AN: not my first walking dead fic, but my friend really encouraged me to share this...so here we are.
Wrote this because the new episode totally broke my heart and left me curled up in the fetal position. So I needed to vent in some way - I absolutely ADORE the relationship between these two. It's just...awesome. Reedus and Rooker are the bomb.
Anywhoo, obviously heavy spoilers for the newest episode of Walking Dead and some from the new game Survival Instinct...I haven't played much of the game so it's honestly just some from the intro. ha.
(Does anyone even care about being spoiled for that? i don't even know anymore...)
Also, totally love the DarylxAndrea pairing...just...putting that out there - slipped it into the fic for my bby singingsin, who is also the one who wanted me to post this here (psst. go read her shit, she's the best.)
Driveway
monoxidegirl
Daryl is ten when Merle leaves home.
When he walks out the door, he follows, close on his heels, his brother's backpack nearly overflowing with what meagre things he owns – some clothes, a few dime bags, his toothbrush.
"Take me with you."
"Go back inside."
"Merle, c'mon, take me—"
Merle jerks the door to the cab of the truck open and pauses, looking back at him, "Go on. Git lost. Ain't got time for this shit. Pop's gonna be home any minute an' I ain't lettin' him stop me."
"Take me with you."
He doesn't say a word more, just climbs into the cab and slams the door but he hears him through the glass, just before the engine of the truck revs up, "Someday, little brotha. Someday."
And then he's gone, speeding off down the driveway toward the highway and Daryl is left alone, watching, until he can't see him anymore.
Merle has rarely been in his life but he has always been a constant – he always feels as if he is chasing his brother's shadow, trying to keep pace with him but never able to quite match it.
His brother is someone he both loves and hates, but never at the same time, and whenever he thinks he has it all figured out, Merle finds a way to shove him back and knock him off course. He is distant, too distant and far off to reach.
"So we gonna do it once their guard is down," Merle murmurs through the darkness of the tent, and Daryl can hear the soft breathing of the others in the camp. The end of his joint glows cherry red and he can see him extend an arm to him, passing it off to him; "You good with that?"
Daryl takes it and inhales, "Ya sure 'bout this?"
Merle snorts, condescending, "Don't be such a pussy. 'Course I am."
"They got kids with 'em Merle."
"What's yer point?"
"Jus' sayin'."
Merle sits up; Daryl can see his outline illuminated through the dying firelight and the hazy smoke, drifting lazily in their tent and he's reminded of childhood, of being sixteen and Merle appearing, again, like a premonition, like a ghost, his eyes gleaming in the dim light from the hallway.
Miss me, little brotha? How 'bout a hug for ole Merle?
"Don't gotta choice," He says softly, his eyes shifting to the door of their tent. Daryl sits up on one elbow and Merle takes the joint from his fingers, clenching it between his teeth as he nods a greeting at Shane, sitting by the fireside, watching their shadows for movement; "These pansy ass democrats and niggers are just gonna slow us down. Better if it's me n' you. Same as always."
Same as always, Daryl thinks as he settles back against his bedroll, same as always.
He remembers their mother, beautiful, fleeting through his dreams like a ghost – Merle used to do the same thing, in the years he was gone, haunting him like a bad taste in his mouth, like too much sour candy.
And then their father, begging for his mercy, please, Daryl, please – and his hand, steady on the trigger, but hesitant, too scared, always too fucking weak—
Sorry, brother.
Merle is always there.
He is always there, even when he isn't, and he buries the hand in the quarry, before they leave and he makes sure to leave little indicators for him, things only they'd know – he first carves a 'D' into the trees whenever he can stop, whenever he thinks no one is looking because he's sure he's the only one who misses Merle.
Sometimes, he sits up and waits by the fire, expects him to appear out of the woods, arms spread – How about a hug for ole Merle, little brotha?
Other times, Merle comes to him when he's sleeping, when he's let his guard down and he's angry; he left him there, in Atlanta, to rot, to die, to be devoured by the geeks and he didn't ever mean for any of this, he didn't.
After a while, he stops.
Merle is alive; he holds no doubt of that – the only one who can kill Merle is Merle. He'll return when he least expects him, when he thinks he's finally gotten free of the chokehold he has around his neck.
But slowly, these people chip away at him.
They pull back each brick he has put around him since childhood – Carol, with her motherly smiles and tender words; Carl, with his childlike naivety and innocence; Glenn, with a casual grin (despite all the awful things he said, Merle said) and a clap on the back; Rick, with his trust and his confidence; Dale, with his unwavering belief in the good in him, in that he isn't just trash, waiting to be discarded and forgotten. Andrea, with her understanding and easy silences.
(She, of all of them, understands the most, and sometimes, Amy's empty eyes watch him through the darkness, sometimes, he can see her in Andrea, hungry and hunting, and that's almost as bad as Merle, taunting him, same as always—)
'—scrape ya off their shoes like you was dog shit—'
And then Sophia, shambling out of the barn, hungry, growling, gone, and he's failed again.
