Blood is Thicker

SPOILERS FOR 'HOME'

The group struggle to see how Daryl always defends Merle. Maggie is angry from her kidnapping so she is determined to find out just what kind of hold he has on the younger Dixon.

This is slightly AU in that when Merle rips Daryl's shirt off and sees the scars he's not surprised, he knows better than anyone why they are there.

We all know The Walking Dead is not mine, but I do have zombie survival plans and they include finding myself a crossbow wielding badass in great need of a hug. No new content, just fixed the formatting. As always, reviews are love.

Maggie was relieved and furious at the same time. Just when it was all going to hell, again, and she thought that this would be their last pathetic stand not only did Glenn return to rescue her father, thank God, but Daryl also appeared, wielding his crossbow and dragging the walkers from Rick just in the nick of time. She'd never been so happy to see either of them, but what dampened that feeling was the fact that he'd brought his brother with him.

To be fair to Daryl, he didn't look too happy about that either. He strode back into the cellblock suddenly looking stiff and sore and angrier than anyone had ever seen him. Merle seemed to be completely unaware of his fury. "Hey Lil' Brother, you got my spare shirt in your bag?"

Daryl stopped and spun around, stalking back to his brother and slinging the rucksack he'd been carrying in Merle's face. The older brother barely caught it and gave a cackle at the younger man's anger.

"Daryl…" Rick started.

But Daryl ignored him and turned back to head up to his cell. It was then that they all saw it, the back of his shirt had been completely ripped off exposing his bare back. Underneath the tattoos of his demons on his right shoulder lay lines and lines of crisscrossing scars. They were old and faded but some were thick welts, like they'd been reopened again and again and left untreated.

Everyone stared, Beth let out an involuntary gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth. Maggie figured most people had guessed beforehand, the way he had flinched at people's touch, the way until recently he'd kept his distance, his inability to let people look after him when he was hurt. But it was different for them all to see it, visible and undeniable. Maggie had never seen injuries like that before, had assumed that they'd be thin and faded, could not imagine how much pain he would have gone through. She realised her father must have known they were there, he'd stitched him up when he'd been impaled by that arrow but then Hershel would take secrets to the grave if he felt it necessary.

The cellblock fell into an awkward silence, broken by Merle's harsh laughter, "He always could go into a helluva sulk o'er nuthin'."

Rick moved to go after him but Carol held his arm and stopped him. "Not right now," she whispered, "let him have his space." Rick nodded and backed down, bowing to Carol's superior knowledge not only of Daryl but a little bit of how it must feel. Maggie wondered if he'd opened up to the woman at all, by the look of deep shock and sorrow on her face she guessed not.

So she bit back her anger and let him be a little. But lying in bed that night, curled up on herself she couldn't help but gaze at Glenn's swollen face, notice the winces every time he moved and that anger came back.

She slipped out from under Glenn's arm, she was worried he would wake but he was exhausted and so barely stirred. Then, barefoot she padded across the cold concrete floor and up the stairs to where Daryl slept. Her next concern was that Carol would have crawled into bed with the younger Dixon, no one was quite sure what was going on there although they could all see how much they cared about each other. The whole group knew the only person who couldn't see that was Daryl himself, but as she walked passed the cells she could see a bundle of blankets with a little silver head poking out in Carol's room.

She'd ascended the stairs so quietly she was sure no one had woken but when she got to Daryl's room he was laying in bed, fully clothed with his crossbow aimed at the door.

"Ain't good to sneak up on people." He said gruffly but in a low voice so as not to wake anyone else.

"I…" Now she was here she didn't know what to say.

"Hey, are you a'right?" He asked sitting up and putting the crossbow aside, when she nodded his mind went to the next logical reason for her being there. "Glenn a'right?"

And that was it, floodgates opened, "Glenn was tortured, badly. And now his torturer is sleeping in the next room. How do you think he is?"

"Hey, keep it down." Daryl said, concerned others would hear. "I know how you must feel about him, but he's my brother."

"You keep saying that but he sure don't treat you like one. We watched him beat you in the ring in Woodbury, he made you take off alone. Treats all your friends like they were dirt. He beat on Glenn, is friends with the guy who nearly raped me, shot at Michonne, how can you defend him?"

Daryl shrugged, "I have to, he's my brother."

"Looks like he didn't defend you when you needed it!" She hissed, grasping the hem of his shirt and lifting it to see the scars.

Daryl pulled it away from her and looked like he was about to hit her for it. "Right! And you would know so much about that with your perfect little world, with your perfect little family." He shot, still keeping their voices low.

"You wanna see so bad? This turn you on?" He snarled unbuttoning his shirt and ripping it off to reveal not just the scars on his back but the ones across his chest, his taut stomach, slashes cutting across his ribs. "I owe Merle my life, he weren't there much but the one time I did need him he saved my life."

