"You sure you don' want us to bring you to yer driveway, Merle?" the driver asked as the fifteen-year-old slid out of the beat-up Ford truck's passenger's seat.
Merle smirked at his friend, if that's what you wanted to call someone you used to get alcohol. "Told ya once already, Davey boy, I wanna walk the rest of the way. Or are ya expectin' to be escortin' me to my front door an' get a goodnight kiss?"
The rest of the group that had jammed themselves into the bed of the truck erupted into a laughing fit.
"Git the fuck outta here, Dixon," Dave responded, giving him the finger.
Merle slammed the door shut and banged on its rusty side twice before the truck began the process of turning around. The rest of the group hollered their goodbyes at him as they drove away, leaving him alone under a flickering street lamp in the dead of the night. For a moment, Merle just stood there listening as the sounds of the truck's loud engine and its obnoxious occupants faded away into the distance.
A steady breeze blew against him, causing a chill to run down his spine. Grumbling, Merle reached into his denim jacket's pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. It was almost empty; he'd have to make a run to the store soon to swipe some more.
He pulled out a cheap lighter and lit the butt as his eyes traveled up the inclined road. The shitty shack he lived in sat at the top of the hill. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled and examined the house through the smoky haze. It was a small, shotgun-styled piece of junk with a crooked roof and dead flowerbed to accent it. It may not have been the prettiest to look at, but it fulfilled its purpose of keeping the heat out during the summer and cold out during the winter. The best part about the house though was what lay behind it. It was backed by a forest that stretched out for miles and often served as an escape for both him and his little brother from their good-for-nothing father.
Thinking about his old man made Merle's lips curl in disgust. He hoped the bastard was asleep. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with his Pa right now, hence why he had Dave drop him off a few blocks away from the house. No way Dave's crew in that noisy Ford wouldn't wake the dick up.
Merle just wanted to collapse on his bed and sleep. He hadn't drunk enough tonight to get blitzed— hell, he barely felt buzzed at all, but he was exhausted. His morning had been spent at Tony Jones' Deli where he'd worked cleaning tables and dishes. Before his shift had technically ended, he had gone home, made himself and Daryl a late afternoon lunch of sandwiches, watched some shitty program on TV, and gotten in a fight with his old man. The argument started off being about Merle using the last of the stale bread, escalated into Merle being "a useless, freeloading sonofabitch," and ended with Merle getting smacked upside the head. Daryl had starred wide-eyed behind a chair the whole time. When he finally stormed out of the house, his little brother had followed. Out on the front steps, Daryl had asked him where he was going to which Merle replied with a rough, "Anywhere but here" and left. The rest of the night he'd spent behind a local drug store, eating burgers and drinking some piss-poor excuse for liquor with Davey's crew.
As he began heading towards the house, his mind wondered back to Daryl. Hopefully the kid had eaten some form of dinner because he sure as shit didn't eat much of a lunch having only nibbled on parts of his sandwich which Merle had gladly finished off for him.
He let out another puff of smoke. Maybe he should have brought something back for the little runt to eat in case he was lying awake from hunger pangs. Christ knew the only thing left in the kitchen cabinets after their meager lunch were some spiders and a half a bottle of rum. Then again, it was almost two in the morning. It was possible his little brother had already fallen asleep. At least then he wouldn't have to feel some stupid guilt over Daryl's likely lack of dinner.
Walking up the steps to the front door, Merle put out his cigarette on the cracked, yellow siding and unlocked the house. As quietly as possible, the young teen closed the door behind him and crept further into the dark living room. The only source of light trickled from under the bathroom door. Not really thinking much on it, Merle headed for his and Daryl's shared room.
Yawning, he pushed the door open and deposited his jacket on the floor. He felt his way along the room's walls until he reached his bed. Slipping out of his torn-up shirt and kicking off his muddy boots, Merle flopped on top of the squeaky mattress and let out a breath of air. His blue eyes squinted over to the other bed in the room. It was empty. Daryl must be in the shitter.
Merle closed his eyes. He was just about to get comfortable when he heard it. A small choking sound followed by a light sob. Eyes shooting back open, Merle sat up and listened harder. It was coming from the bathroom. He let out a curse and stormed off towards the source of the noise.
Not even bothering to knock, Merle opened the bathroom door and winced as the bright lights assaulted his eyes. His gaze fell onto his four-year-old brother who was currently on the floor, slumped against the toilet. Nose wrinkled, Merle immediately recognized the rancid smell. Vomit clung to Daryl's chin and was splattered in a little puddle on the floor where the boy hadn't quite made it in time to the porcelain throne.
