right; put it all on me, for keepin' people safe enough to stupidly start feeling safe.”
“Safe leads to slack, Richard, you've said it yourself. Hard to recall we're in danger 24/7 yet, when every time you walk through the square you hear kids chanting 'eenie meanie miney moe, catch a biter by the toe.'”
“Just wondering how we got from there to rigged zombie gladiator fights, is all.”
“Specifically? 'Cause Milton wants to test their reflexes under combat conditions and Merle needs somethin' to kill, not to mention keep his mind off shit he really don't need to be thinking 'bout, he wants to stay upright.”
Rick sighs. “You and me, for example.”
“For example, yes.”
They're coming down the side-street out back of Philip's apartments, talking low and moving fast enough Rick has to trot a bit to keep up, while Philip just smiles and waves at everyone they pass like he's running for re-election in an office he was essentially acclaimed to. Thus singled out, Woodbury's citizens inevitably smile back, wave back; there's more than a bit of fluttering goes on, and not just amongst the female contingent. Philip sucks it up like sunshine, getting even taller.
“Frankly, I'd've thought you'd be happier,” Philip remarks, slyly, as they halt near the crosswalk. “Merle told me you said he should volunteer for something, so here you go: two birds, one stone, boom. Got a certain subtle elegance to it, don't you think?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not to mention it frees you up to worry about...other things.”
“I'd be worryin' about those anyhow,” Rick replies, refusing to be jollied. Which makes Philip grin wider still, to his slightly pointed eye-teeth.
“Aw, cheer up, Richard,” he orders, turning away, conversation officially finished. “Hell, it's this or football, and we're pretty goddamn short on players. Just remember, nobody likes a spoil-sport.”
Consider it a present, that's the clear implication, as though Rick's own wants and needs have ever had much influence on Philip's decisions, aside from one particular time...or twice, maybe. If you even want to count him not spitting the Governor's tongue out of his mouth as a rational choice instead of a stupid, drunken mistake, in hindsight.
He doesn't put himself out to know who Philip's tapping these days, 'sides from hoping to hell it isn't Milton, or (God forbid) Merle. Amusingly, however, Rick has gone out a couple of times with Haley, that pretty little prospective Olympian Morgan kept trying to push him towards—and here she is now, spotting him from across the street, beckoning him over. “Hey, chief,” she greets him, brightly. “See Duane anywhere? We were s'posed to meet for target practice this morning, up at the South Wall.”
“Yeah? What's that in aid of?”
“He wants to come on survey, so we're upping his certification, and it's working out well—maybe two more biter cull sessions away from quota, as of last week. Could really use another hand, since that whole thing with Joe G.”
“Morgan know about this?”
“'Course he does! Duane's underage, so we had to get his permission, just like the regs say. I mean, not as though we'd let him do anything more than scout, anyways, the first few times.”
Rick nods. “Okay, sure—you know I have to ask, right?”
“Uh huh. That's why you're the boss.” Shyly: “You going to the fight, later on?”
Wasn't planning on it, is the first thing comes to mind. But she's giving him those big eyes, making him remember how nice she feels pressed up against him from the lips on down, smaller than him, and softer. Rounded in ways Philip'll never be—Lori either, if she's still alive.
(He does think of her still, but not every day, and feels bad about that. Not like Carl, who's first in his thoughts morning and night, as well as whenever he looks at Duane; Duane and Morgan, trading smiles, bumping fists. Best good deed he's done so far is that first one, he sometimes thinks, when he talked Philip into rescuing the two of them—it's given him more unalloyed second-hand pleasure than almost anything else, thus far. Though some people might say at least half of Woodbury's infrastructure's more his than the Governor's, the Governor himself amongst them...)
But: back to Haley, waiting on an answer, studying his face as he stands there woolgathering, maybe wondering if she's said something wrong; Rick conjures up a smile himself to tell her no. “Wouldn't miss it,” he lies, reaching out to squeeze her hand, and watches her bloom again, a watered flower.
She's so young, he thinks, a trifle sadly. Wants what she wants, same's we all do, and what with everything she's gone through, who am I to deny her? It's such a surprisingly little thing in the end, long as they use protection. And it's not like he wouldn't be the biggest fool in the world to claim he doesn't get anything out of it either, after all...
Hypocrisy's an damn ugly thing, Richard, Philip's voice murmurs, in his mental ear. But he shrugs it away, and keeps on walking.
