Surprise! Fanfic Part Five
Jul. 21st, 2014 02:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustTHIS OLD DEATH
Fandom: The Walking Dead
AU; canon divergence
Pairing: The Governor/Rick Grimes
What with one thing and another, it takes Rick a good week or so to figure out that by starting up this...whatever it is they have, with each other, Philip's basically managed to work it so they skip over the whole explaining-Penny-to-everybody part entirely. By then, of course, it's far too late for do-overs; she's long gone, anatomized by Milton maybe, or burnt up in one of the catch-pits, with Philip sailing forward in fine style: back to “normal,” with a vengeance. He works hard, plays even harder, and Rick's there right along with him every step of the way, both during office hours, and after.
“It's 'cause you're the only real friend I have, Richard,” he says, one time—so quiet that for a second there Rick almost thinks he dreamed it, dozing in the man's long arms, just before the night-shift neighbourhood watch alarm goes off. And while Rick allows there are probably worse reasons by far to get into bed with someone, he also has to wonder—might this be a way of taking back control, after Rick's seen him so terribly vulnerable? Recompense exacted, mutually enjoyable though it might be in the moment, for Philip always having to remember how he once lowered himself to essentially do Rick's bidding?
“Your opinion's the only one I care about, 'cept for my own,” he tells Rick after they've argued all through council, later on. “I value your input.”
Rick snorts. “Yeah, sure—you'll listen, smile the whole time, all that. Then turn around and do the exact thing I said not to, every time.”
“When have I ever ignored your advice?”
“I can think of more than a few instances, and that's just today.”
“Hmm, and you don't like that, do you?” Philip grins. “Why, Richard Grimes, for shame; didn't know you were such a complicated man, the night I took up with ya.” Then adds, gathering him in: “But that's okay. As you've probably figured out already, I'm a bit that way myself.”
So Milton twigs pretty fast and gets a hang-dog look for a few days, 'til Philip joshes him out of it. Given how godawful little of a crap the man seems to give who happens to find out about this particular bit of his business, however—inside the inner circle, at least—Rick's somewhat surprised how long it takes other people to even notice what's happening. He can still remember meeting Morgan for breakfast a morning or so after that first time, only to have him hike his brows in greeting, grinning wide. “What?” he asked, as Morgan just chuckled.
“You sly dog,” he said. “C'mon now, who was it? That gal with the bow, says her Daddy wanted to coach her for the Olympics?”
Rick shook his head, poured himself a slug of coffee from the proffered thermos. Saying, as he did: “Jesus, Morgan—too early by far, for that kind'a shit. Ain't you got something useful to concentrate on?”
A shrug. “Nothin' pressing. Nah, but wait, don't tell me; you know I like mysteries, and the library's fresh out.”
And so it goes, 'til one day they're out on survey, just driving along, when Morgan suddenly turns to him, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he says, like he's just connected the dots. “The goddamn Governor?”
“Don't know what you—”
“Hell you don't, white boy. Just what the fuck were you thinking?”
Rick stays silent a minute, hands on the wheel, trying his level best to figure that out. “...not much above the belt, I guess,” is all he replies, finally.
“Ohhh, Christ Almighty.”
“Yeah, you're righta bout that.” And now it's Morgan's turn to ponder, 'til he what eventually comes up with is—
“Listen, whatever makes you happy, I s'pose; end of the world, and such. But I'd keep it on the down-low awhile, 'til some of these other folks get the Bible out of their systems.”
Rick nods, thinking of those informal yet passionate church services that one family—the Carters, three generations' worth of hard-core Baptists, the rest of their time evenly split between food services and lawn maintenance—host twice a week, in what used to be the Woodbury War Memorial Museum. They're the sort tend to take little things like dead people walking the earth as proof that Jesus is due to be dropping by any minute now, so they consider it their civic duty to make sure everyone's doing their best to look busy, in the meantime.
“Thanks, buddy,” he says, and Morgan nods as well, sighing.
“Think about your wife much, still?” he asks, after a pause.
“Lori? Every day.” Rick waits a second before asking, gently: “You?”
Morgan takes another minute, which stretches. “Not as much as I used to,” he says, eventually. “Not since...”
(...I killed her again, anyhow, is what Rick knows he means.)
They ride the rest of the way in silence, as Morgan slings his rifle off and starts checking it, cleaning waht he can, with extra care lavished on the scope.
