"This Old Death", Part Eight
Jul. 24th, 2014 04:34 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
It takes Andrea far longer to recuperate than Michonne probably hoped it would, but in a way, that's good; it keeps her in town, keeps her (reasonably) polite. Rick gives her back her sword once she agrees not to wear it 24/7, which helps—probably keeps it under her bed, or something. When Philip objects, Rick just says: “What'd you rather have, her sort of on our side while it suits her, or actively working against us? 'Cause from what I've seen, we really don't want that second one.”
Philip huffs. “Fine, then—just keep her on a leash, will ya? She scares people.”
Like you do with Merle? Rick wonders, nodding. Because that's definitely a thing now, more and more, though a decidedly one-sided one; sees Merle trailing around after the Governor somewhat the same way Milton does but more intrusively, inserting himself into conversations, stepping and fetching. Couldn't get Rick's slot after all, so he's grabbed a hold of Martinez's instead, not that Martinez seems to resent it.
“That dude's loco,” he tells Rick that afternoon, out looking for Shane's group in the new Power Wagon with Morgan riding shotgun, while Michonne and Daryl jounce around in back. “And that's bad enough, but what's worse is whenever he's 'round the Governor, it's like...” He trails off, trying to find a way to say whatever he's dancing around that won't make Philip look bad. But Rick's less and less inclined to worry himself over the little social niceties these days, he finds.
So: “Like it makes him act crazy too?” he suggests, and Martinez shudders.
“He just gets...bad ideas, you know? And if it was you ridin' out with him, like the old days, you'd probably tell him how bad they are, but Merle—he's just happy to be there, no matter what sort of shit the Gov's got going on.”
“Like what, Hernan?”
Martinez cuts his eyes sidelong, skittish, Philip's ever-present shadow falling over both of them. “...can't talk about that, man,” he maintains, eventually; “above my fuckin' pay grade, seriously. You should ask him, though, right to his face. He'd listen to you.”
That's how much you know, Rick thinks, cynically.
It's fascinating to him, increasingly, how people bend over backwards to excuse the odder end of the spectrum, in terms of Philip's behaviour—himself still very much included, if he's being honest. But Woodbury's a useful prop for him in that way, its very existence undeniable evidence of all the good the Governor's done for everyone who lives there, so even when confronted with something that doesn't fit the pattern, citizens tend to let it slide: he's tired, he's overworked, he gives so much, he's been through a lot. Just like we all have, but—on Philip, it automatically looks more impressive. Maybe it's the height, the voice, so warm and stentorian: approving as Father Knows Best on a good day, disapproving as his own Dad's on a bad.
Merle never did come by to tell Rick what he wanted, not that he'd thought he would. And this morning, right before the army camp convoy was due to pull out, he overhead Philip telling him off about it, like he was chastizing some floor-shitting dog. Growling: Need to get the hell over this thing you got against Rick Grimes, Merle, you wanna stay in our community—he's worth ten redneck idiots like yourself any day of the week, and that's not gonna change, no matter how many hissy-fits you throw about it. Makes me feel I might've wasted my time with you entirely, you can't see that.
But: Why you gotta treat me this way,when all's I ever done is back you up? Merle shot back. It's like you don't give one part of a damn if I live or die.
No answer followed, however, probably beacuse Philip didn't seem to think such a complaint warranted one. And when Merle spoke again Rick could hear the pure, dumb hurt run all through his voice, stark as worms in meat.
Well, okay then, he said. Guess I know the score now, Governor. But maybe you need to recall how there's things I could say too, I only took a mind to—in public, even...
Here he broke off of a sudden, though; almost mid-syllable, literally choked to silence. With Philip's voice adding, a mere second on—softer than usual, though not even slightly gentle—
Oh, but are you actually stupid enough to, Mister Dixon, with never a thought to what sort of consequences might follow? That would be the question, from my angle.
A few garbled words folowed, whispered low—apology, protests, Rick couldn't tell. Six of one, though; half-dozen of the other, in the face of Philip's obvious contempt.
