Merle's memories of the past after he and Daryl dissapear into the woods.
~*Disclaimer: I don't own the Dixon brothers or The Walking Dead.
Merle remembered the day Daryl first came home.
It'd been late autum, warm and quiet; the land readying itself for its dying metamorphasis. But death had been the complete opposite of the air in their little house. A scense of building energy had been boiling since the first early signs of spring. Now that the leaves were bright colors of red and orange, neigboors seeming to take a sudden interest in his mama and his daddy'd been home less and less; half of the time unable to even look at her.
It'd been about six in the afternoon when he heard his mama half cry half scream. She was sitting on the kitchen floor, cradeling her swollen stomach, tears staining her softly curved cheeks. She told him to get old Miss Fern that lived at the end of their little dirt road and her calmness scared him more then if she'd been hysterical. Fern had moved faster then Merle thought a woman of her age should be able to and hurried his mama into her station wagon. They sped off down the red dirt drive, leaving him alone with only a 'It'll be okay, baby.' from his mama.
Even at twelve, Merle had been a veteran at being left to his own devices for unknown periods of time at odd hours. Ususally he'd take comfort in the solitude, alone meant there was nobody he had to worry about. It meant his daddy wasn't there to lay hands on him. There was nothing to hurt him. But now, the yawning emptiness of the house suffocated him, scared him even. He didn't know if his mama was really okay. When his rat bastard daddy would show up, if he ever came back, and take out that thick mining belt from the closet and work out his frustrations on Merles back. Faced with his fears and the too-quiet house, he shut himself in his room.
He didn't know when or how he fell asleep, but when he woke up it was bright outside. His door was slightly open so someone was or had been home since he fell asleep. With a light tred he'd grown accustommed to using, Merle slipped out of his room and over to the corner next to the front door. The living room was empty and there weren't any beer cans that hadn't been there before. Doubling back, he crept down the hallway to his mama's room.
Maralyn Dixon was sitting on her floral printed bed, back resting on the flat pillows she'd stacked against the headboard. The first thing he noticed was that her belly wasn't big anymore. The second was the little blue blanket she cradeled in her arms. Her deep blue eyes suddenly raised to meet his own and she smiled around the exhaustion written on her face.
"Come here, baby." She held her hand out for him. "Come say 'hi'."
Merle had crawled up on the bed, looking curiously at the bundle as his mama pulled him against her side. It squirmed a little, quiet cooing noises raising from the fuzzy folds. Maralyn pressed her lips to her sons brown curls and carefully placed the blanket in his arms. He tilted his head as two eyes, blue as his and his mama's, blinked up at him. The babe made another little noise and waved a tiny fist at him.
"His name is Daryl, he's your baby brother." She said as she circled her arms around them.
He gently captured the little fist; seeing how much bigger his was in comparison he looked back at his mama. "He's small."
She smiled, and for reasons Merle wouldn't understand until he was older, she had tears in her eyes. "He is. And that's why he needs you to look after him."
The twelve year old watched as Daryl snuggled into the space between his chest and his arm, reaching up to pet the soft down of whispy hair on his baby brothers head. He realized it was the first time he'd ever even held a baby before, he sure as hell didn't know anything about looking after one. "I don't know nothin' about babies, Mama. What'm I suppossed to do?"
She blinked quickly as a few tears escaped her lashes and tucked her oldest sons head under her chin. "You've got to love him and protect him and take care of him. Promise me you will, Merle."
Merle looked down at the tiny, unmarred hand holding onto his scarred, broken-too-many-times finger and felt something stronger then a steel cable tying him to his baby brother. "I promise, Mama."
That had been a little over three decades ago. Three decades and an apocolyps.He'd almost lost him. A year without knowing where he was in a world where the dead walked and the living would sooner shoot you then look at you. Merle'd prayed every day for his brothers life, almost sure he was dead but stubbornly refusing to belive it. But they were together now. Tired, beat up, and probably hunted, but together.
Last night though... Last night, even though he'd been fucking elated to see his little brother alive, he'd been so scared for him that thinking about it made him want to throw up. Daryl in Woodbury. With everybody that knew how to hold a gun shooting at him. For Christsake, they'd probably shot at each other at least once. Then there was the areana, with every person in Woodbury condemming them to death, that one walker that'd grabbed Daryl and-
"We'll stop here for a while, little brother." Merle abruptly cut off his own thoughts, deciding he needed to sit down before his mind became completely derailed.
Daryl stopped walking, sharp blue eyes shooting around for a moment before he gave a barely-there nod and slipped the backpack off his shoulder. The two sank down on a bed of dead leaves under an old cypress tree, their sitting positions identical as they leaned back. Merle cut his eyes over to his brother, telling himself it was because he hadn't seen him in so long, knew it was that if he didn't make sure Daryl was really okay he'd lose his ever-loving mind. He kept focusing on the cut on the others cheek; the shape, the placement, the odd bruise around it. Merle felt his teeth start grinding, knowing exactly what he was looking at and every protective instinct he possessed reared up and snarled. Those fuckers- those worthless motherfuckers had laid their hands on his baby brother. He had half a mind to go back to Woodbury, find whoever had the brass to hit Daryl, rip thier arms out of their sockets, and beat the little shit to death with them.
"Bro, you okay?" Daryl was looking at him, seeming to know that he was getting himself riled up.
"Yeah." No. He shifted and pulled a denim rag out of his ass pocket. "C'mere."