***
The Dixon brothers turn up in November, hunting the woods out by Loman Station: Merle and Daryl, both redneck meth-head types, or would be, there was still anywhere left to get meth from. They're the kind of old boys Rick would've busted on the regular back in Cynthiana, but Philip takes an interest, so he steps back and waits to see exactly how much rope they'll pull out for themselves, before he's forced to interfere. Soon enough, he figures out how it's Merle that's the real asshole—Daryl's both shyer and smarter than he looks, a genius with a bow who's content to watch while Merle talks himself into trouble, though sadly quick to throw down trying to get him out of it. While Merle, on the other hand, has that rat-killin' dog air to him, an instinct for submission and potential crazy loyalty to authority that Philip prizes in all the men he gathered to him first, back in Atlanta—Martinez, Shumpert, etcetera.
Problem is what Merle really wants, increasingly, is more of Philip's attention than the Governor's truly willing to part with, on a regular basis. And he really doesn't like to share.
“You 'n' the Gov're pretty damn tight, ain't ya, Officer Friendly?” he calls out one evening, just as Rick's heading for neighborhood watch evening shift assembly. And maybe it's just 'cause Philip's once again blown off some stupid idea of his after Rick pointed out how it sucked, but the sneer in his voice is just warning enough to make Rick slow down, if not actually stop, even as he simultaneously becomes aware of Daryl loitering nearby, trying not to look like he's listening in.
“What exactly is it you want, Merle?” Rick asks.
“Oh, just a bit of a jaw 'bout all those late nights you and him spend whisperin' to each other, with not a pretty girl in sight. Now, why would that be, you think?”
“Lots of people get the Governor's time, they just ask for it,” Rick points out. “Hell, you probably could too, you only felt like volunteering for anything besides the chow line.”
“Well, maybe I just might, one day. But given that cannon you pack, I sure wouldn't want to make you jealous.”
And this is where Rick really does halt, turning to look at Merle directly, in frank disbelief. “What're you implying?” he demands, and Merle just laughs, like if Rick's too dumb to figure it out for himself, it's not like he's under any great obligation to explain. Keeps on laughing, in fact, until Rick shakes his head and walks on, determined to ignore him; long and loud as any drunken frat boy, any Serengeti hyena, any sugar-hopped preschool kid who's just found out about the many wonderful social uses of the phrase: I know you are, but what am I?
Philip laughs too when Rick tells him, way he does at most things he doesn't feel like dealing with, 'cause he thinks he can talk his way out of anything, and why not? As experience has taught him all too well, he usually can. Rick, however, doesn't think it's quite as funny—not least because even at the best times, Merle's never struck him as being all that big on talk.
Philip scoffs. “I think you're exaggerating the gravity of the situation, somewhat.”
“All I'm trying to say is, maybe we should dial it back a little, considering,” Rick replies.
“Don't wanna damage my reputation, that it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Well, isn't that nice.”
Fact is, though, Philip isn't fond of snap decisions, unless they're ones he comes up with. So he draws himself up full height and strikes a pose, staring down on Rick like he's Carl, and just pissed the bed—which Rick personally finds pretty damn rich, coming from a guy he's seen naked.
“You want to pretend none of—this—ever happened just 'cause some inbred hick with a crush thinks he's finally learned to tell shit from shinola, you go on ahead,” Philip says, coldly. “Woodbury's chock-full of women find us both attractive, so there's no reason anybody needs to go wanting. But just do me the courtesy of admitting you've always had your own reasons for wantin' out, Richard, at the very least—hypocrisy's a damn ugly thing, 'specially from an honest man. It doesn't become you.”
He stalks off before Rick can quite gather a suitable response, moving at enough of a clip that by the time he finally has, the only thing he could stop him with long enough to make him listen would probably be a bullet. Bound for Milton's lab, maybe, where he can hold forth on Rick's ingratitude 'til he finally gets himself calm enough to come back and apologize; Philip can rant and rave all he wants down there with those creepy biter-heads in tanks for an audience, and Milton'll never interrupt. And all the while knowing damn well that no matter his tantrums, if something happens to come up in his absence needs an immediate response, he can always rely on good old Rick to handle it.
Don't know what I'm doing anymore, if I ever did, Rick finds himself thinking, amazed. It's like one bad idea piled on top of another, enough to go up maybe ten miles, by now. Just don't see how it can go wronger still, barring another apocalypse.
But: Never say never, a part of him whispers, even then. Because when bad becomes normal, “worse” is always an option.
