what_wings_dare | I'll bake a cake with pink frosting. Would they like that?

Joan, champion of putting her foot in it, keeps going for gold. "Only thing I'll find with you is a puncture wound."

It's more grumbled than the defiant snarl of before. She's at the bottom of this particular hole, and he still hasn't struck. The anxiety of her situation gnaws at her, but it's become a low hum at the back of her mind. She wants to get this over with. If he's going to hit her, he ought to hurry up. She knows what to do when that happens. It's this nagging, gloating thing he's doing that's driving her nuts. That's what's making her feel like a real idiot.

Maybe that's the point.

"Don't tell me you're gonna try and spin fairyland to me again. Come on. What to do you want?"

Christ, maybe he oughta leave her here; she's the kind who's gonna bite the hand that feeds her and spit it out to boot. He's not soft-hearted enough to worry, exactly, about what the hell made her that way, but curious enough to half-wonder. That's just the way of things. Sometimes you get dealt a shit hand, you just live with it.

He gives her a long, measuring look.

"What d'you think I want?"

Cause Merle, he hasn't got a clue what she's fighting for at this point. He wonders if she does.

Joan knows what she thinks he wants, but she's at least not stupid enough to say it. In the off chance she's luckier than she feels today, she doesn't want to give him any ideas. When pressed, she likes to think she's not a terrible judge of character, she just prefers to fight people than to read them. Seems more honest. She finds the directness refreshing.

And really, how good can a seventeen-year-old be at any one thing?

"I think you wanna see me sweat," is the first sensible thing she can think of to say. It's the first thing that doesn't sound like the description on the back of a direct-to-video slasher film.

She looks back at the bag still sitting on the hood of the car. If only she could get to it. If only she could turn this around. Christ, why hasn't he shot her yet? Why is he giving her so much time? Why is he asking her questions? Jesus, is he playing mind games with her?

Knifearm is smarter than he looks, and that's fucking terrifying.

"Is this some kind of fucking test?"

"Every god damned thing now's a test."

Jesus, where the fuck has she been? The way she acts it seems like she hasn't been with a group, which he'd normally think means she's a real badass, but mostly he's guessing she's just not an idiot, and is really goddamn lucky. She rattles too easy, runs her mouth too much.

"Fairyland don't need no one who can't pull their weight, Princess. I wanna know if talkin' to you instead of takin' your shit and gettin back on my way's a waste of time."

He can guess what she guesses he wants, and that's not worth dignifying with a threat. This is, really, a simple transaction, and he's soft hearted enough that it'd be a shame to kill her. (She's a kid. She's a dumb goddamn kid and she's lasted this long but if she's gonna keep lasting she needs more than luck.) Maybe, though, he just likes pissing her off, because he smiles again, sly and fake-friendly.

"So, you gonna give me a lift or not?"

This isn't a test, she realizes with a sick feeling growing in her stomach. This was a series of tests, and she failed them all. He was probably hoping she'd pass, or something. He's smarter than he looks-- which isn't saying much, but still-- and she got fucking played.

This is good news, in that if he wanted to really do horrible shit to her, he would have by now. And it's bad news, because she still has no idea what he actually wants. She's still failing his tests.

Some part of her, the same part that still stupidly regrets her father's death, wants to pass them. She does her best to snuff that out and move forward. He doesn't want to kill her or make her wish she was dead. He wants something else. She needs to see if it's something she can give, and what she can get for it.

Whatever he wants or doesn't want, he's not going to let her walk away.

She lets out a shaky breath, and runs her hands over her face. Just do it, you stupid fuck. "This kinda car's real bad for off-road driving 'cause the undercarriage is weak," she says, finally. This is something she knows. She'd rather stick to it. Christ, anything for something she can succeed at. "The cooling system got ripped off and the car overheated. That's why I was under there."

She points to her bag. "There's tubing and a ketchup bottle full of coolant in my bag. I can fix it."

The smile doesn't fade from his lips, but it never really reached his eyes. His gaze is still steady and scrutinizing. He's not cold, just pragmatic. And he means it-- really-- if he's got to leave her here to move on, he'll do it and not look back.

It's a long moment before he moves at all, his posture easing up a little bit. Enough that his aim wavers, though he's still plenty ready if he's got to shoot. Leaning over, he hooks the straps of her bag onto what's left of his arm, careful not to cut them.

"I'm gonna give you your kit, long as you tell me you're not dumb enough to try nothin."

