Instincts (Daryl Dixon FF)

s e v e n t e e n

[Season 4, Too far gone]

Margos P.o.V

I was slowly inching my way forward to the others which were standing next to the fence. The air had gotten thick with tension, I could feel the restraint on my feet as I tried lifting them from the ground and my muscles starting to ache with every breath I took. It was like we were all lingering in a bubble of anxiety and anger of and for each other and I felt the need for a knive to cut me out of the compromising skin building around me.

"It's not up to me. There's a council now. They run this place", Rick loudly talked back, his hand gesturing behind him. The brown square shirt he wore, was stretching over his muscular back as his cheast heaved with stress. I could see his head slightly turning from side to side and his right hand combing through the beard on his chin like it often did when his brain was searching through all the files for a solution. His legs were unsettling and he occasionally shifted his weight from foot to foot, the shaggy, pointed boots of his scuffling over the ground as he did so. I went to stand next to Daryl who had taken a step back, observing the situation from the left wing of the human triangle they had formed. His head slightly turned, just enough so he could see me from the corner of his eye and he let out a long breath through his parted lips.

"Who is he?", I whispered. My body had pulled me even closer, chest almost touching Daryls back as I asked him about the eye patch guy who was standing on the tank. His chapped lips were pressed together into a thin line but his greyish blue eyes remained warm and calm as he looked back at me. I unintentionally breathed in his male scent. Up close I could see the few little wrinkles around his nose and some grey stubble which gave away the age you wouldn't assume him to be if you only saw him from far away. He looked around my age, especially with his dark, long hair and bemuscled body but I knew for a fact that he had reached his 40's a few years ago. Beth had mentioned it in a conversation where she was happily chirping about Michonne looking absolutely stunning while killing walkers at the fence when her gaze shifted to Daryl carrying some kind of barrell and she suddenly added, "Hey, you know what, Daryl's already over 40, who would've thought, right?!" I had glanced over, watching his arms flexing and his fingers strongly pushing into the container on his shoulder, mumbling an inaudible "Hmm" He really didn't look his age. 

"Governor", Daryl rasped, snapping me out of my thoughts. 

I snorted. Governor, is that really what he calls himself? I looked to the ground and slightly shook my head in disbelief. The absurdity of a person calling himself Governor was bubbling inside my mind and I tried surpressing the ironic smile which was creeping up on my face. 

"Thought the same when I first heard'it", Daryl muttered infront of me. He had his back turned towards me, gaze fixed on the scene down at the prison entrance but it seemed he had felt my reaction anyways. I could too. I felt the slight smirk on his lips through the back of his head. My fingers brushed over my mouth, trying to wipe the grin of my lips as I reminded myself of the danger we were all sitting in right now. 

"Is Hershel on the council?", the man suddenly asked. He had a nasty smile on his lips but the tone of his voice lingered with frustration and anger. He gestured to a red Pickup next to the tank and one of his minions, a petite young women with an olive shirt way too big for her delicate figure strutted over through the grass. She pushed the slung over rifle to the left of her hip in order to keep it out of the way as she gripped the doorhandle of the car. I couldn't see inside it, the windshield was mirroring the sun too strongly but she had grabbed someone by his arm, starting to pull him off his seat and out of the vehicle. I didn't even need to see his face to know who it was. The women with her shoulder brown long hair and matching dark eyebrows had her bony fingers wrapped around Hershels upper arm. He stumbled out of the Pickup with her, hands tied together behind his back and a stain of dirt and sweat covering the front of his shirt. She pushed him forward harshly, Hershel tripping over his own feet and landing on his knees infront of her. The tip of her rifle went to push between his shoulderblades, getting him to crawl further to be kneeled infront of the fence.