End Part Five
Fandom: The Walking Dead
AU; canon divergence
Pairing: The Governor/Rick Grimes
What with one thing and another, it takes Rick a good week or so to figure out that by starting up this...whatever it is they have, with each other, Philip's basically managed to work it so they skip over the whole explaining-Penny-to-everybody part entirely. By then, of course, it's far too late for do-overs; she's long gone, anatomized by Milton maybe, or burnt up in one of the catch-pits, with Philip sailing forward in fine style: back to “normal,” with a vengeance. He works hard, plays even harder, and Rick's there right along with him every step of the way, both during office hours, and after.
“It's 'cause you're the only real friend I have, Richard,” he says, one time—so quiet that for a second there Rick almost thinks he dreamed it, dozing in the man's long arms, just before the night-shift neighbourhood watch alarm goes off. And while Rick allows there are probably worse reasons by far to get into bed with someone, he also has to wonder—might this be a way of taking back control, after Rick's seen him so terribly vulnerable? Recompense exacted, mutually enjoyable though it might be in the moment, for Philip always having to remember how he once lowered himself to essentially do Rick's bidding?
“Your opinion's the only one I care about, 'cept for my own,” he tells Rick after they've argued all through council, later on. “I value your input.”
Rick snorts. “Yeah, sure—you'll listen, smile the whole time, all that. Then turn around and do the exact thing I said not to, every time.”
“When have I ever ignored your advice?”
“I can think of more than a few instances, and that's just today.”
“Hmm, and you don't like that, do you?” Philip grins. “Why, Richard Grimes, for shame; didn't know you were such a complicated man, the night I took up with ya.” Then adds, gathering him in: “But that's okay. As you've probably figured out already, I'm a bit that way myself.”
So Milton twigs pretty fast and gets a hang-dog look for a few days, 'til Philip joshes him out of it. Given how godawful little of a crap the man seems to give who happens to find out about this particular bit of his business, however—inside the inner circle, at least—Rick's somewhat surprised how long it takes other people to even notice what's happening. He can still remember meeting Morgan for breakfast a morning or so after that first time, only to have him hike his brows in greeting, grinning wide. “What?” he asked, as Morgan just chuckled.
“You sly dog,” he said. “C'mon now, who was it? That gal with the bow, says her Daddy wanted to coach her for the Olympics?”
Rick shook his head, poured himself a slug of coffee from the proffered thermos. Saying, as he did: “Jesus, Morgan—too early by far, for that kind'a shit. Ain't you got something useful to concentrate on?”
A shrug. “Nothin' pressing. Nah, but wait, don't tell me; you know I like mysteries, and the library's fresh out.”
And so it goes, 'til one day they're out on survey, just driving along, when Morgan suddenly turns to him, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he says, like he's just connected the dots. “The goddamn Governor?”
“Don't know what you—”
“Hell you don't, white boy. Just what the fuck were you thinking?”
Rick stays silent a minute, hands on the wheel, trying his level best to figure that out. “...not much above the belt, I guess,” is all he replies, finally.
“Ohhh, Christ Almighty.”
“Yeah, you're righta bout that.” And now it's Morgan's turn to ponder, 'til he what eventually comes up with is—
“Listen, whatever makes you happy, I s'pose; end of the world, and such. But I'd keep it on the down-low awhile, 'til some of these other folks get the Bible out of their systems.”
Rick nods, thinking of those informal yet passionate church services that one family—the Carters, three generations' worth of hard-core Baptists, the rest of their time evenly split between food services and lawn maintenance—host twice a week, in what used to be the Woodbury War Memorial Museum. They're the sort tend to take little things like dead people walking the earth as proof that Jesus is due to be dropping by any minute now, so they consider it their civic duty to make sure everyone's doing their best to look busy, in the meantime.
“Thanks, buddy,” he says, and Morgan nods as well, sighing.
“Think about your wife much, still?” he asks, after a pause.
“Lori? Every day.” Rick waits a second before asking, gently: “You?”
Morgan takes another minute, which stretches. “Not as much as I used to,” he says, eventually. “Not since...”
(...I killed her again, anyhow, is what Rick knows he means.)
They ride the rest of the way in silence, as Morgan slings his rifle off and starts checking it, cleaning waht he can, with extra care lavished on the scope.