Because unless she's a total idiot, there's gonna be a knife in there, too, at the very least. He's not really trusting her-- wouldn't turn his back on her-- but he'd rather avoid going through the trouble of picking through her stuff if he can avoid it. And if she does-- well, he's not worried. Not for himself.

And if she agrees, better or worse, he'll hand it over for her to take.

She nods, real slow. If she doesn't think, oh, he's just some other prick like her dad and Matt, he's easier to read. That, she thinks, was her blind spot. She's usually better at this, usually better at avoiding situations where it feels like the floor dropped out from under her and her next stupid mistake will be her last.

She doesn't know what makes this guy tick, but if he's anything like most living humans left on the face of the Earth, she guesses he likes feeling right and being cooperated with.

"I won't try nothing," she says, real careful, "unless you do."

She holds out her hand to take the bag, taking it nice and slow like you would in front of a wild animal.

"Get to it, Princess."

He doesn't shift much as she loops it over the end of the blade. This girl, she's not stupid, he thinks-- she's said some stupid shit, but who doesn't?-- but he's got her on edge, and if she thinks he's making a move she might spook. So he just lets her take it, get whatever she needs, the gun still in his good hand in case she changes her mind on not being an idiot.

She takes three things out of the bag, slowly, carefully. The first two are obvious-- the tubing (repurposed from some rich dead guy's fish tank) and the ketchup bottle. The third is her last gun, with its three remaining bullets. She takes it out real slow, picturing in her head that she's doing it, again, for some wild animal you didn't wanna get mauled by. She doesn't hold it right, doesn't try to hide it either. Not even putting her finger on the trigger, she holds it awkward until she can fit it into her belt. Never should have put it down to begin with. Fucking stupid, but she likes to think she's lived through the mistake well enough not to make it again.

Only then does she crouch down to crawl under the car and get to work.

"My name's Joan," she says, and there's still that strained note of contention in her voice. 'Princess' is annoying, but it's definitely one of the nicer nicknames she's ever been saddled with. "You sure ain't Prince Charming."

That could have been nastier, she thinks, mentally patting herself on the back. Could've been real goddamn mean with that comment, and she wasn't. Good job, maybe you won't get dumped in a ditch today.

The gun doesn't surprise him a bit. Can't blame a girl on her own for protecting herself. Or anyone, for that matter. He can even approve of how she deals with it-- doesn't try to keep it out of sight, doesn't try to get the upper hand. Now, he knows that ain't her being friendly-- but she's bright enough to know it's time to quit fighting, at least a while. It's a good move, and so he doesn't insist on taking it from her.

"Merle Dixon. And I been a perfect gentleman," he argues, though he's not really arguing, just being a pain in the ass. Once she's settled back down there, he finally takes his eyes off her a minute-- just to sweep the area, make sure there's nothing they need to watch out for, though she's still got her rattling trap to give her a warning.

"You learn to do this after everything?"

Making conversation probably isn't helpful. He doesn't give a fuck.

Isn't Merle a girl's name? Don't say it, don't fucking say it. She bites her lip, and is grateful she's under the car where he can't see her do it. For some reason, it feels like a weakness. No, she's sure it'd be taken like one.

It's with that newfound freedom that she rolls her eyes at the word gentleman. "That's a word for it." Careful, now. But if she just rolls over and acts like the good little girl who never fights back, it's spitting on everything she's lived for up until now. She decides she has to walk the line between getting killed and feeling like she's dead anyway.

"My daddy was a mechanic," she says instead. She doesn't mind the conversation, it's better than how Matt used to kick her legs. "One of my brothers, too. He mostly taught me."

Fortunately, kicking at her legs is an impulse he can avoid pretty easily.

"Good skill."

Especially now, the way things are. If she can get this hunk of garbage going it'll make up for the time he's wasting watching her knees bump the metal and more.

"Where you from?"

Why is he asking? Why does he care? But if he's like her, maybe he wants to know because it's harder to leave people dead in ditches if you know more about them. Here's hoping, anyway.

"Right outside Louisville. You?"

The two of them have the same problem-- they're no good at shutting their goddamn mouths when they oughta. He's talking because he wants to talk, and idle chat's easy enough.

"Up north a while. In the mountains. Headed for Atlanta when things went tits-up."

"Hills? Huh." She wants to ask about it. Should she? This doesn't feel like some other extended test, though. She's fixing a car, presumably for him, maybe he'll even leave her alone after. Presumably he's the kind of asshole who can't ask nicely. Asking where he grew up should be safe, so long as she can stand to hear another 'I'm so tough to make it out alive' story. At least this one will be new.