Daryl looked up at him with watery eyes. His face was sweaty and pale; he wore a miserable expression. Merle could sympathize. Why just three days ago he had been in the same position after a really nasty hangover.
"Ya look like shit, baby brother."
Daryl looked like he wanted to answer, but instead ducked his head back into the toilet and let out a God-awful retching sound. Merle quickly closed the door so the noise wouldn't wake up their old man.
"Can't ya throw up a little quieter?" Merle ground out feeling incredibly irritable.
Daryl's face reemerged from the bowl where he quickly laid his head down on the filthy toilet seat. "Don' feel good…" he mumbled.
"What'dya want me to do about it?" Daryl just stared at him with a quivering lip. "Well?" Still no response. Merle shrugged and turned to leave.
"Don' go!" Daryl panicked. Merle stopped, hand hovering inches away from the doorknob, and looked back over his shoulder.
With tired eyes and hand partially outstretched, Daryl repeated, "Don' go." His small form started to shake as shuddering sob escaped him.
Jesus Christ, was he seriously crying?
"Nu-huh. You stop that sissy shit!" Merle quietly snapped, coming to a stand in front of the boy, "Dixon men don't cry! You want Pa to hear ya an' come in here and beat yer ass?" Daryl shook his head, but continued bawling. Merle ran a hand through his hair; he just wanted to go to sleep, not deal with this fuckery! "Geez yer actin' like a baby! Everyone gets sick, man up."
But it seemed like his words were falling on deaf ears. Daryl was never usually this whiny. Where he would normally get mad at him and either storm off or retaliate, he just sat there looking all pathetic and let the waterworks continue.
Merle considered ignoring the begging and just going to bed anyway, but before he could do anything Daryl had flung himself back into the toilet and dry-heaved. Catching his breath, his little brother looked back up at him with such a look of desperation in his baby blues that Merle knew he wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. He dragged a hand down his face and let out a frustrated sigh.
"God fucking dammit!" Grabbing the towel on the sink, Merle tossed it at his brother, "Wipe yer face off an' clean that puddle off the floor. I ain't gonna be the one that slips in yer puke."
Daryl reached for where the rag had landed and with shaky hands began to clean up. It was then Merle saw the throw up that ran down the front of the kid's shirt.
Merle felt his anger flare up, but it wasn't at his brother. No, it was at the situation. This wasn't his job; he wasn't some damned babysitter and he sure as hell wasn't a parent. Why had his retarded folks even had kids? Hadn't they heard about the pill before? He was fifteen for Christ sakes! He shouldn't have to worry about if his brother had eaten that day or having to stay up with him as he puked his brains out! Nu-huh! He should be in bed right now thinking about wet pussies or how much more money he's got to save to get that used motorcycle he'd been eying.
An audible sigh pulled Merle from his thoughts. Daryl had finished wiping up the last of the upchucked mess and was currently leaning back against the toilet fighting to hold back tears.
Merle's shoulders slumped forward slightly. Aw what the hell. No use in being a bitch and complaining about the shit hand they had been dealt. His ma was a year dead and his old man couldn't give two shits less about anything besides booze. It was just how things were.
Kneeling in front of Daryl, Merle grabbed the bottom of his bro's shirt.
"Up," he commanded and the child raised his arms in the air. He lifted the t-shirt over Daryl's head before depositing it in the pile of laundry in the corner.
"Think you're done saying hello to yer food?" At Daryl's nod he continued, "Then come on. Let's get back to the room."
Daryl carefully stood up, looking as unsteady as a newborn fawn.
"What're ya waitin' for? Let's go," Merle opened the door and motioned for Daryl to go.
The boy took one weak step forward and Merle instantly knew the runt was going to end up on his face before he reached the bed.
"Alrighty then, Darylina. Have it your way." Bending down, he picked Daryl up under his arms and balanced him on his hip, "Ya happy now, princess?"
Daryl didn't respond. Instead, he rested his head against Merle's shoulder. Merle raised a brow at the warmth of his brother's face. He wasn't on fire, but he was certainly a few degrees hotter than normal.
The hell was he supposed to do? He had vague memories of when he was real little and had gotten sick. Ma had been in one of those rare moods where she would actually play the mothering role. Merle recalled her cool hand being placed against his hot face and her constant chiding of "drink more, sweetie, you need to drink more." But besides that one blurred memory, all other recollections he had of being ill involved him fending for himself. He didn't have anyone to baby him like Daryl did.
Grabbing the bathroom's trashcan, Merle hauled both it and his brother back to their room making sure to switch off the bathroom light with his elbow. The house may be dark, but with their bedroom literally steps away from the shitter, Merle had no concerns about running into any walls. Walking right up to Daryl's bed, and with far more care than he would ever admit, he placed his sick brother on the springy mattress and set the trashcan down close by. Daryl immediately flopped back against his pillow.