***
The Dixon brothers turn up in November, hunting the woods out by Loman Station: Merle and Daryl, both redneck meth-head types, or would be, there was still anywhere left to get meth from. They're the kind of old boys Rick would've busted on the regular back in Cynthiana, but Philip takes an interest, so he steps back and waits to see exactly how much rope they'll pull out for themselves, before he's forced to interfere. Soon enough, he figures out how it's Merle that's the real asshole—Daryl's both shyer and smarter than he looks, a genius with a bow who's content to watch while Merle talks himself into trouble, though sadly quick to throw down trying to get him out of it. While Merle, on the other hand, has that rat-killin' dog air to him, an instinct for submission and potential crazy loyalty to authority that Philip prizes in all the men he gathered to him first, back in Atlanta—Martinez, Shumpert, etcetera.
Problem is what Merle really wants, increasingly, is more of Philip's attention than the Governor's truly willing to part with, on a regular basis. And he really doesn't like to share.
“You 'n' the Gov're pretty damn tight, ain't ya, Officer Friendly?” he calls out one evening, just as Rick's heading for neighborhood watch evening shift assembly. And maybe it's just 'cause Philip's once again blown off some stupid idea of his after Rick pointed out how it sucked, but the sneer in his voice is just warning enough to make Rick slow down, if not actually stop, even as he simultaneously becomes aware of Daryl loitering nearby, trying not to look like he's listening in.
“What exactly is it you want, Merle?” Rick asks.
“Oh, just a bit of a jaw 'bout all those late nights you and him spend whisperin' to each other, with not a pretty girl in sight. Now, why would that be, you think?”
“Lots of people get the Governor's time, they just ask for it,” Rick points out. “Hell, you probably could too, you only felt like volunteering for anything besides the chow line.”
“Well, maybe I just might, one day. But given that cannon you pack, I sure wouldn't want to make you jealous.”
And this is where Rick really does halt, turning to look at Merle directly, in frank disbelief. “What're you implying?” he demands, and Merle just laughs, like if Rick's too dumb to figure it out for himself, it's not like he's under any great obligation to explain. Keeps on laughing, in fact, until Rick shakes his head and walks on, determined to ignore him; long and loud as any drunken frat boy, any Serengeti hyena, any sugar-hopped preschool kid who's just found out about the many wonderful social uses of the phrase: I know you are, but what am I?
Philip laughs too when Rick tells him, way he does at most things he doesn't feel like dealing with, 'cause he thinks he can talk his way out of anything, and why not? As experience has taught him all too well, he usually can. Rick, however, doesn't think it's quite as funny—not least because even at the best times, Merle's never struck him as being all that big on talk.
Philip scoffs. “I think you're exaggerating the gravity of the situation, somewhat.”
“All I'm trying to say is, maybe we should dial it back a little, considering,” Rick replies.
“Don't wanna damage my reputation, that it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Well, isn't that nice.”
Fact is, though, Philip isn't fond of snap decisions, unless they're ones he comes up with. So he draws himself up full height and strikes a pose, staring down on Rick like he's Carl, and just pissed the bed—which Rick personally finds pretty damn rich, coming from a guy he's seen naked.
“You want to pretend none of—this—ever happened just 'cause some inbred hick with a crush thinks he's finally learned to tell shit from shinola, you go on ahead,” Philip says, coldly. “Woodbury's chock-full of women find us both attractive, so there's no reason anybody needs to go wanting. But just do me the courtesy of admitting you've always had your own reasons for wantin' out, Richard, at the very least—hypocrisy's a damn ugly thing, 'specially from an honest man. It doesn't become you.”
He stalks off before Rick can quite gather a suitable response, moving at enough of a clip that by the time he finally has, the only thing he could stop him with long enough to make him listen would probably be a bullet. Bound for Milton's lab, maybe, where he can hold forth on Rick's ingratitude 'til he finally gets himself calm enough to come back and apologize; Philip can rant and rave all he wants down there with those creepy biter-heads in tanks for an audience, and Milton'll never interrupt. And all the while knowing damn well that no matter his tantrums, if something happens to come up in his absence needs an immediate response, he can always rely on good old Rick to handle it.
Don't know what I'm doing anymore, if I ever did, Rick finds himself thinking, amazed. It's like one bad idea piled on top of another, enough to go up maybe ten miles, by now. Just don't see how it can go wronger still, barring another apocalypse.
But: Never say never, a part of him whispers, even then. Because when bad becomes normal, “worse” is always an option.
End Part Five