What was that? he inquired, sweetly, as Merle struggled, helpless in his grip. Naw, sorry; just can't hear you. Better speak up, or forever hold your peace. Another pause. No? Then I guess it couldn't really've been important enough to start mentioning in the first place, after all.
And off he went, leaving Merle behind to rub his throat and fume, a badly-banked trashbag fire. Something potentially toxic with a lid slapped on it, haphazard at best—half on, half off, and no particular regard for how the unsuspecting folks around it might suffer, it happens to flare up out of control.
“Is Philip drinking on his own a whole lot more, these days, or is that just me?” Rick asked Milton, a little while later, only to be met with a shrug; pinned him with a stare of his own, then watched him squirm a while, before admitting: “Um...maybe? I don't exactly keep track.”
“Doesn't seem to be sleeping much, either.”
“Well, he does have a lot on his mind. The helicopter crash, Lt. Welles dying, that whole thing with the army camp...”
“Welles died?”
“Well, yeah—he was pretty banged up, when you brought him in. Doc Stevens had to amputate both his legs, and he coded halfway through.” Milton pushed his glasses up and made another note in his book, before adding, timid: “Thought you'd've already known that, really. I mean...that is his head, up there at the top.”
He nodded towards the tanks, movement dragging Rick's gaze along with it. And—oh, shit, he was absolutely right; now that the blood had settled, Rick could see for himself how the topmost head did belong to the poor Lieutenant, hair lifted and eyelids fluttering, as though he was still trying to dream.
“Christ!” Rick exclaimed, gorge rising. “Why—why the hell—aw, man. That ain't right.” He turned on Milton, already drawn back in his chair, all but cringing. “You need to get him down and finish him off proper, then give him a decent burial, for shit's sake!”
“I don't think the Governor would—”
“Governor's not here right now, Milton! So he's got nothin' to say, and if it turns out later he wants words, then he damn well knows where to find me.”
A bit after, meanwhile—having already consulted with Andrea and Morgan, poring the map for potential hideaways they haven't bothered surveying yet, inside or just bordering the red zone—Rick was already on his way out the South Wall gate, his own team in tow. So he hasn't yet seen the pay-off on that particular decision, though he's fairly sure he may yet come to regret it, once he and Philip are back in close quarters.
Screw it, though: cross that bridge when it presents itself, or even if, depending on whatever else Philip might find to distract himself with.
***
Thus far, the Lanyard shopping mall's been a bust, same as that horse-farm Morgan thought might make a good way-stop, you were branching out from the Greene farm following one of three roads that run nearby. Then they barely avoid one pod of biters only to drive straight into another, necessitating some fancy dancing, so they're forced to take things off-road—drive straight through a fence and down through a stream, flattening trees, the Wagon's huge wheels crunching over a tangle of branches and rocks, spraying dirt everywhere. Thank god those things are slow, is all Rick can think, or Michonne and Daryl would be shit out of luck, exposed like they are. Still, it's not like he asked them to come along, in first place...
(And why would they? Philip's voice asks, logically enough. 'Cause they got some sort of ulterior motive, Richard, like everyone else; want to see how Shane's camp shapes up compared to ours, maybe, on Michonne's part, so she can sneak Andrea off there on the sly. As for Daryl, who knows? That boy's a bit of a mystery. But you better keep an eye on 'em both, just in case...)
It scares him sometimes, that voice—how easily it conjures itself, as though Rick's drifted into reckoning his whole damn life by Philip Blake time, even when the man himself is nowhere in sight. Highly doubts anything similar ever happens inside the Governor's head, at any rate, let's just put it that way.
So they stop in a field to stretch and piss, and Daryl comes drifting over just as Rick's tucking himself away, crossbow on one shoulder, while Morgan tries to interest Michonne in something other than scowling.
