Welcome To Evangrove - A Walking Dead ff

Chapter 3 - He's Mine

When they returned from the farmhouse, it was like a fog had placed itself on the prison.

This fog was thick and immeasurable, and had everyone in it’s icy grip. Though they hadn’t seen her for months, and had for just a brief moment again, Andrea, and then Quinn’s death impacted them all greatly; reminding them that the fear and the threat of death was prominent, that despite their good fortune they were never safe. It caused a rift between some, and yet brought the majority together - though try as Carol might, she could never break the younger Dixon’s shield, on whom she doted upon greatly.

“Merle -” A voice came from outside of his cell, which was now moved to the room with the other’s. It was Lori, who had long sinced recovered from her pregnancy caused illnesses. “It’s Lori.”

Her death was still fresh in his mind, and as long as the stab wound in his abdomen stung, it would stay that way. Merle sat with his back facing the opening, staring numbly at the dirty concrete walls that boxed him in. This was Quinn’s room. He made sure he was the one to get it. “Alright.” He replies back, his voice sounding bone chillingly empty.

“We need to talk about this, honey.” She said, after allowing a few moments of silence to be shared between them. Tentatively, as she had been warned about his volatile temper, she slithered into his room, resting her right hand on his shoulder. “Talk about what happened. You won’t even talk to Daryl -”

“You talked to m’ brother?” This is what elicited a response; the minor betrayal of his younger. He cocks his neck to the side ever so slightly, a blue eye lazily, but crudely, looking her over. Being the woman that she is, however, she slides right through it.

“Yes, I talked to Daryl, and Daryl talked to me. He’s worried about you, we all are. Even Rick.”

He snorted, taking the moment to stretch his legs from their criss cross position. The ends of his boots made a soft sound when they met the metal edge of the cot. “Nobody gives a shit ‘bout nothin’. Nothin’ to talk about, nothin’ to acknowledge, so jus’ let me be by myself.”

Lori sighed, withdrawing her hand so that it could rest on her hip while her other flipped a few locks of hair from out of sight. “You’re too old for this “Nobody cares, woe is me” crap, Merle. What you did, you saving my husband, made you a part of this family like it or not, and now you have people who care about you. Do not push them away.”

Nothing. Merle was defeated, that much was clear, but his self control was impeccable in this instance. He remained still, back still turned to her, and resolved to remain that way until she left and finally gave up the futile effort of making him speak about feelings, about the pain that ate away at him so intensely.

“She loved you, y’know. She’d fight any of us to prove it.” Her voice is no longer stern when it comes to his ears again, but happy; pleasantly reminiscent. This allows him to relax, just enough. “Got this close to a tussle with Glenn. Always talked about how good of a man you were, maybe not in the friendliest ways, but she never stopped talking about you.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” He asks.

“Because she wouldn’t want the man she loved to pretend she never existed.”

Eventually Lori tires of this depressing game and allows Merle the victory of solitary confinement, as he so clearly wanted. She’s no more than ten feet away from his cell when Daryl bounds up to her, a painfully hopeful look sparkling in his eyes, a deeper blue than Merle’s. She’s hesitant to reveal the lackluster response she got from his older brother, but does so anyway, causing his shoulders to slump downwards.

“Just give him time, Daryl.” She attempts to sooth him, clearly wanting to show him some physical token of comfort by the way she leans into him, but knows not to and keeps her hands firmly at her sides. “It’s been less than a week. I, I couldn’t talk about it this soon either.”

“Alright.” He mumbles, eyes unable to look into her’s for more than a few moments. “Thanks anyway.”

As Lori goes to join the others, Daryl takes a brief moment to peer into his brother’s cell - whom he see’s sitting on the side of his cot, staring at the ground.

He doesn’’t bother him any further.

“Daryl -” Rick calls him from his mild trance. “We’re having the funerals now. Does he -”

“Alright. Give us a minute, man.”

They gathered outside of the the prison’s inner walls, out near the field where the rest of the bodies were buried. It was a sunny day, the blue sky spotted with a few white, wispy clouds, but the air remained cold and chilled; proof of the August weather. Shane stood the farthest away, his guard being Michonne, as the others were in a collective mass around the dismal, crummy looking wooden crosses that poked forth from the earth. There were several there already, but the ones closest to themselves were the two most recent. Merle was towards the back, though Daryl was beginning to usher him forward. The others were talking, remembering, but rarely was Quinn’s name spoken.

“I think they’re both happier.” Came Beth’s soft voice, a smile on her delicate, pale features. “It’s over for them, right? That’s all any of us want.”

Merle wanted desperately to grab that scrawny little girl by the shoulders and scream at her, but he didn’t. Neither of them died easy or quick or painlessly; Quinn might’ve been a walker now, and Andrea was crying when she went. It was miserable for them and for him, and nothing about this funeral, no kind words, no pretend burials, could make that any better. But instead of voicing this truth he let that facade rest, let them cover themselves with their verbal blanket of safety. If that’s what kept them sleeping well at night then so be it, it could fool them but not him. Never him. Rick hadn’t changed a bit, none of them grew from this experience, and that proof lay in the fact they let the man who hurt his little girl sleep under the same roof as them every night since their return.

Thinking of Shane in his silent fit of rage, he turns to the man, who stands still, a blank if not a mildly mournful expression on his face, in the distance. Michonne guards him as she was told to, but by all means it appeared she was oblivious to his existence. Perhaps she would understand.

He approaches them, eyes trained on Walsh. Michonne lazily glances over to him, hand still resting on the hilt of her sword.

“Merle.” She greets, expression unchanging. He nods at her in return and attempts to push past to his target, who flinches and steps back, but she doesn’t allow it. “No.”

“This is between me an’ him.”