***
“Yeah, I signed off on it,” Morgan admits, as they sit their usual North Wall shift that afternoon, right above the gate. “Couldn't not and keep my World's Best Dad mug, the way Duane worked at me. But I'm not so sure it's all his idea, in the final analysis, and that's got me thinkin'.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think he was talked into it—by the Governor, you really gotta know. Sorry to say it, but from what'all I can see, it's just true.”
Rick frowns. “Why would Philip—”
“'Cause he likes to talk people into things, Rick, 'specially if they already know how they ain't good for 'em. Would've thought you'd know that already, considering...” he trails off, then: “Well, anywayd. I've said my piece.”
Not hardly, Rick wants to snaps back, But instead, he makes himself stop and ponder the idea through, much as he finds he doesn't want to—and eventually, weighing up the evidence, he's forced to admit that Morgan's probably right: Philip does take pride in his oratory, his weird gift of the gab, to the extent sometimes Rick often thinks he truly does believe if he only says a thing long enough, loud enough—and gets enough people to agree with him, when he does—he can actually convince himself it's true.
“I'm sure he doesn't mean Duane any harm,” he says, finally, wincing at how weak that sounds. To which Morgan replies, shrugging: “Yeah, and God knows I'd like to believe it. But wishin' on something doesn't always make it so, does it?”
Almost never, Ricks knows; Morgan too, he suspects. Luckily, however, it's right at that moment that something changes the subject for hours to come—something gut-ache familiar yet truly unprecedented, at least by the standards of how they've lived the last year and half.
“Holy Christ,” Morgan blurts, too shock to even look at Rick, though his scope jerks up automatically. “That can't be—I mean, is that—?”
“A chopper?” Rick replies, already on his feet. “Oh yes it damn well is.”
There's a moment of wild joy as the—army? Sure enough looks like, even at this angle—helicopter passes overhead, blades racketting, so fierce it makes them want to dance and jump, throwing their hands in the air like fools: here, over HERE! C'mon! But that's before they see the way it's listing, trailing smoke, that one kid on the gunner's perch holding on for dear life and still swinging wide, like he's just about to fall.
Then it strikes up, far too sharp, before dipping back down into what Rick can already tell is a death-plunge—spirals and falls, plummeting like a stone, to hit somewhere just past the southwest tree-line. Rick curses, hears it echoed, then glances to see Philip down by the left-hand tire-stack, Merle at one elbow, Milton at the other. “God damn!” he says, eyes flashing. “You see where it went?”
“Think so, yeah.”
“Well, what're you still here for, then? Take the truck, see if there's survivors, something to salvage—this's the first I've seen one of those since Atlanta, Richard, and that's—oh, man.” He breaks off, brain obviously working faster than his tongue for once, before adding at last: “You do get what I'm saying, right? This could...this could change everything.”
“I get you, yeah.” Rick reaches for his walkie, thumbs the button. “Team Rick? Asses up, we're out of here in ten. Get Doc Stevens, and tell her to pack like we're bringin' someone home.”
“I wanna go,” Merle says, and Philip nods, impatiently, waving away any objections Rick might have before he can lodge 'em. Meanwhile, Merle's already up the wall in two shakes, grabbing for the binoculars. Says to Rick, at the same time: “Looks like we're workin' together for once, Officer Friendly. Now, ain't that a hoot?”
“Sure is,” Rick replies, through his teeth.
***
As it turns out, they actually come back with three new guests, no thanks to Merle. One—the only soldier left unchanged—is a thickset man whose tags say Welles, Lt., while the other two they find hiding up the hill a ways, watching them work from the cover of some nearby bushes...'til the wind changes, at least, and those two jawless, armless biters one of 'em's apparently been leading around on chains like the world's ugliest pair of guard dogs start to stink enough to attract attention. Their keeper, a fierce young black woman sporting dreads, armed with an honest-to-goodness samurai sword, is some piece of work: whips the heads off her pets the minute she sees Rick coming and turns to run, grabbing her partner's arm, just as Merle and Daryl (who jumped on the truck's running board the minute he realized Merle was headed out of town) materialize behind them.
“Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to put down the sword,” Rick says, hands spread in what he hopes seems like an unthreatening way. But that's undone entirely when Merle's gaze falls on the other woman—tall, blonde, probably a hell of a lot prettier when she isn't coughing her guts out with some kind of walking pneumonia—only to widen like he's just seen a ghost, then give way to a leer so slimy it even seems to turn Daryl's stomach.