“Hey, Officer,” Daryl says, by way of a greeting. “Don't know if you noticed, but there's a prison just up over that ridge—Merle did time there once, like eighteen months. Kinda a family tradition, which's how I come to know 'bout it.” Rick waits for him to elaborate, raising a brow; he sighs, and does. “If it's anything like it was then, there's fences, high walls and fuck-you gates aplenty; good place to hole up, you could just clear it fast enough.”
Rick nods. “Bet you five bucks the guards all went home to their families when the shit hit the fan, but maybe they opened up the gates so most of the cons could leave too,” he thinks, out loud.
Martinez, who's standing nearby, agrees. “Ones who stayed might be pretty territorial, but...yeah, you probably would head there if you had women and kids, 'specially if you were bein' chased. Let's check it out.”
Takes a little time to work out a route, and by then the light's starting to fade, which makes Rick nervous. The closer they get, too, the less welcoming that prison looks...up until the moment Michonne spots a light moving around inside, flickering. Somebody with a torch, maybe—human, for sure. 'Cause biters don't use tools.
The outer fence is down in places, biters moaning in front of those gaps, unable to get through because somebody's blocked them with vehicles. Martinez powers through ass first, then parks in the gap. “I'll keep watch,” he tells Rick. “Walkie you if it gets bad, man.”
“We'll come runnin',” Rick promises.
Then it's him, Morgan, Michonne and Daryl, running up that hill. Closer they get to the inner fence, the more activity they see. Morgan whips out a cut-up t-shirt and waves it, yelling: “Hey, don't shoot! We don't mean you no harm!”
“Stay the fuck back, then!” a voice replies, and somebody emerges from the shadow of the gun-tower: strapped, barrel up. A big guy with a shaved head, battle-face on, wearing the remains of a Kings County Sheriff's department uniform shirt over muscle T and jeans, his 22 necklace so tarnished it barely glints anymore...
“Shane,” Rick says, mouth dry.
Shane squints at him; doesn't lower the gun, though he shakes his head, like he's trying to clear it. Then eventually says, in total disbelief—
“Rick?”
End Part Eight
Fandom: The Walking Dead
AU; canon divergence
Pairing: The Governor/Rick Grimes
It takes Andrea far longer to recuperate than Michonne probably hoped it would, but in a way, that's good; it keeps her in town, keeps her (reasonably) polite. Rick gives her back her sword once she agrees not to wear it 24/7, which helps—probably keeps it under her bed, or something. When Philip objects, Rick just says: “What'd you rather have, her sort of on our side while it suits her, or actively working against us? 'Cause from what I've seen, we really don't want that second one.”
Philip huffs. “Fine, then—just keep her on a leash, will ya? She scares people.”
Like you do with Merle? Rick wonders, nodding. Because that's definitely a thing now, more and more, though a decidedly one-sided one; sees Merle trailing around after the Governor somewhat the same way Milton does but more intrusively, inserting himself into conversations, stepping and fetching. Couldn't get Rick's slot after all, so he's grabbed a hold of Martinez's instead, not that Martinez seems to resent it.
“That dude's loco,” he tells Rick that afternoon, out looking for Shane's group in the new Power Wagon with Morgan riding shotgun, while Michonne and Daryl jounce around in back. “And that's bad enough, but what's worse is whenever he's 'round the Governor, it's like...” He trails off, trying to find a way to say whatever he's dancing around that won't make Philip look bad. But Rick's less and less inclined to worry himself over the little social niceties these days, he finds.
So: “Like it makes him act crazy too?” he suggests, and Martinez shudders.
“He just gets...bad ideas, you know? And if it was you ridin' out with him, like the old days, you'd probably tell him how bad they are, but Merle—he's just happy to be there, no matter what sort of shit the Gov's got going on.”
“Like what, Hernan?”
Martinez cuts his eyes sidelong, skittish, Philip's ever-present shadow falling over both of them. “...can't talk about that, man,” he maintains, eventually; “above my fuckin' pay grade, seriously. You should ask him, though, right to his face. He'd listen to you.”
That's how much you know, Rick thinks, cynically.