The younger came to him, easy as you please, sitting indian style right in front of him so their knees were touching. Merle dabbed the corner with his tongue and started patting the cut and the dried blood around it. "Can't have ya bleedn' all over the place, walkers'll be on your white ass like flies on roadkill."
Daryl bit his lip, a slight shade of red showing up on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "You don't gotta, I can do it myself."
The older Dixon didn't pay his brother any mind, continuing to brush the rag over the slice in the tan skin. They both knew he wouldn't stop, but for some reason Daryl felt the need to point out that he didn't have to. Good luck telling Merle that, though. If he was ever around when Daryl got hurt, no matter how insignificant, he'd be the one that cleaned him up and fixed whatever could be fixed.
"How'd they get ahold of ya?"
Daryl shrugged. "Glenn said you was there. Covered the others and stayed back, I couldn' leave ya. Some guys grabbed be, scuffled a little, an' I yelled your name. They quit tryin' to kill me after that, but they cuffed me an' dragged me to that pit."
Merle snarled at the ground. "I would'a killed'em if I'd heard ya."
Daryl smiled, the curve of his lips grim, no humor in the expression what so ever. "I know, wouldn't be the first time."
Merles arm dropped and so did his jaw. He knew Daryl knew, hell he knew the boy had watched, but it was still a smack in the face to hear him say it. They'd never talked about it. Never aknowledged that it even happened after it did.
After all, you don't go around spoutin' that you killed your own daddy in cold blood. No matter how much the bastard deserved it.
Merle'd just got out of the pin not five hours ago and the only thing he wanted to do was snag Daryl and go into their woods for some fucking air. Being kept inside, no trees or animals, and no fresh air for eight months had made him absolutely mental. He was speeding down the familier backroads on his Triumph, the crisp, fall wind blasting his uncovered face until it was all he felt, heard and knew. He made it to the squat-like house that used to be a nice cabin before his old man had gotten ahold of it. The shitty pickup in the yard told him the stupid bastard was home and Merle hoped like hell he was passed out cold.
Clay Dixon was on that hump-ugly orange couch he was always in, drunk as a skunk and still vertical. "Well looky here, ey' finally let your mongrel ass outta the pound."
Merle ignored him, going back through the shitty hallway with its busted floorboards to where he knew Daryls room was. He heard beer cans making a wracket in the livingroom, like the old man had just realized his oldest had gone and was ready to come after him. Like he gave a damn, he'd throw down with the worthless fucker any day. But right now he wanted to see his brother.
He froze when he swung the door open, his vision fuzzing out and coming back red. The seventeen year old was laying on the floor, his back was nothing but a large bruise, blood running down his sides where the skin had broke. Beside him was that forsaken minning belt, it's thick leather body wider then a mans hand and stained old and new blood spatter, both Daryls and his own.
He felt his chest get tight and his throat ache, he realized he was growling like a pit bull. Merle spun around, rage driving him. But before he made it out of Daryls door, a broad fist cracked into his jaw. He stummbled back, tasting the blood that now streamed from his split lip and the inside of his cheek. Their daddy hadn't hit him in thirteen years, the fucker hadn't been stupid enough to. Merle had been a human bulldozer with the attitude of a rabid dog since he was sixteen. There was only one reason the man would hit first now: Clay knew that only one of them was going to come away from this alive.
It only seemed to last a minute; when Merle would look back on it, it was like watching flash cuts of the altercation. His daddy'd managed to grab the belt and hold it tight around Merles throat, his favorite form of punishment for his oldest son. Merles training from the army had come back to him along with a fresh storm of wrath and vengance. He'd gone buckin' bronko and slung the man out into the hall. Clay tried to crawl away, one knee had flamingoed and Merel was able to see the front of the mans leg and his heel at the same time. He'd come up behind the man and stomped on the shattered joint, looming over him.
Merle couldn't remember when he picked up the belt or how it got stretched tight between his hands. But he did remember wrapping it around his daddy's neck. Turning the dying man around when he started going limp. Yelling 'I want to see your face', just like the man had every time he'd beat Merle. Then the blankness in those whiskey brown eyes when he stopped struggling, stopped breathing...stopped living.
He'd loaded the body into the pickup and drove up the mountain. He'd made it look like a horrible accident. The truck was already full of empty beer cans, it wasn't hard to set the scene for a drunken man with a history of being irrational driving off the side of a three-hundred foot mountain cliff. He'd walked home, still dazed and wondered if the bastard had finally damaged him enough to fuck his head up from lack of oxygen. When he came back into the house all signs of the struggle was gone. All the blood was cleaned up and the distinct smell of burning leather was coming out of the belly of the furnace in the back. Daryl'd come out of the kitchen, one hand pressing a pack of ice against the side of his head, the other holding a damp dish towel. He'd wordlessly held the cold rag against Merles lip, when he pulled it away the fabric was stained red.
He'd just looked at his baby brother for a moment before pulling him against his chest and holding him. "It's over, Daryl. It's really over."
He'd felt Daryl shake from head to foot, wetness seeping into his shirt where the youngers head was buried. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Merle dropped the memories, shaking his head and rubbing his suddenly sweaty hand on his cargo jeans. He'd never gotten caught, even though everybody knew he did it. But still, it stressed him out to think about it and the anger came back everytime and he wished he could kill the fucker all over again. Daryl moved closer to him, sitting on the side of his good arm and leaning their shoulders together. Merle wrapped his arm around his baby brothers shoulder, tucking him against his ribs and realized it was the same way their mama had held him all those years ago.
He let his head fall back, arm tightening around Daryl as he looked at the blue Georgia sky. "M' still keep'n my promise, Mama..."