AN: Here we go. This one was in response to the Tumblr prompt that wanted Caryl and something having to do with best friend's sibling. That one was, I'll admit, pretty tricky, but I thought I came up with a decent idea for it. That is, until I started writing.
I'll admit that this took a totally different direction than I thought it would, but it's still a "scene" that I'm pretty happy with. To whomever suggested it, I'm sorry if it's not what you wanted. Just let me know and I'll be happy to try again.
It's Carol and Daryl, but it does have some discussion of Merle/Carol. You'll understand more when you read it.
At any rate, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Daryl heard his brother's truck pull up outside. As he passed by the window, he threaded two of his fingers into the blinds and lifted them enough to be able to look out. Merle had been gone more than he'd been home lately. Hearing him pull up was damn near the return of the prodigal son in Daryl's opinion—not that he minded the occasional escape from Merle.
It was some chick this time.
With Merle, his absences could always be attributed to one of four things, at least if they were extended absences. Either he'd gotten himself locked up for something. He'd scored a lot of something and gone on some kind of bender somewhere. He'd ended up in rehab—and all of those options really had the potential to tie into one another in an impressive amount of combinations. Or—he'd ended up with some chick that kept him more than occupied.
At least until he was done with her.
Through the space he'd made in the blinds, Daryl watched as Merle got out of the truck. Ever the gentleman when he wanted to be, Merle made his way around the truck, wrenched the door open, and a she dropped out, landing with a bounce on her feet beside the truck.
Daryl hummed to himself.
Yep. This time it was a chick. From the looks of her, she wasn't Merle's typical type. She was a redhead and not too tall. She looked like she was cute and built alright, but Merle just had a "type" for the ones he picked up for these little "escapades" and the woman outside the truck didn't look like that. Still, she'd had him occupied for a while—so there must be something about her he liked.
Daryl dropped the blinds back into place and finished his walk into the kitchen—where he'd been heading when he heard the truck pull up in the first place—and set about making the sandwich that had been the driving force behind getting him out of his room on a day off.
Merle came through the door louder than he had to. The door squeaked something awful, but he banged it backwards until the glass door smacked the too-close porch railing outside. He let the woman in first, dropped the door closed, and let it slap shut with its full force.
"Don't you know how to open an' close a damn door?" Daryl snarked from the kitchen.
Merle chuckled.
"And that there's my baby bro," Merle said. "Mr. Personality. Looks like we just in time—Darlina's makin' lunch."
There was a barely audible laugh from the woman. Daryl didn't turn and look at her. He didn't look at his brother. He just finished putting together his sandwich before he chose to speak again.
"Ain't no damn short order cook," Daryl said. "And last night you left the milk out and the shit spoiled so I reckon you gonna pick some more up whenever you decide to come slinkin' ya ass home tonight."
He went to the small, round table that they got out of a garage sale down the street and sat down. He wasn't pissed at Merle for the woman. He wasn't even really pissed that he hadn't been home. He was pissed that he hadn't bothered to call. That was always the problem.
Merle had come home, every night, and left some evidence that he'd been there. The milk was left out on the counter last night. The night before? Some disarray it the bathroom showed he'd been there. Food left on the couch was a popular sign of life from Merle.
But if it weren't for that? There wasn't even any proof for Daryl that Merle was alive. If he didn't hear him, on those late nights, when he came in and out? Or if Daryl happened to miss him and their paths didn't cross? Merle would let him go for long periods of time without so much as leaving proof he hadn't died or just been swept away for good.
And for Daryl? That wasn't kosher. Merle knew what the hell had happened to their mother, even if he hadn't been there and even if he hadn't seemed particularly moved by the loss of the woman who had birthed them both. He ought to know better than to just up and stay gone without letting Daryl know that he was—somewhere out there—alive and well.
But Merle considered is little "clues to life" to be sufficient.
"You just ignore him, sugar," Merle commented. "My lil' brother's been in a fuckin' sour mood for about thirty two damn years."
The woman regarded Daryl for a moment, her mouth partially open, but she didn't say anything to him—not directly.
Instead? She addressed Merle.
"I can make some sandwiches," she said. "If—if that's alright?"
"Mi casa es su casa," Merle said. "And my ham sándwiches is your ham sándwiches—make whatever ya want."
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The redhead hung around all day. All day. Merle wasn't missing from the house because he sat in the living room, drinking beer and telling stories—mostly embarrassing ones about Daryl—all day long while the redhead laughed and pushed him into continuing.
Daryl had meant to go to his room and go back to sleep, like he did for most of his days off from work, but he'd gotten sucked in. He'd ended up, not even wanting to do it and not knowing why he had, sitting on the couch and listening to Merle and the redhead—Carol was her name—talk.