And: “Well well well,” he crows. “Damn if it ain't blondie herself, in the fine, fair flesh. How's that stuck-up sister of yours, anyhow?”
The woman clears her throat, rackingly, and spits the result at Merle's feet. “Dead, you redneck asshole,” she manages, at last, before keeling over in a faint at Samurai Girl's feet.
“The sword, ma'am,” Rick repeats, 'til the woman snarls, and sets it down; Martinez takes it, flicking biter-blood from its blade admiringly before sliding it back into its sheath, while Nguyen runs back for Doc Stevens. Daryl looks at Merle, meanwhile, who rolls his eyes, complaining: “What, for Chrissake? I didn't do it.”
“You know this lady?” Rick asks.
Daryl gives one curt nod. “Her name's Andrea, sister's called Amy...was, I guess. We were at campground with 'em back near Atlanta, doin' okay, when this moron here decided it was a smarter move to try jackin' their shit while most of the heavy hitters were off on a supply run, and got us tossed out on our asses. Guy in charge was from back this-a-way, some Sheriff's Deputy with a bad attitude; he came home early, caught us in the act. Barely got out with our stuff, even after his woman talked him down.”
Merle huffs, disgusted. “Yeah, go on and tell him everything, ya little snitch! That guy was all hat an' no cattle—would've kicked his ass good, badge or not, he hadn't had the drop on us.”
You go on and tell yourself that, Rick thinks, turning away. “This one's with me,” he tells Martinez, who tries to take the black woman's arm only for her to give him a look like she wants to set him on fire with her mind, shake him off and stalk forward, head high. “Doc can bring the other one in the ambulance, along with Lieutenant Welles. Get 'em both the med centre, ASAP.” To her: “You have a name, ma'am?”
“Michonne,” she snaps, and marches right on past Rick towards the vehicles, not looking back.
End Part Six
Fandom: The Walking Dead
AU; canon divergence
Pairing: The Governor/Rick Grimes
After all this drama, the way the Governor ends up deciding to deal with Merle Dixon is by approving an idea Miton's had for ages, but never quite managed to get voted through council (thus far). Predictably, it's one that Rick's always considered borderline insane, but Philip doesn't care all too much about that—he's making a point here, as well as doing his very own version of the time-honored Godfather move: keeping his enemies close, ostensibly by turning them into friends.
“What do you care?” he has the unbelievable stones to demand, when Rick objects. “You know damn well it'd be good for morale, 'specially now we're so well-defended that if we want to keep people sharp, we essentially gotta go looking for fights.”
“Oh yeah, that's right; put it all on me, for keepin' people safe enough to stupidly start feeling safe.”
“Safe leads to slack, Richard, you've said it yourself. Hard to recall we're in danger 24/7 yet, when every time you walk through the square you hear kids chanting 'eenie meanie miney moe, catch a biter by the toe.'”
“Just wondering how we got from there to rigged zombie gladiator fights, is all.”
“Specifically? 'Cause Milton wants to test their reflexes under combat conditions and Merle needs somethin' to kill, not to mention keep his mind off shit he really don't need to be thinking 'bout, he wants to stay upright.”
Rick sighs. “You and me, for example.”
“For example, yes.”
They're coming down the side-street out back of Philip's apartments, talking low and moving fast enough Rick has to trot a bit to keep up, while Philip just smiles and waves at everyone they pass like he's running for re-election in an office he was essentially acclaimed to. Thus singled out, Woodbury's citizens inevitably smile back, wave back; there's more than a bit of fluttering goes on, and not just amongst the female contingent. Philip sucks it up like sunshine, getting even taller.
“Frankly, I'd've thought you'd be happier,” Philip remarks, slyly, as they halt near the crosswalk. “Merle told me you said he should volunteer for something, so here you go: two birds, one stone, boom. Got a certain subtle elegance to it, don't you think?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not to mention it frees you up to worry about...other things.”
“I'd be worryin' about those anyhow,” Rick replies, refusing to be jollied. Which makes Philip grin wider still, to his slightly pointed eye-teeth.
“Aw, cheer up, Richard,” he orders, turning away, conversation officially finished. “Hell, it's this or football, and we're pretty goddamn short on players. Just remember, nobody likes a spoil-sport.”
Consider it a present, that's the clear implication, as though Rick's own wants and needs have ever had much influence on Philip's decisions, aside from one particular time...or twice, maybe. If you even want to count him not spitting the Governor's tongue out of his mouth as a rational choice instead of a stupid, drunken mistake, in hindsight.