It's fascinating to him, increasingly, how people bend over backwards to excuse the odder end of the spectrum, in terms of Philip's behaviour—himself still very much included, if he's being honest. But Woodbury's a useful prop for him in that way, its very existence undeniable evidence of all the good the Governor's done for everyone who lives there, so even when confronted with something that doesn't fit the pattern, citizens tend to let it slide: he's tired, he's overworked, he gives so much, he's been through a lot. Just like we all have, but—on Philip, it automatically looks more impressive. Maybe it's the height, the voice, so warm and stentorian: approving as Father Knows Best on a good day, disapproving as his own Dad's on a bad.
Merle never did come by to tell Rick what he wanted, not that he'd thought he would. And this morning, right before the army camp convoy was due to pull out, he overhead Philip telling him off about it, like he was chastizing some floor-shitting dog. Growling: Need to get the hell over this thing you got against Rick Grimes, Merle, you wanna stay in our community—he's worth ten redneck idiots like yourself any day of the week, and that's not gonna change, no matter how many hissy-fits you throw about it. Makes me feel I might've wasted my time with you entirely, you can't see that.
But: Why you gotta treat me this way,when all's I ever done is back you up? Merle shot back. It's like you don't give one part of a damn if I live or die.
No answer followed, however, probably beacuse Philip didn't seem to think such a complaint warranted one. And when Merle spoke again Rick could hear the pure, dumb hurt run all through his voice, stark as worms in meat.
Well, okay then, he said. Guess I know the score now, Governor. But maybe you need to recall how there's things I could say too, I only took a mind to—in public, even...
Here he broke off of a sudden, though; almost mid-syllable, literally choked to silence. With Philip's voice adding, a mere second on—softer than usual, though not even slightly gentle—
Oh, but are you actually stupid enough to, Mister Dixon, with never a thought to what sort of consequences might follow? That would be the question, from my angle.
A few garbled words folowed, whispered low—apology, protests, Rick couldn't tell. Six of one, though; half-dozen of the other, in the face of Philip's obvious contempt.
What was that? he inquired, sweetly, as Merle struggled, helpless in his grip. Naw, sorry; just can't hear you. Better speak up, or forever hold your peace. Another pause. No? Then I guess it couldn't really've been important enough to start mentioning in the first place, after all.
And off he went, leaving Merle behind to rub his throat and fume, a badly-banked trashbag fire. Something potentially toxic with a lid slapped on it, haphazard at best—half on, half off, and no particular regard for how the unsuspecting folks around it might suffer, it happens to flare up out of control.
“Is Philip drinking on his own a whole lot more, these days, or is that just me?” Rick asked Milton, a little while later, only to be met with a shrug; pinned him with a stare of his own, then watched him squirm a while, before admitting: “Um...maybe? I don't exactly keep track.”
“Doesn't seem to be sleeping much, either.”
“Well, he does have a lot on his mind. The helicopter crash, Lt. Welles dying, that whole thing with the army camp...”
“Welles died?”
“Well, yeah—he was pretty banged up, when you brought him in. Doc Stevens had to amputate both his legs, and he coded halfway through.” Milton pushed his glasses up and made another note in his book, before adding, timid: “Thought you'd've already known that, really. I mean...that is his head, up there at the top.”
He nodded towards the tanks, movement dragging Rick's gaze along with it. And—oh, shit, he was absolutely right; now that the blood had settled, Rick could see for himself how the topmost head did belong to the poor Lieutenant, hair lifted and eyelids fluttering, as though he was still trying to dream.
“Christ!” Rick exclaimed, gorge rising. “Why—why the hell—aw, man. That ain't right.” He turned on Milton, already drawn back in his chair, all but cringing. “You need to get him down and finish him off proper, then give him a decent burial, for shit's sake!”
“I don't think the Governor would—”
“Governor's not here right now, Milton! So he's got nothin' to say, and if it turns out later he wants words, then he damn well knows where to find me.”
