"Fuck off," Joan says from her tree. As nicknames go, it's not horrible, but she makes a point of hating all of them. Maybe they'll replace some of the worse ones.
Not that it really fucking matters with Merle.
She hears something rustling in the woods, something coming; it's a noise she would have ignored, years back, but now she's always primed for this kind of shit. That's the new human race, listening for snapping twigs like deer in the forest. Not that Merle would ever let himself be seen as a prey animal. No, she can see him now, ready to kill whatever came across them.
She hopes it's not someone who doesn't deserve it, but honestly, she's not interested in stopping him. It wouldn't be a good bet.
Joan climbs back down the tree and worms her way back into the car as quickly and efficiently as she can. She's got tree sap and pine needles on her shirt, but it's covering some of the blood and ash, so she'll take it. She throws the supplies-- jerky, tape, ammo, like she said-- in the back, and picks up her gun. She doesn't lean out of the car-- what a great way to get bit, wow-- but she does watch his back. Hopefully he'll be quick with it.
By now, Joan's probably as much an expert on him as anyone is, which means she probably knows that Merle Dixon deals with negative feelings in extremely healthy and productive ways.
The first walker takes him by surprise, stumbling into view even as he goes looking for it; it's enough that he retreats a few paces with a grunt, but he turns the distance into a lunge, spearing the thing through an eye socket and drawing back before it drops like a sack of cement.
With an all-too-cheerful whoop, he crashes into the brush in search of more. The action, the distraction, it's just as necessary as the food she's getting.
She follows him slowly, eventually stopping the car near the point in the line of trees where he went off road. She can't stop him from whatever masculine ritual he feels like he's completing, and she'd rather not even if she could. This is his gross bullshit, his stupid baggage. If he gets himself killed, it's one less mouth to feed.
And then, you know, it won't be her. Sometimes she wonders if it'll be her. He's the kind of person she'd end up killing, if patterns repeat themselves.
Whatever. She climbs out the jeep's sun roof, sitting on the top with her rifle in her lap, and she waits. He'll come back or he won't. She'll give him an hour.
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what_wings_dare2014-10-20 06:48 pm
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Not that it really fucking matters with Merle.
She hears something rustling in the woods, something coming; it's a noise she would have ignored, years back, but now she's always primed for this kind of shit. That's the new human race, listening for snapping twigs like deer in the forest. Not that Merle would ever let himself be seen as a prey animal. No, she can see him now, ready to kill whatever came across them.
She hopes it's not someone who doesn't deserve it, but honestly, she's not interested in stopping him. It wouldn't be a good bet.
Joan climbs back down the tree and worms her way back into the car as quickly and efficiently as she can. She's got tree sap and pine needles on her shirt, but it's covering some of the blood and ash, so she'll take it. She throws the supplies-- jerky, tape, ammo, like she said-- in the back, and picks up her gun. She doesn't lean out of the car-- what a great way to get bit, wow-- but she does watch his back. Hopefully he'll be quick with it.
Like anything's ever that easy.
no subject
The first walker takes him by surprise, stumbling into view even as he goes looking for it; it's enough that he retreats a few paces with a grunt, but he turns the distance into a lunge, spearing the thing through an eye socket and drawing back before it drops like a sack of cement.
With an all-too-cheerful whoop, he crashes into the brush in search of more. The action, the distraction, it's just as necessary as the food she's getting.
no subject
And then, you know, it won't be her. Sometimes she wonders if it'll be her. He's the kind of person she'd end up killing, if patterns repeat themselves.
Whatever. She climbs out the jeep's sun roof, sitting on the top with her rifle in her lap, and she waits. He'll come back or he won't. She'll give him an hour.