He doesn't put himself out to know who Philip's tapping these days, 'sides from hoping to hell it isn't Milton, or (God forbid) Merle. Amusingly, however, Rick has gone out a couple of times with Haley, that pretty little prospective Olympian Morgan kept trying to push him towards—and here she is now, spotting him from across the street, beckoning him over. “Hey, chief,” she greets him, brightly. “See Duane anywhere? We were s'posed to meet for target practice this morning, up at the South Wall.”
“Yeah? What's that in aid of?”
“He wants to come on survey, so we're upping his certification, and it's working out well—maybe two more biter cull sessions away from quota, as of last week. Could really use another hand, since that whole thing with Joe G.”
“Morgan know about this?”
“'Course he does! Duane's underage, so we had to get his permission, just like the regs say. I mean, not as though we'd let him do anything more than scout, anyways, the first few times.”
Rick nods. “Okay, sure—you know I have to ask, right?”
“Uh huh. That's why you're the boss.” Shyly: “You going to the fight, later on?”
Wasn't planning on it, is the first thing comes to mind. But she's giving him those big eyes, making him remember how nice she feels pressed up against him from the lips on down, smaller than him, and softer. Rounded in ways Philip'll never be—Lori either, if she's still alive.
(He does think of her still, but not every day, and feels bad about that. Not like Carl, who's first in his thoughts morning and night, as well as whenever he looks at Duane; Duane and Morgan, trading smiles, bumping fists. Best good deed he's done so far is that first one, he sometimes thinks, when he talked Philip into rescuing the two of them—it's given him more unalloyed second-hand pleasure than almost anything else, thus far. Though some people might say at least half of Woodbury's infrastructure's more his than the Governor's, the Governor himself amongst them...)
But: back to Haley, waiting on an answer, studying his face as he stands there woolgathering, maybe wondering if she's said something wrong; Rick conjures up a smile himself to tell her no. “Wouldn't miss it,” he lies, reaching out to squeeze her hand, and watches her bloom again, a watered flower.
She's so young, he thinks, a trifle sadly. Wants what she wants, same's we all do, and what with everything she's gone through, who am I to deny her? It's such a surprisingly little thing in the end, long as they use protection. And it's not like he wouldn't be the biggest fool in the world to claim he doesn't get anything out of it either, after all...
Hypocrisy's an damn ugly thing, Richard, Philip's voice murmurs, in his mental ear. But he shrugs it away, and keeps on walking.
***
“Yeah, I signed off on it,” Morgan admits, as they sit their usual North Wall shift that afternoon, right above the gate. “Couldn't not and keep my World's Best Dad mug, the way Duane worked at me. But I'm not so sure it's all his idea, in the final analysis, and that's got me thinkin'.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think he was talked into it—by the Governor, you really gotta know. Sorry to say it, but from what'all I can see, it's just true.”
Rick frowns. “Why would Philip—”
“'Cause he likes to talk people into things, Rick, 'specially if they already know how they ain't good for 'em. Would've thought you'd know that already, considering...” he trails off, then: “Well, anywayd. I've said my piece.”
Not hardly, Rick wants to snaps back, But instead, he makes himself stop and ponder the idea through, much as he finds he doesn't want to—and eventually, weighing up the evidence, he's forced to admit that Morgan's probably right: Philip does take pride in his oratory, his weird gift of the gab, to the extent sometimes Rick often thinks he truly does believe if he only says a thing long enough, loud enough—and gets enough people to agree with him, when he does—he can actually convince himself it's true.
“I'm sure he doesn't mean Duane any harm,” he says, finally, wincing at how weak that sounds. To which Morgan replies, shrugging: “Yeah, and God knows I'd like to believe it. But wishin' on something doesn't always make it so, does it?”
Almost never, Ricks knows; Morgan too, he suspects. Luckily, however, it's right at that moment that something changes the subject for hours to come—something gut-ache familiar yet truly unprecedented, at least by the standards of how they've lived the last year and half.
“Holy Christ,” Morgan blurts, too shock to even look at Rick, though his scope jerks up automatically. “That can't be—I mean, is that—?”
“A chopper?” Rick replies, already on his feet. “Oh yes it damn well is.”