These days Daryl struggled to remember what the fight had been about, there were so many. His dad had always been a mean drunk but since his momma died in that house fire and they'd all moved into that trailer it had gotten much worse. Daryl figured his dad must have loved his momma after all because he became so much angrier when she was gone. Who knows, maybe it was just that he took more of the brunt of it. Daryl had been nine when that had happened, playing out with the other kids, just starting to feel like maybe he could be one of them after all if he managed to get his hands on a bicycle and then they'd all raced off to follow the fire trucks and his whole life crashed down around him.

In hindsight Daryl knew the reason his mother had been day-drinking again was his father. But for the longest time he believed it was his fault. After all his dad told him at every opportunity, even Merle, when he'd come back at the end of the summer from Juvie had said that Daryl should've been home looking after her. But when he heard his father and Merle fighting over it, at least Merle defended him then, told their dad that the reason for her death was her miserable marriage, blamed him for everything and then stormed out slamming the door.

Merle didn't come back for days, when he did he made sure to come when their dad was at work. Daryl was supposed to be at school that day but he hadn't felt like it. He knew he'd get into trouble for it but these days he didn't care. Daryl had been sat on the front steps of their trailer, slingshot in hand taking potshots at some tin cans he'd lined up on the fencing. He was good too, hit every single one first time.

Merle turned up in the same faded tee he'd been wearing when he'd stormed out. "Hey Lil' Brother." He'd greeted, coming up and ruffling the young boy's hair. He bent down and inspected the boy's face, the telltale marks around his eye of a bruise a few days old. "What the hell happened Lil' Bro?" He asked, concerned.

"Got in a fight at school." Daryl lied, "You should'a seen the other kid." He said in his best tough guy impression."

"That's ma boy!" Merle grinned. Daryl knew that Merle must have known who'd actually hit him, but either he didn't want to believe it or he didn't want it interfering with his own plans because he never questioned Daryl's story, or the fact it looked about four days old, same length of time Merle had been missing.

"You back to stay?" Daryl asked.

"Nah, just come to get some 'o ma shit. I've got me a sweet job. Go'n be a Marine. Whaddaya think a that Lil' Bro? Ain't I gonna be the meanest toughest son 'o a bitch in the whole damn corps?"

"Cool." Daryl said, although his heart broke at the thought of being left. He was tough himself though and he would be damned if he let his brother see how upset he was.

Merle carried on talking as he packed up his meager possessions, told Daryl all about the cool places he'd go to, all the sons o' bitches he'd kill, how he'd come back a goddamn hero. Daryl just sat on the step of the trailer and listened to him, his brother seemed so happy, but Daryl couldn't blame him, he'd be happy too if he could escape. They're parting words were awkward, neither one capable of touching words or human contact. In the end Daryl had settled for "Take care of yourself out there." Which he'd felt had been the right grown up thing to say when your brother was going off to fight. But Merle just laughed and replied "Don't be a pussy." And then he was gone.

Merle was gone three years. He'd written occasionally, awkward scrawly handwriting, badly spelled, which managed to have the knock-on effect of motivating Daryl to go to school. Daryl had written back, but never had a lot to say. He spent more and more time outside, started exploring the woods at the back of the trailer, even got lost for nine days one time although no one even noticed he was gone. His letters to Merle were all about the woods, the animals he'd taught himself to track and hunt, long summer days bathing and drinking his dad's beer in the stream, the fox cub he had found and nursed back to health. He didn't tell him that his father found the cub cowering under Daryl's bed one day and clobbered it to death, leaving it's frail little body dumped out on the edges of the woods for Daryl to find when he came home from school. He didn't mention the fact that he now always wore long sleeves to school to hide the marks, or that all the kids thought he was weird and didn't want to play with him. Or that he hid out in the library on rainy days reading up all he could on Native American folklore and bushcraft and that he fully intended one day to disappear off into the woods and never come back.

Daryl was the only one left now and so the responsibility always fell to him. He did the shopping and the cleaning (although his dad never really noticed so he soon stopped) and anything that needed cooking he did. His dad was spiralling further and further into drink until he stopped bothering to go to work. Then it got really awkward, bills got cut off and there was never any money for food. Daryl's little trips to the forest became less about pretending to be a Native American and more about survival. He took down a whole deer once, bigger than he was and had to drag it back to the house. Took him all day and well into the middle of the night. But when he served up venison steaks the next day his father never said a word, barely even seemed to realise it was the first meat they'd eaten in over a month.

Considering his lethargy Daryl was always quite surprised when his father found the energy to fly into a rage but he did more and more. His particular favourite was his big leather belt with the Lynyrd Skynyrd belt buckle on it. They always left the nastiest marks. Daryl would have to awkwardly dress those wounds to stop them from bleeding through his shirt at school. They bled for ages, and every time the belt was used again he'd feel the tender skin split back open.

The night that Merle came home their dad was angry. Daryl, a few days shy of his thirteenth birthday had been absorbed in a really good book and had burned the dinner. His dad had flown into the young boy's bedroom and snatched the book from his hands, throwing it across the floor. This made Daryl angry too, backing down had never worked for him and since he'd gotten a little bit taller and tougher from all those days out in the woods he'd given into his rage a bit.

