A/N: Okay so this is the first fic. I've EVER posted…. So phew um my word processor absolutely hates Merle haha Dixons are spell check's worst nightmare…. I hope you guys like it! ~MacDixy

Disclaimer: I don't own the Walking Dead or any of the characters. All rights go to their respected owners…. Just let me play with the action figures for a while J I'll put them back, I swear.

Warning: mentions of rape, slight brother on brother violence, language, Merle.

The Stray.

Chapter 1 Troubles

Merle stumbled through the alley in a happily drugged haze, glad he remembered the way to Daryl's apartment by heart. It was also very close to his latest slut's drug den, but she'd kicked him out again. He struggled up the busted outside stairs that led to his younger brother's second floor apartment. Reaching the door, he rejoiced slightly, ready to annoy, tease, and pester the smaller man. Free booze was an added bonus.

"Darleena," Merle howled boisterously to the worn splintered surface, bringing his knuckles to it. "Baby brother, come on out 'ere," He laughed as the neighbors screamed for him to "shut the hell up" though he only pounded his thick fist against the door twice as loudly. "Darleena!" He was in this for the long haul, knowing that eventually Daryl would open the door for him, always did no matter the hour. The hour was currently two in the morning, midday for Merle Dixon.

"What do you want, Merle?" the quiet, cracked reply wasn't the normal welcome Merle got, "Aintcha gonna let me in baby brother?" Daryl had probably been in a deep sleep, which explained his lateness to answering the door and his odd sounding voice. The lock slid out of place, and the door was cracked open. Daryl had his back to the door, walking back to the small kitchen/ dinning room area of his dump. That was odd. Merle's brother usually answered the door bleary eyed and biting tongued. He'd throw "fuck ya's" and "shut the hell ups", Merle would tease him, call him girl's names. That was the drill, that was fun. Merle wanted the yelling brother, not this quiet boring one.

"Darleena, wake the hell up!" Merle closed the door behind him as he made his way to his brother. "Ya got comp'ny!" He punctuated his sentence with a sound clap to Daryl's back, not expecting the reaction at all.

Daryl flinched hard, away from the hand invading his space, tripping over his feet and landing on the floor in his attempt to face his attacker. The splintered floor bit into his hands and his bare feet. He just felt so weak. He just wanted this confusion to end. He didn't want this fear or even the bitter numbness. Most of all he didn't want to be touched.

Merle stared in horror at the man looking up at him from the floor. He looked like Daryl, same eyes, same hair, same scowl, but it wasn't Daryl at all. His eyes didn't hold their fire. His hair was disheveled and limp. His scowl was weak and emotionless. There were also tears streaming down his face. Daryl wouldn't cry. Daryl doesn't cry. Merle knew for a fact that Daryl Everett Dixon, his baby brother, hadn't cried since he was eight. But it was happening now. That was Daryl, and those were tears.

Any high Merle had been clinging to immediately rushed out of his system. He didn't think he'd ever been his sober. Extreme nerve shattering fear replaced his every thought. What could be so bad that Daryl Dixon would cry over it? Was he shot? Stabbed? Cut? Punched? Robbed? None of those seemed like decent explanations for this. Daryl wouldn't cry over those things, they'd already been done to him, some even by Merle himself. There was no blood visible on Daryl's white t-shit or his loose worn jeans. What the hell was going on?

"Daryl, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Merle hadn't enunciated a sentence fully in his life until now. A shuttering breath was in taken before he had the strength to reply. "Nothin' Merle," he wouldn't meet his eyes, but Merle saw their flat coin like appearance, "Nothin'." The younger brother repeated again no more than a whisper. The elder knew that was complete bullshit, like hell something wasn't wrong. He wanted to scream, kick, and punch the answer out if he had to. Avenge whatever the fuck happened to his baby brother. But Daryl was trembling. The strongest man Merle knew was sitting in front of him, on the floor, quaking like a leaf. This was not a time for violence.

Merle felt sick to his stomach as he remembered the harsh winter that their father had forgotten about them, not turned on the heat, and had left teenaged Merle with a snot nosed, sock footed Daryl. That had been the only time Daryl had trembled, near frost bitten, and forced to huddle against his brother. But here again was that shivering four year old.

Rubbing his shaved head with a sigh, Merle sank to the floor in front of Daryl. He moved slowly trying to not frighten the small animal-like boy with red rimmed eyes. "Daryl," the dark haired man looked up from under his brow, "who done this to ya, son?" he attempted to display his affection and comfort his brother with a pat to his knee, but the violent jerk Daryl gave showed his good intentions the door. Daryl tilted his head down in shame, he couldn't tell Merle what had happened. Who knows what the dumb skin head would do. But would that really matter? A part of Daryl wanted to tell him. Watch Merle explode. Be disgusted with him. Kick his ass. Then Merle would go out on a hunt. He probably would come back covered in human blood, bearing good news. Daryl liked the idea, he was so ashamed though.

Merle, though, wasn't having any of this. He saw his little brother shut himself in, crawl into a dark corner of his mind. That just won't allowed in a Dixon household. He'd of course forgotten he was speaking to a Dixon, all that mushy shit he'd tried just wouldn't cut the cake. With a sick smile Merle visciously gripped Daryl by the back of his neck, pulling the young man awkwardly to his knees. Now he could see new bruises that hadn't been visible before. A hand width's purple ring wound itself around Daryl's pale neck like a nasty collar. Small hickey-like marks littered his flesh, along with flowering fist sized bruises in varying places on his arms, yet his face was untouched. Merle didn't understand the bruises, he simply continued his assault.

"Now you listen here boy, yer gonna tell me what happened to ya 'fore I choke the life out of ya," he placed his other meaty hand on his brother's neck, beginning to increase pressure on the already marked skin. Daryl didn't struggle like he had on the other occasions Merle had decided to play this game. The normally bright blue eyes met Merle's dully, not even bothering with his scowling façade. Merle tightened his hands around Daryl's throat a bit more making Daryl crack completely. He couldn't do this, he didn't care any more. Let him be disgusted with him, he was tired of getting choked within an inch of is life. Those fuzzy black spots on his vision egged him on. "Raped." Daryl mouthed the word, all the breath in his body having left him long before. Seeing his victim's lips move, Merle almost completely released his grip. "What was that, baby brother?" Merle leaned in close, placing his grimy ear to his brother's mouth, "Didn't hear ya." Daryl's oxygen intake was violent and dizzying.

"He raped me." Was Daryl's broken response as Merle dropped his grip and Daryl started sobbing.