There's a moment of wild joy as the—army? Sure enough looks like, even at this angle—helicopter passes overhead, blades racketting, so fierce it makes them want to dance and jump, throwing their hands in the air like fools: here, over HERE! C'mon! But that's before they see the way it's listing, trailing smoke, that one kid on the gunner's perch holding on for dear life and still swinging wide, like he's just about to fall.
Then it strikes up, far too sharp, before dipping back down into what Rick can already tell is a death-plunge—spirals and falls, plummeting like a stone, to hit somewhere just past the southwest tree-line. Rick curses, hears it echoed, then glances to see Philip down by the left-hand tire-stack, Merle at one elbow, Milton at the other. “God damn!” he says, eyes flashing. “You see where it went?”
“Think so, yeah.”
“Well, what're you still here for, then? Take the truck, see if there's survivors, something to salvage—this's the first I've seen one of those since Atlanta, Richard, and that's—oh, man.” He breaks off, brain obviously working faster than his tongue for once, before adding at last: “You do get what I'm saying, right? This could...this could change everything.”
“I get you, yeah.” Rick reaches for his walkie, thumbs the button. “Team Rick? Asses up, we're out of here in ten. Get Doc Stevens, and tell her to pack like we're bringin' someone home.”
“I wanna go,” Merle says, and Philip nods, impatiently, waving away any objections Rick might have before he can lodge 'em. Meanwhile, Merle's already up the wall in two shakes, grabbing for the binoculars. Says to Rick, at the same time: “Looks like we're workin' together for once, Officer Friendly. Now, ain't that a hoot?”
“Sure is,” Rick replies, through his teeth.
***
As it turns out, they actually come back with three new guests, no thanks to Merle. One—the only soldier left unchanged—is a thickset man whose tags say Welles, Lt., while the other two they find hiding up the hill a ways, watching them work from the cover of some nearby bushes...'til the wind changes, at least, and those two jawless, armless biters one of 'em's apparently been leading around on chains like the world's ugliest pair of guard dogs start to stink enough to attract attention. Their keeper, a fierce young black woman sporting dreads, armed with an honest-to-goodness samurai sword, is some piece of work: whips the heads off her pets the minute she sees Rick coming and turns to run, grabbing her partner's arm, just as Merle and Daryl (who jumped on the truck's running board the minute he realized Merle was headed out of town) materialize behind them.
“Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to put down the sword,” Rick says, hands spread in what he hopes seems like an unthreatening way. But that's undone entirely when Merle's gaze falls on the other woman—tall, blonde, probably a hell of a lot prettier when she isn't coughing her guts out with some kind of walking pneumonia—only to widen like he's just seen a ghost, then give way to a leer so slimy it even seems to turn Daryl's stomach.
And: “Well well well,” he crows. “Damn if it ain't blondie herself, in the fine, fair flesh. How's that stuck-up sister of yours, anyhow?”
The woman clears her throat, rackingly, and spits the result at Merle's feet. “Dead, you redneck asshole,” she manages, at last, before keeling over in a faint at Samurai Girl's feet.
“The sword, ma'am,” Rick repeats, 'til the woman snarls, and sets it down; Martinez takes it, flicking biter-blood from its blade admiringly before sliding it back into its sheath, while Nguyen runs back for Doc Stevens. Daryl looks at Merle, meanwhile, who rolls his eyes, complaining: “What, for Chrissake? I didn't do it.”
“You know this lady?” Rick asks.
Daryl gives one curt nod. “Her name's Andrea, sister's called Amy...was, I guess. We were at campground with 'em back near Atlanta, doin' okay, when this moron here decided it was a smarter move to try jackin' their shit while most of the heavy hitters were off on a supply run, and got us tossed out on our asses. Guy in charge was from back this-a-way, some Sheriff's Deputy with a bad attitude; he came home early, caught us in the act. Barely got out with our stuff, even after his woman talked him down.”
Merle huffs, disgusted. “Yeah, go on and tell him everything, ya little snitch! That guy was all hat an' no cattle—would've kicked his ass good, badge or not, he hadn't had the drop on us.”
You go on and tell yourself that, Rick thinks, turning away. “This one's with me,” he tells Martinez, who tries to take the black woman's arm only for her to give him a look like she wants to set him on fire with her mind, shake him off and stalk forward, head high. “Doc can bring the other one in the ambulance, along with Lieutenant Welles. Get 'em both the med centre, ASAP.” To her: “You have a name, ma'am?”
“Michonne,” she snaps, and marches right on past Rick towards the vehicles, not looking back.
End Part Six