"What the fuck you reading fer? You can't be wastin' yer time wi' this nonsense boy. Now you gone burnt the food an' you know we ain't got much."

"Yeah? We wouldn't have nuthin' if it weren't fer me." Daryl retaliated. His father back-handed him, hard enough to make his teeth rattle and split his lip.

"Where'd you learn that mouth? Don' you dare talk back, you hearin' me?" His father grabbed Daryl's arm and yanked it, pulling him to his feet and started to drag him into the other room. Daryl resisted but the man was still a lot bigger than him and there was no way he could stop him, but he had to try, the man was trying to drag him towards the kitchen and there were all kinds of weapons in there. Daryl grabbed at the doorframe and held on tight with his free hand. So his father twisted the one he had hold of, twisted it and pulled it down across the small side table in the hall. There was a nauseating snap and Daryl let out a scream. His father let go of his arm and he dropped to the floor, curling up in a ball to protect the mangled limb. This didn't stop Daryl's father who went to undo his belt.

Daryl could hear the sound of leather slipping from the belt loops but he couldn't bring himself to move. He curled up in a ball, cradling his broken arm and breathed through the pain, waiting for more. The first lash came down, the metal buckle biting into his skin on his lower back, tearing into an old wound and opening it up. It burned, everything was agony but there was nothing he could do but ride it out. He knew his father would wear himself out eventually and then he'd be allowed to crawl back into his room and see to his wounds.

Another lash came down and another, Daryl could feel his back splitting, still healing gashes reopening, blood streaming hot and sticky down his ribs. He kept waiting for it to stop this time but it didn't. This was it, he realised, this is the day he'd get beaten to his death. Just went he thought he was going to pass out he was pulled back to consciousness by a yell. It had been three years but Daryl recognised that voice instantly. "Get offa him!" Merle had shouted from the doorway. Daryl peeked out of his protective ball to see Merle stood in the hall over their old man, he had a pistol raised to their fathers head.

"Now Merle, don' you go do nuthin' stupid." Their father warned, taking a step forward to the older brother.

Merle's hand never even wavered, finger on the trigger. "You okay Lil' Brother?"

Daryl nodded and sat up, cradling his broken arm.

"I'm warning you boy." Their father took another step towards Merle and then quicker than should have been possible he picked up the side table and threw it at Merle. The gun went off and the older man dropped, his body half landing on Daryl who was just behind him. Blood started to blossom out of a ragged hole in his chest.

"Holy shit!" Merle said, staring at what he'd done. And then, what Daryl found really scary was that Merle laughed. He started laughing and then couldn't stop. "Shit man, I been wantin' to do that forever!" Once he calmed himself down a bit he remembered that Daryl was sat soaked in blood and cradling his arm, his skin white with pain and shock.

"Come on Lil' Bro," Merle said, suddenly all concern. "We need to get you to a hospital." And Merle scooped Daryl up in his arms like he weighed nothing and carried him out to their dad's beat up old car.

"We was at hospital getting my arm fixed when the cops showed up." Daryl explained. "They took Merle away, he got a reduced sentence, did time for manslaughter not murder. I went into foster care. By the time he got out so had I, an' I had a little job as a mechanic at a motorcycle shop, place o' my own though it weren't very big. He came to stay with me, but he was different, y'know? He was always kinda mean before but prison had changed him. We didn't never do no drugs before but Merle had tried them on the inside an' soon he found that they were the only way he could get through the day. Damn fool did stupid things, robbed people, burgled places, almost always got caught. Did a bit of dealin' for some guy, got promoted to enforcer when they saw he could fight. Merle was in an' out o' places like this his whole life." He said gesturing round the prison, "But when he came out I couldn't never say no to him. I'd be dead now if it weren't for him, that debt can never be repaid."

Maggie sat dumbfounded. During the story she'd ended up sat perched on the edge of Daryl's bed and he seemed too wrapped up in what he was remembering to care. She'd expected to go up there to have a fight with him, now she wanted to give him a hug for all that he'd been though. He looked at her with an expression on his face that was half anger half hurt puppy, like he wasn't sure what her reaction would be. She figured he was probably mostly angry with himself for letting his guard down. Instead of the hug, knowing it wouldn't be appreciated, she took his hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, and thank you."

"For what?" He asked confused.

"For helping me understand."

"You're not gonna…" He said, concerned.

"I'm not saying anything." She stood and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving a stunned Daryl in his lonely bed.

Maggie headed back to the stairs creeping quietly, as she did she saw Carol, a door away from Daryl had sat up and had been sat listening with silent tears rolling down her cheeks. They exchanged looks but said nothing and Maggie carried on to her bed. Glenn was still asleep when she got there and she crawled in with him under the blankets. At feeling her body close to him again he stirred and opened his eyes just a crack. "I love you." He mumbled, wrapping his arms around her.

Sinking into his embrace she whispered "I love you too." And burst into tears. Glenn didn't ask why, just cradled her until she drifted to sleep.