"And what're the hills of Georgia like? I been sticking to the roads, mostly. Flat as fuckall." Just driving around seeing signs for Atlanta, and knowing if it was anything like Nashville to stay the fuck away. No point in asking about that place.

"You ain't missin' much."

By now it's all about the same, anyway. The cities are full of the dead. The woods are full of the dead. The roads are full of dead cars full of dead drivers, whole goddamn world's dead, outside Woodbury and the occasional asshole smart enough or lucky enough to survive.

"All the same now." He barks a laugh, sharp and humorless.

"Great sales pitch," Joan says. She grunts, and worms her way out from underneath the car, taking a moment to dust herself off before picking up the ketchup bottle. She whistles and makes a gesture with her thumb, move.

"Gonna open the hood to put this shit in. That's done with, and you got yourself a car."

"Good thing it ain't where we're goin." Not that she's taken to that pitch, either. But that's fair enough. If he hadn't been about an ass-hair's length from death himself he wouldn't've bought it, the idea of some place still intact, alive. They'll get there and she'll see, and if she's real lucky she'll get to stick around.

He nods at the hood. Get to it, girl.

"Yeah, 'cause gravel roads'd fuck up all my hard work," she says, taking a shot in the dark. She opens the hood of the car and pours the liquid in-- it's easy going with a ketchup bottle. She hasn't seen a funnel since Kentucky, but she doesn't need one, for once. It's basically a miracle.

She closes the hood slowly, careful not to make any extra noise. "Start her up," she says, assuming he knows how to hotwire a car. Most people do, these days. Most living people.

She wonders if he can, one-handed.

If she glances up she'll catch him sneering, but he's not inclined to try to defend his hometown.

"All you," he counters. (He could hotwire it, sure, missing hand or no. What he can't do is hotwire the car and be ready to shoot her if she tries anything, and even if he'd rather not have to, they're still not at the point of trusting each other. Knowing Merle, they never will be.)

"I ain't the kinda guy that wouldn't let a lady drive."

Nothing like the end of the world to expand one's social graces, right?

"Oh, good," she grumbles, "I'm gonna get murdered by a feminist."

Still, she does what he says, and doesn't reach for her gun and make an issue of it. There goes her admittedly vain hope of him taking the car and leaving her alone, though. Maybe she could bargain?

With her head stuck under the steering wheel, playing with wires, there's not much she can do but talk. "You know," she says, "I'll give you the car. You can take it and go."

Her complaining gets a real laugh out of him, as close as anything comes to being good-natured. He's still got her scared, which makes sense. Princess ain't stupid, at least. If he doesn't trust her, it's only fair that she don't trust him.

"We got cars," he drawls back, unconcerned. Well, at least if he ends up having to kill her, he'll have got something out of it. Which means all in all this is a good day for Merle, no matter how it shakes out.

"You ain't never been with a group?"

Joan rolls her eyes-- head turned away from him, that's safe for now-- and keeps fiddling with the wires. The way he just up and ignores her overly generous offer makes her feel just great. So this guy has cars? He could be lying, but if he was, he would have taken her offer. He's gotta be well stocked, where he's from.

She doesn't want to think about where he's from. The way things are going, she'll see it soon enough. Might be the last thing she ever sees.

"Been with family since Kentucky."

It ain't every goddamn day you get an offer like he's making today. He can't blame her being a skeptic, but damn, she's a fighter. Whatever she's been up to... Well, it ain't his business.

But here he is asking, anyway. She's been with family, but she's not with family now. That leaves him quiet for a bit. Family's the one thing he hasn't got, and if he had that-- well, sometimes he thinks Woodbury could fucking burn and he wouldn't care.

"Somewhere you tryin' to get back to?"

He doubts it, considering that tower he found her holed up in at first. But he's gotta ask-- maybe... Well, let her answer.

She tenses, a little, and shit, she shouldn't have. He'd have seen that, if he's got any brain in him, and he's got plenty. Shit, shit, that's a tell.

But does it matter? It only matters if she wants to hide it, and... does she? She should, she's aware of that much. If Merle Dixon, renegade gentleman, has any sympathy in him (and she isn't sure), she ought to play on that, make it part of her gamble to not end up dead in a goddamn ditch somewhere.

The thought of hiding it, though, that leaves a bad taste in her mouth after what she's done to get here. If she's willing to hide who she is to get by, that's like begging, like going all meek and compliant. No, no, she won't do it. She'll remember what she is.

"No," she says, voice a little lower than she cares it to be. She pulls some asshole comment out of the back of her head to cover for it. "But that doesn't mean I wanna end up in your basement."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject