Red ~ TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Checkmate

I was getting used to being drug around so it was no surprise that when the vehicle shuttered to a stop I was unceremoniously pulled from the back, and shoved to the ground.  Negan strolled forward, his stupid bat on his stupid shoulder, and an annoyingly stupid smile on his stupid face. 

I needed sleep if for no other reason than so I could come up with better insults.

He took his time studying me, eyes examining my matted, blood stained hair, bruised, dirty face, and soiled, torn clothing.  He sighed dramatically, but said nothing which irritated me.  Could we move the torture along?  I had places to be.

"So, who talks first?  You talk first?  I talk first?" I quipped, refusing to give an inch even if cost me my life.

The Saviors standing in the background took a collective step back, not wanting to get accidentally waylaid when he Hulked out, but sadly my insubordination didn't enrage the leader.  It made him laugh.

Negan – 100.  Alex – 0.

"I liked that movie."  I grumbled in annoyance.  Figured the psycho was a Star Wars fan.  "D, take our esteemed guest to the doc.  I want her cleaned up.  I got big plans for her tonight."

Unless those plans involved a bullet to the forehead I wasn't interested. 

Two-Face looked about as thrilled with babysitting me as I felt, grumbling under his breath the entire way.  It was slow going with the chains still shackling me, but my asshole of a guard was nice enough to elbow me in the gut when I moved too slowly. 

The door to the doctor's office was nondescript; the same color of faded green that unfortunately reminded me of baby shit.  Inside was an entirely different story.  Instead of bedroom furniture and bookcases there was an examination table, and shelves lined with medical supplies, lots of medical supplies.  The tall guy wearing a white lab coat completed the ensemble.  The Savior's doc was in his mid-50's if his thinning hair line and slightly graying hair was any indication.  Conversely, he could be 20 for all I knew.  Something told me living under Negan's reign probably aged you more like a dog than a person.

The woman sitting on the exam table was a different story.  She was young, maybe in her late 20's, with long, straight brown hair that matched her dark eyes.  She slid off the table as we stepped inside, and I couldn't stop my mouth from hanging open when I took in her attire.  She was wearing a sundress, a skimpy, delicate, feminine sundress and wedge heels.  How could she possibly hope to fight much less survive in such a ridiculous get-up?

Her cheeks flamed red and she ducked her head, tucking strands of hair behind her ears demurely, but I caught the way her gaze darted to the table behind her discreetly.  When I saw the pregnancy test sitting there it all clicked into place.  Not everyone survived using guns and knives. 

"We were just finishing up," the doc said, glancing at the woman then at Two-Face.  Was it just me or did he look uncomfortable?   

"Hi D," the woman said, eyes never straying from my guard.

I glanced between the pair, eyebrows raised slightly.  They knew each other.  What's more, they were something to each other.  It was obvious by the radiating tension pulsating through the room, and the looks they shared, but tried desperately to conceal. 

"Hey."  His voice sounded different, strained, his stare never leaving the woman even as she turned her focus to me.

"You're her..." 

I didn't know what the fuck that meant so I said nothing. 

"Don't," Two-Face interrupted.  "Talk to her."