Carol was different than the women that Merle usually brought home. At first, Daryl thought it was just physical appearance that made her different, but after a while of just being around her? There was a lot there that just didn't seem like the bar bitches Merle usually went after.
Carol was genuinely nice. She wasn't exactly soft spoken, because she did laugh and cut up with Merle, but she wasn't loud and crass. She didn't speak like the women that Merle usually brought home. She didn't speak about the same topics that they usually chose to focus on. And she didn't even carry herself like those women.
She was delicate, sweet, cute—not at all slutty, and she was absolutely not Merle Dixon's type.
As the night drew to a close, and Carol put out more than one hint that she was ready to go—that she had a home somewhere and she hoped to get back to it to sleep—Daryl almost felt sad to see her go, even though he barely knew her. He bid her goodnight—something he never did with a single other woman that Merle fooled around with—and, even though he didn't say it, he hoped she'd come back some other day.
He hoped that Merle was smart about this one. He hoped he realized she wasn't like those other women, and he hoped that Merle treated her better than he treated them.
When Merle got home from running Carol back to her home—wherever it was she might live—Daryl was still up. He was sitting at the little, round table losing at solitaire.
Merle came in, put a case of beer in the fridge and held a half gallon of milk up for Daryl to see before he put it in the fridge with a great deal of pomp and circumstance—making sure that Daryl knew he picked it up. Then he came, sat across the table from where Daryl was sitting, and put two beers between them. Daryl took the signal, accepted one of the beers, freed it from its cap, and tasted it.
"You over your damn piss poor attitude?" Merle asked, scratching the back of his head lazily.
"You go runnin' ya damn ass off and don't say shit to nobody," Daryl said. "It's all the hell I ask, Merle. Let me know you're fuckin' alive. You're in jail I get a call from a damn lawyer. You go to rehab? Get contacted. But you off chasin' some damn skirt around? I don't know shit. All I'm askin'..."
Merle hummed and yawned.
"Sorry," Merle said.
That was as much of an apology as Daryl was ever going to get from his brother. Half the time he didn't get even that much from him.
"Don't do that shit again," Daryl said.
Merle chuckled.
"Yes ma'am, Darlina," Merle drawled out.
"Where the hell you find her, anyway?" Daryl asked. "Carol?"
Merle chuckled again and took his time drinking down some of the beer.
"Down there—you know that lil' ass honky tonk? What the hell's it called now? Used to be Smokey Robinson's old place?" Merle said.
"I know where the hell you talkin' about," Daryl responded.
Merle hummed.
"She was down there," Merle said. "About—two weeks ago?"
"She don't look like the bar going type," Daryl commented.
Merle hummed.
"That's what the hell was so damn funny about it," Merle said. "I come in there—see this here chick, right? Don't look like she never even been in a bar before. Looked spooked, almost. Skittish. Like you could stomp your damn feet and out the door she'd run as fast as she could scurry."
"So?" Daryl asked, pretending to be half interested in his failing game of cards, even though he wasn't focusing on it at all.
"So? So—for shits and giggles I bought her some drinks. Musta bought her one or two too damn many. By the time she was ready to go? She damn near couldn't walk. I carried her ass outta there. Put her in the truck. Didn't know how she got to the bar, but I knowed she weren't driving outta there. Got her to tell me where she lived," Merle said. "One of them lil' for rent houses? The real shit ones over off Ditwell Drive? Piece of shit places?"
Daryl hummed and nodded.
"Don't seem like the kinda chick lives in them houses," Daryl commented.
Merle hummed around the swallow of beer he'd just drawn into his mouth and shook his head.
"Worse," Merle said. "Worse than where she is? I get in there—and there ain't shit in this house. But not shit—not a damn couch. No damn bed. Not shit. She's sleepin' on a pile of the same damn clothes she's wearing. Drunk as hell...feelin' some kinda guilty over something 'cause she keeps apologizing to my ass. She tells me that—'cause I brung her home or whatever—I can fuck her."
Daryl groaned.
"So you fucked her?" Daryl asked.
Merle widened his eyes at him, got up from his seat, and went for another beer. He brought two, even though Daryl didn't need one.
"Hell no I ain't fucked her," Merle said. "She was too damn drunk to know she wanted me to fuck her and she was upset and shit—weren't no sincere fuck, ya know?"
Daryl nodded.