"Look, Mer…" Daryl sniffled in a quiet voice, "We both don't got shirts on."
Merle had mixed feelings about the way his stupid brother hero worshiped him. Ever since he had turned two, Daryl had developed this annoying habit of constantly trying to copy the way he walked, talked, cursed, ate- everything he damn well did! Some days he was charmed by it, but other days it pissed him the fuck off.
"Quit being a faggot," he smirked, moving back towards the hall.
"W-where're ya goin'?" Daryl asked.
"Gotta get some water back in ya 'fore you dry up like a desert well."
Without another word, he continued out their room and straight to the kitchen. His socked feet barely made a sound as he crept across the carpeted floor. Squinting through the dark (no use in tempting fate by turning on a light), Merle briefly eyed the shut door that led to his Pa's bedroom. For everyone's sake, he hoped it stayed closed.
The sink was filled with days' worth of unwashed dishes. He blindly grabbed a dirty cup and filled it with water from the faucet. Nodding to himself, he turned and quickly headed back towards their room.
Merle had almost made it back inside the room when he misjudged his steps. In a split second, there was a resounding crack immediately followed by a sharp pain in his right foot. He'd stubbed his toes against the damned doorframe.
"Sonofabitch, Jesus Christ!" he cursed though clenched teeth.
"Ya 'kay, Mer?" Daryl whispered.
"Turn on the fuckin' lamp, Daryl," Merle hissed.
There was the sound shuffling and a click before the second-hand lamp dully illuminated the area. Daryl sat at the edge of his bed clutching at that scruffy looking stuffed rabbit he was fond of. The thing was a little more than beat up having been one of the only items from their old home to survive the fire. It's once white fur was now a dirtied gray and there was a piece of duct tape across its chest that Merle had put there to cover a hole that had formed a few months back. Honestly, Daryl was getting a little too old to have the thing. One day he would just have to make it disappear.
Ignoring his throbbing toe, Merle shut the door and thrusted the glass of water at his brother, "Drink it."
Daryl accepted the glass and brought the cup to his lips. He almost immediately pulled a face, "Taste funny."
"Yeah, well, ain't sure what was in it before," he said taking a seat on his own bed.
Daryl just nodded. They were both used to grabbing a dirty cup sometimes. Since ma died, the dishes weren't something that were cleaned often.
Merle watched amused as the boy drank from the glass with one hand and used the other to take the rabbit's ear and rub it up and down on his cheek.
"Why ya do that?" he finally asked.
"What?" Daryl said, glassy eyes looking up from his feet.
"That weird rubbin' thing."
Daryl shrugged.
"Come on, lil' brother, you can tell ol' Merle." The boy mumbled an inaudible response, "What was that?"
"Feels good."
"Oh, it feels good," Merle repeated sarcastically, "You know what feels even better? A nice woman rubbin' ya up and down. Specially one with curves." He let out a low whistle, "Yeah…there ain't nothin' like it."
Silence fell between the two after that which was completely fine by Merle. It gave him time to recline against the wall and rest his eyes. His ears focused on the sound of the wind whipping through the tall pine trees outside their window.
It was getting to be fall. Maybe tomorrow he'd ditch work and go hunting. Bag a nice deer or turkey. Daryl probably won't be up for going, being sick, which was fine by Merle. That meant there would be no one to slow him down or scare off the game with clumsy footsteps. Soon he'd have to start teaching Daryl about hunting. Currently, he'd been teaching him about tracking and, he had to admit, the kid was a natural at it. But hunting…he wasn't so sure that would come as easy to the youngest Dixon. Daryl was much softer than he was. Probably would start crying if he shot something.
"Mer—" Daryl's panicked voice snapped him out of his dozing. Merle hadn't even realized he'd sprung into action until he'd finished shoving the trashcan into his little brother's arms. The kid immediately let out a belching sound which was followed by a wet splattering. The older Dixon winced. There went all that water.
"And after all the trouble I went through to get you that water," he joked.
Daryl let out a whimper, "When'll it s-stop?"
"You went and caught yerself a bug. It'll stop once its good an' ready to."
Daryl blanched and his grip on the can tightened, "There's a bug inside o' me?"
Merle looked at the sheer horror on the other's face before he let out a laugh, "Don' start pissin' yer pants. That's just what folks call it when ya get sick."
Daryl just stared at him for a second longer before spilling his guts some more.
A/N: I love the Dixon brothers and find their life before the apocalypse super interesting! There is one chapter left. Please, let me know what you think!