He couldn't help their father, bleeding out and dying slow. Couldn't help Merle, chained to that roof like an animal.
(He remembers hunting with Merle when he's nineteen and Merle is just about twenty-eight, his brother teaching him, showing him, guiding him, gotta shoot 'em clean, brotha, so they don't run off and let some other critter get 'em. Gotta make sure ya bring 'em down with one shot –)
He dreams of Carol that night, her sobbing cries, the way her body crumples forward and takes him with it and when he looks down, it's his Mother there, wailing for Merle and his brother is crawling out of that barn, reaching for him with his severed hand, blood black, his eyes hollow.
Daryl sits up the rest of the night on the roof of the RV and watches the tree line of the forest, crossbow loaded and ready.
It's a strange feeling, to be moving toward and away from that same something, but every day they travel away from the farm, battered and defeated and resigned to whatever this is, Daryl feels himself getting closer to Merle.
He's steadily gaining on him, getting closer, nearer, but at the same time, he's being pulled back, away, toward something better. A promise, unspoken, from every one of them.
He's worth something to these people.
He's not just the shit on their shoes, redneck trash, and it dawns on him one cool morning, just before daybreak, the sky streaked with heavy gray clouds – he's huddled around the hood of his truck, map spread out, with Hershel and Rick and Glenn, and Rick is jabbing at it with a finger, tracing back roads and side streets and anything off the highway.
"Best is to take the next exit," Daryl finds himself saying, and he doesn't know why, but Rick nods, "Used to—came up here before. S'quieter on that route. Heads into a town we might be able to pick clean for some supplies. Most folks woulda taken this one," He points at another route into the same town, "More traffic."
More walkers.
Rick nods, "All right."
He remembers a late night with Andrea, remembers her sitting next to him at the small fire by his tent, set from the others, shortly after Sophia, after Shane dragged it all out in front of them, turning everything they hoped to be wrong into a reality.
"How are you doing?"
Her voice is quiet, gentle, like she's afraid she'll send him running.
"M'fine."
"You did your best."
Andrea, somehow, has a way of digging under his skin, of burrowing deep to his bones and curling up, like a poison – her words send a stab of guilt and white hot anger through his gut, into some deep place he doesn't go to. She offers him a smile and he looks away, back to the fire, spitting sparks into the cooling Georgia night air.
"Well obviously, that ain't good enough."
"Hey," She shakes her head, and leans so she gets into his space, so he can't retreat from her, "Hey. Don't think like that. Nobody blames you."
"Don't matter," He says, kicking some dirt onto the already dying flame, "Ain't gonna change a damn thing. That little girl's dead."
"And that's not your fault."
Daryl just looks at her and Andrea looks back, what's left of the embers casting eerie shadows over her eyes, hollowing her face out and for a second, he thinks he sees Amy again, dead, looking back at him and he has to look away again. Andrea sighs.
"I'm sorry, Daryl."
"Don't say sorry to me," He hisses, "Say sorry to her Mama. She's the one buryin' her baby tomorrow. Not me."
Andrea doesn't say a word, but she doesn't move, not right away. Then, slowly, her hand finds his and squeezes, her head settling into the crook of his shoulder and he flinches but he doesn't push her off.
'—you're every bit as good as them—'
The lights of the arena are too damn bright, burning and blurring his vision as the bag is unceremoniously ripped off his head and he's jostled a bit before he's shoved forward, toward Merle.
(He catches Andrea's eyes, wide and green and terrified, for him, because of him, he's not sure—)
And somehow, he knew, he knew this is how it would come about, how this would happen and his brother has always been there, always been holding him back and pushing him forward.
Merle's hand around his neck is familiar, the same as when they were kids – but the intent isn't there, the pressure, and he scrabbles back and tries to push his bulkier frame back and—
'Follow my lead, little brotha—'
Same as always – same as he always has.
"Ya got somethin' to say to me?"
Merle's voice drifts down from the top bunk in the prison and Daryl cracks an eye open to scowl at the indent of his brother's weight above him. It's like being a child all over again and he rolls onto his side to stare at the wall.
"Nope."
"Then why you actin' like a bitch?"
"I ain't."
Merle snorts, softly, into the darkness. He can hear the creak of the stairs as Beth walks up and down, bouncing Judith, who's whimpering and fussing softly – the farm girl is humming, lowly, trying to soothe her, and he thinks he'll make a quick run tomorrow, just into town, to see what else he can find for her, maybe some soothers or a rattle or something.
"Ya are," Merle's voice jars him from his thoughts and he hears him hop down and his bed groans under his brother's added weight. He sits up to give him more space, but makes sure that they don't touch. Merle doesn't notice, or doesn't care to comment; "Ain't said more than a peep ta me since we got back."
"It's nothin'."