A bit after, meanwhile—having already consulted with Andrea and Morgan, poring the map for potential hideaways they haven't bothered surveying yet, inside or just bordering the red zone—Rick was already on his way out the South Wall gate, his own team in tow. So he hasn't yet seen the pay-off on that particular decision, though he's fairly sure he may yet come to regret it, once he and Philip are back in close quarters.
Screw it, though: cross that bridge when it presents itself, or even if, depending on whatever else Philip might find to distract himself with.
***
Thus far, the Lanyard shopping mall's been a bust, same as that horse-farm Morgan thought might make a good way-stop, you were branching out from the Greene farm following one of three roads that run nearby. Then they barely avoid one pod of biters only to drive straight into another, necessitating some fancy dancing, so they're forced to take things off-road—drive straight through a fence and down through a stream, flattening trees, the Wagon's huge wheels crunching over a tangle of branches and rocks, spraying dirt everywhere. Thank god those things are slow, is all Rick can think, or Michonne and Daryl would be shit out of luck, exposed like they are. Still, it's not like he asked them to come along, in first place...
(And why would they? Philip's voice asks, logically enough. 'Cause they got some sort of ulterior motive, Richard, like everyone else; want to see how Shane's camp shapes up compared to ours, maybe, on Michonne's part, so she can sneak Andrea off there on the sly. As for Daryl, who knows? That boy's a bit of a mystery. But you better keep an eye on 'em both, just in case...)
It scares him sometimes, that voice—how easily it conjures itself, as though Rick's drifted into reckoning his whole damn life by Philip Blake time, even when the man himself is nowhere in sight. Highly doubts anything similar ever happens inside the Governor's head, at any rate, let's just put it that way.
So they stop in a field to stretch and piss, and Daryl comes drifting over just as Rick's tucking himself away, crossbow on one shoulder, while Morgan tries to interest Michonne in something other than scowling.
“Hey, Officer,” Daryl says, by way of a greeting. “Don't know if you noticed, but there's a prison just up over that ridge—Merle did time there once, like eighteen months. Kinda a family tradition, which's how I come to know 'bout it.” Rick waits for him to elaborate, raising a brow; he sighs, and does. “If it's anything like it was then, there's fences, high walls and fuck-you gates aplenty; good place to hole up, you could just clear it fast enough.”
Rick nods. “Bet you five bucks the guards all went home to their families when the shit hit the fan, but maybe they opened up the gates so most of the cons could leave too,” he thinks, out loud.
Martinez, who's standing nearby, agrees. “Ones who stayed might be pretty territorial, but...yeah, you probably would head there if you had women and kids, 'specially if you were bein' chased. Let's check it out.”
Takes a little time to work out a route, and by then the light's starting to fade, which makes Rick nervous. The closer they get, too, the less welcoming that prison looks...up until the moment Michonne spots a light moving around inside, flickering. Somebody with a torch, maybe—human, for sure. 'Cause biters don't use tools.
The outer fence is down in places, biters moaning in front of those gaps, unable to get through because somebody's blocked them with vehicles. Martinez powers through ass first, then parks in the gap. “I'll keep watch,” he tells Rick. “Walkie you if it gets bad, man.”
“We'll come runnin',” Rick promises.
Then it's him, Morgan, Michonne and Daryl, running up that hill. Closer they get to the inner fence, the more activity they see. Morgan whips out a cut-up t-shirt and waves it, yelling: “Hey, don't shoot! We don't mean you no harm!”
“Stay the fuck back, then!” a voice replies, and somebody emerges from the shadow of the gun-tower: strapped, barrel up. A big guy with a shaved head, battle-face on, wearing the remains of a Kings County Sheriff's department uniform shirt over muscle T and jeans, his 22 necklace so tarnished it barely glints anymore...
“Shane,” Rick says, mouth dry.
Shane squints at him; doesn't lower the gun, though he shakes his head, like he's trying to clear it. Then eventually says, in total disbelief—
“Rick?”
End Part Eight
