Chances Are
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There were two things Daryl Dixon realized just before he took his brother's size 10 boot to the ass: number one, this summer vacation shit was a total crock and number two, well. He really should have put his boxers back on last night after he'd finished rubbing one out. Because the floor in Merle's crummy apartment might as well have been concrete, judging by the way he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him, and fuck if he wasn't sure he didn't have some kind of crush injury that demanded immediate medical attention. His voice didn't sound human as it wheezed out of him, just strangled and high pitched enough it could put one of them damn dog whistles to shame. "The hell, Merle?"
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His brother ignored him, striding across the glorified broom closet that would sub as his bedroom for the next few months and yanking on the string to the dusty blinds with his good hand. "Rise and fuckin' shine, you little pussy," he crowed obnoxiously, his grin toothy and meant to burrow beneath the skin and stay like an itch that couldn't be relieved. "'Round these parts, we earn our livin' because the rent ain't free. Even for such a shitty place as this establishment." Whistling through his teeth, he shook his head. "Boy, put that junk of yours away, else you gonna be the one 'sponsible for my therapy bills."
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Levering himself upward, Daryl snagged a ruffled pillow from the lumpy sofa that smelled like a faint mixture of sex and cat piss and used it to cover himself as he shuffled across the room to recover the jeans he'd shed the night before. It didn't take all that long—he could practically touch the walls with each arm stretched out—and he was pulling the denim up and over his lean legs, shoving his hands in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes that Merle promptly snatched away. "Fuck off, Asshole. Paid for those with my own money."
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"Let's get somethin' straight right now," Merle barked, all business. "You're 17 years old. That illegal shit ain't gonna fly 'tween these four walls."
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"Whatever," Daryl muttered, snagging his stained tee-shirt from the floor and pulling it over his head. The rough motion made his dark blond hair spike and stick up in all directions, but he didn't really care because it was bullshit. It all was and he wasn't gonna stand for it. For fuck's sake, the sun wasn't even up outside and anyway. Weren't like Merle was his damn daddy.
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"Best be headin' for the shower, Boy, 'cause I know you ain't walkin' away from me," Merle growled. "You hear me, you little shit?"
…
…
In the end, Daryl took the shower. Not because of anything having to do with his tyrant of a brother. Not that. No, he hid himself away in the tiny stall behind the frosted glass and washed the stink off of him, scrubbed himself good. By the time he was finished, his skin was pink and damp and his mood was improved enough that he didn't want to rip his brother's head from his meaty shoulders upon sight. Still didn't mean he smiled at the sonuvabitch or the feral monster that masqueraded as a cat and eyed him with equal disdain. He wasn't about to make this any easier on Merle than the ex-military man was making it on him, after all, and his brother didn't give him much reason to change that mindset, plopping a plate full of charred toast and rubbery eggs in front of him before launching into some kind of longwinded spiel about earning his keep. It was all Daryl could do to keep from catapulting his fork at the back of his head. That's not to say it wasn't a nice fantasy, though. Until it earned him a set of fat knuckles to his own. He scowled, spat out a question. "Hell was that for?"
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Merle rounded on him with a black look of his own. "You even heard a word I said?"
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"What do you think?" Daryl grumbled, rubbing the sore spot against his temple.
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"The fuck happened to you, Baby Brother?" Merle mumbled over the lip of his coffee mug. "You used to be the sweet one. Know it ain't been no cakewalk livin' with that piece of shit daddy of ours since Mama died, but you've done gone and changed. And it ain't been for the good."
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"You really askin' me that question right now? Really?" he challenged. His brother didn't rise to the bait, instead looked contemplative and frustration led Daryl to shove his chair back from the table, the cat yowling at him in protest. "Man, I'm done. M'goin' back to King County."
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Blocking Daryl's exit from the room with his big body, Merle ripped a piece of paper from a legal notepad and held it out to him. "You goin' back, you're gonna have to pay your own way, and I know for a fact you ain't got five dollars to your name, Boy. Take it. Got you a job."
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Daryl eyed the yellow piece of paper with a healthy dose of suspicion. "If I don't?"
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"Suit yourself. Pretty good ways 'tween here and the place you call home. It ain't cheap and we both know you's awkward as fuck with the ladies so that takes that option off the table. What's it gonna be, Darylina?" Merle asked. "Your choice."
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After a moment's hesitation, Daryl snatched the paper from Merle's hand with a warning. "If I'm stayin', you're keepin' that hell beast of yours locked up at night. Ain't takin' any chances."
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"If you stayin', you're confinin' your dates with Rosie to the bathroom so you can clean that shit up. Don't wanna be seein' no more of your bare ass. We got that clear?"
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Daryl rolled his eyes and headed for the door, pocketing the spare key Merle had left on the counter on his way out. "Crystal. You finished?"
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"Want you back 'fore dark, Darylina," Merle called to Daryl's retreating back. "Ain't the best neighborhood to be out and 'bout. Get what I'm sayin'?" The only answer he received was a middle finger salute and he bent to scoop the cat up against his chest, carrying the fractious animal with him to the open door. "Tellin' you right now. That boy's gonna be the death of me. The death of us both. The hell we got ourselves into, hmm?" he groused as he locked back up and readied for the business of the day, the notepad and the partial address scrawled there soon forgotten. "The hell?"
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…
…
Across town, in a neighborhood much nicer than the one Merle Dixon called home, in an unfamiliar bed in her Uncle Dale's house, Carol Mason was just waking up and greeting the first day of her summer vacation with a sleepy smile. She was happily oblivious to Merle's innocent mistake and the ways in which her carefully ordered life was about to be turned upside down with one knock on the wrong door.
Then again, she wasn't the only one.
...
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Just remembered that I haven't brought this fic over here so I'm remedying that.
It's based on a prompt request I received on my tumblr: knocking on the wrong door AU.
I don't anticipate this being very long. Just a few chapters planned and a loose plan at that–omigosh, I do not need anymore long WIPs. But I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless.
Much more Caryl in future chapters. I promise.
Rated M for language among other things, lol.
Feedback is love.
Thanks so much for reading!