"Next damn morning? Take her down to get some breakfast—tell her that she owes me some kinda damn explanation. Her old man, turns out, is in the pen. Was beatin' on her. But—now he's gone and she don't got that shit—but she don't got shit period. Got away from him but everything was his. Got no money. Got a job—working down there at the realty office answering phones—but ain't got shit until the checks start comin' in because all the hell she had went straight to payin' for the piece of shit roof over her head," Merle continued.
"So? What'd you do?" Daryl asked.
Merle chuckled and came out of the laughter by humming. He sat up in his chair and leaned to bring his elbow to the table where he could comfortably rest his face there.
"Only fuckin' thing I could do," Merle said. "Been puttin' in some extra hours shovelin' shit down at the Greene farm for a few bucks. Got Carol some furniture—hell, nothing nice but she's got a damn bed now. Not sleeping on the floor like a dog. Got some food in the damn fridge. Just..."
He shook his head, but he didn't finish.
"You like her that damn much?" Daryl asked.
Merle widened his eyes at him again, this time in question because the expression came accompanying a hum.
"I mean—right damn thing to do," Daryl said. "And—I'm pissed you didn't tell me where you been and you needed a couple bucks to get her going until she get her own self going—but...you like her that damn much? Don't sound like you. Pussy that damn good?"
Merle chuckled, rubbed his hand over his face, and then tasted his beer again. Now that Daryl was looking at it, and now that he was really looking at Merle without the lens of being pissed off, he could tell that his brother was exhausted. Extra hours weren't easy to put in when you already worked manual labor full time.
Daryl was impressed with his brother—and there were few times in his life when he could say that about Merle Dixon.
"You know I can't abide no asshole hittin' on a woman," Merle said. "Somethin' about her—ya know? Just...couldn't stand that shit. And—she'll pay me back. She's good for it. Decent gal. Don't deserve the hand she got dealt."
He laughed again, this time it came out as something of a snort.
"And I don't know shit about the pussy," Merle said. "Ain't so much as smelled it—but, I did have to take her to piss...looks alright."
Daryl groaned when Merle wagged his tongue at him.
Merle had his moments, and he was a better person than most people realized he was, but he was also an asshole—and he could be a damn disgusting one too.
Merle just smiled at Daryl in response.
"Nah—we just friends," Merle said. "Carol—she ain't my type. She gets over this asshole? Starts putting her damn life back together? She's gonna thank me alright—uh huh—gonna pay me back and always gonna look at me and say that there son of a bitch is A OK in my book...got my ass outta a bad situation...but she ain't my type. She gets over this asshole? She's gonna be lookin' for somethin' a helluva lot different."
Merle pushed the "second" beer for Daryl toward him and helped himself to another cold one from the fridge. He stood, this time, with his back against the counter and drank that one.
"Helluva lot different," he said. "Some damn body—lookin' for that kinda woman."
Merle hummed.
"That's why the hell I brung her home—ya know? Let her meet...my lil' brother," Merle added.
Daryl was struck for a moment and then he looked at Merle. Merle smiled at him around the mouth of the beer bottle. After he swallowed some of the liquid down, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"She liked what she saw, alright," Merle said. "Asked me three dozen questions between here and there about you. You workin' tomorrow?"
Daryl felt his pulse pick up.
He hadn't really thought that much about Carol because he'd considered her off limits. She was with his brother—no matter how temporary that might be—and that made her entirely off limits to him. But he'd liked her. She was pretty—nice eyes, nice smile, good body—and he liked the way she carried herself. He liked the way she talked and the way she laughed. She'd been the first woman that Merle had ever brought around that Daryl was sincerely sad to know was off limits to him—because she was with his brother.
But now that he knew different?
His pulse picked up just at the thought of it—a thought he'd denied himself until then. His mouth was suddenly drier than before he opened the second beer and sucked down a swallow of it to try and we his inexplicably dry mouth.
"No," Daryl said, when he trusted himself to speak. "No—off tomorrow."
Merle smiled again.
"Good," he said. "Because she's gonna need some damn body to come over and fix the back window in that lil' damn place. Lock's broke. Needs to be changed. Make sure don't nobody get in on her...get in at her. And—come to find out? I'ma be pretty damn busy tomorrow."
Daryl smiled, even though he immediately chewed his lip to try to hide the expression.
Merle hummed at him.
"You welcome, Darlina," Merle said. "Just—uh—remember to call if you gonna be late. Only right you don't leave your big brother wonderin' where the hell you are."
Daryl hissed a customary "fuck you" at his brother, but he didn't really mean it. At the moment? He couldn't mean it and he couldn't even really think about it. Because, at the moment, his brother was damn near his favorite person.
Maybe only second to a certain redhead that he'd only just gotten to start thinking about because she wasn't quite as off limits as he'd thought she was.