Merle just watches him and then whistles, "There ya go again. Actin' like a damn woman. Ya gonna start cryin', too? Ya on yer rag, little brotha?"
"Look, I ain't got nothin' to say to ya."
"Oh, I think ya got plenty to say," Merle comments, his lips turning into a smile, amused, like he's found something terribly funny about the situation. But it fades not long after and he exhales; "Listen. 'Bout before, what happened, I really—"
"You did. But it doesn't matter now."
"He suffer?"
Daryl looks down before back up, meets Merle's eyes and then nods. Merle seems to approve of the answer and he just looks away, his eyes following Beth as she vanishes back into her own cell, still humming quietly to Judith, who has gone silent in her arms.
"He deserved it," Merle turns to look at him again and he laughs, a little, "Shit. Listen to us. Goin' on like a couple of bitches."
His good hand (his only hand) ruffles his hair and he stands, climbing back into his own bed. The frame shudders with his movement as he gets comfortable again, settling back to sleep and Daryl doesn't, even as the sun starts to rise, sending beams of light across the concrete of their cell.
Daryl doesn't think he ever saw his brother again, not after he climbed into that truck and drove away at eighteen, leaving him standing in their driveway, hoping and praying he'd come back, ruffle his hair and laugh, just foolin' little brotha, let's go, it's just gonna be me n you, same as it's always been—
All that hoping and praying didn't do any good – not then, not now.
Merle came back, but as someone else, someone different. Daryl barely recognized him that night, standing in his room. Merle's hand, cold, had curled around his forearm and jerked him out of bed, pulled him to his feet as he thrust a pair of jeans and a dirty shirt at him.
"Come on, brotha, we're goin' out."
The drive to Atlanta had been silent, the windows of the truck cranked open, cool, mountain air filling the cab, waking him and bringing him back to reality and he'd just looked at his brother and tried to find words, tried to think of what to say, what to ask, what to—
Six years he'd been gone and all he had to give him as an explanation had been a smirk, casual, easy, but different, sharper, dangerous. His brother is like the edge of a blade, he'd either do no damage or dig in so deep he hit bone, and he'd kept his eyes on the road that night, the only light from their truck, the radio playing softly in the background, some country melody with a soft lilt of female vocals and the quiet twang of guitar.
"Just gonna be me n' you from now on Daryl. Just me n' you. Like it oughta be."
Even now, he dreams of that night, sitting in the cab, shivering in his flannel shirt and jeans, Merle's fingers drumming out a tune on the steering wheel, even as the walkers gnash and claw at the windows and thump against the back, trying to get in, the farm burning bright in the rear-view mirror.
'—ain't no one gonna love ya 'cept me, little brotha—'
Daryl never wanted it to end like this.
But when he sees him – like Sophia, like Amy, like everyone else – something is different. Merle's eyes are dead, empty, watching him and seeing nothing but a meal, food, something to devour and feed upon.
All of a sudden, he's ten again, watching Merle drive away, seeing the truck get smaller and smaller until there's nothing but settling dust and him, alone, all alone – their father had pulled in and come down on him, like the flood gates had opened and let loose a storm, furious at him for letting Merle leave and for things he still can't identify.
Someday, he'd said, someday he'd take him with him, he'd said it – he remembers, he'd held on to that, locked away with his grief over Sophia, over their father, over Lori and T-Dog and Patricia and even Shane.
But now – Merle lunges and he pushes back, and he foolishly finds himself telling himself to wake up, to open his eyes – he can be back at the prison if he just does that, he can be back in his bunk, with Merle snoring soundly above him, familiar.
He's not waking up and Merle keeps coming at him, teeth clacking as he tries to bite into his arms, his throat. He chokes down a sob and his eyes burn and he wonders if the ache in his chest is the same as what Carol felt, watching Sophia come out of the barn, growling, if this is how Andrea felt when Amy's fingers curled tight into her hair and started to tug.
'Just me n' you. Like it oughta be.'
For someone who has never been there, never once been what he needed, Merle has always been there – pushing and driving him on, and it's unfair, it's wrong, that he's the one driving his buck knife into his skull but it needs to be him. He wonders if this is karma for not putting his Father down, for thrusting that weight onto Uncle Jess and when Merle finally is still before him, he collapses backwards and tries to breathe, tries to look away but his eyes won't leave, fixated on his arm, and then the bloody hole, torn through his tattered wife beater.
It's done.
It's done and he's gone, like everyone else, and Daryl feels his stomach lurch as he lets his body weight sag backwards, breathing out the adrenaline, the blood roaring in his ears finally subsiding to leave behind only the sounds of Merle's teeth, snapping at his throat and limbs.
He's gone, he's gone like before only he's not coming back this time – he won't show up in the middle of the night and drag him to Atlanta, half asleep. He won't sneak him into the bar so he can tell him all about his time gone and how they're going to make money, how he's going to make a man of him yet.
He's driven off again and left him in the driveway and that someday is never going to come.
'I just want my brother back.'