It's been fifteen minutes, and Rick's getting antsy. He don't know Merle that well, but he knows Daryl's not exactly the chatty type. And they've had two whole days together to catch up; far as he can figure it, there's no reason the two of them ought to be taking so long.
He's not aware he's pacing until Carol's polite cough makes him stop. Daryl must be rubbing off on him, he thinks. He's always been a pacer. Bless his heart, the man can't seem to hold still more than a second or two to save his wretched soul, not even when he's sleeping.
Rick wonders briefly if that's why it's taking so long: 'cause trying to talk to Daryl when he's all worked up's kind of like trying to hit a moving target.
Come the twenty-minute mark, though, Rick don't much care why it's taking so long.
"I'm gonna go see what's taking so long," he tells Carol.
She purses her lips, rocking a sleeping Judith absently. She doesn't say anything, but Rick can tell she's thinking plenty.
"What?"
"Nothing," Carol says, shaking her head. "It's just…he's not good for him, Rick. Merle? He's gonna drag him down if he stays."
Rick scowls. "Don't you think I know that?" His gut's been in knots about it this whole damn time. "I just don't see us having a whole hell of a lot of other options. You saw what happened last time we bade him choose 'tween his brother and us. We can't afford to lose him again. Not now."
"But he came back," Carol says.
"He came back with Merle!" It comes out harsh – harsher than Rick really means it to, and he takes a second to rein himself back in. This mess ain't on Carol; it's not her fault. He takes a breath, lets it out in a sigh, and runs his hand through his hair. And when he speaks again, his voice measured and tense. "You really think Merle should go, then you go right on and you tell Daryl yourself. Because I won't. I can't ask him to do that again." He can't put that on him, not with everything else that's going on.
Apparently, Carol can't either. Her shoulders sag, and her face falls to a sad, tired frown that makes her look older than she is. He reckons there's one just about like it on his face.
"I'll keep my eye on him," he says after a long moment. "It ain't much, but it'll have to do." And that kills him, knowing he's so fucking helpless to look after his own, but it's like he said: it'll have to do.
That being said, he's sure as hell going to do it right, starting now. "Be right back," he says, and then he starts off in the direction of the Dixon brothers. He figures they're probably in the next cell block over. Daryl knows not to go much further'n that, but they're far enough gone their voices aren't carrying through.
He's just barely made it a few steps that direction though before he hears something that makes him stop. Footsteps, loud and just shy of quick enough to be a run, and Rick doesn't have to call out to know whose they are. They've been together long enough now, even just in this prison, he's learned the sounds his people make. And even though Daryl doesn't make a habit 'a stomping around the place, he knows those footfalls almost as well as he knows his own.
Sure enough, it's not but a second or two later that Daryl comes walking out of the other cell block through the common area. He's got his head bowed, and Rick can read from the set of his shoulders – not to mention the way those boots of his are clomping on the concrete – that he's not happy.
It doesn't take a head shrinker to know what for.
"Merle." The name slips off his tongue like a curse. To him, it is one. Merle's a curse; he's a weight on his brother that Daryl doesn't need, and he ain't even sorry about it.
"—away from me, little brother. We ain't done talking yet!" Merle's voice calls, and soon he appears from the same door Daryl did. He's got one of those grins on his face that Rick tends to associate with tripped-out druggies and sociopaths. He's not real sure he's decided which one of those Merle is just yet.
Doesn't get much time to think on it, either. Daryl's just passing him, and he catches him with a hand on his chest. He's planning to ask him what the hell happened, what Merle's gone and done this time – and damned if it ain't getting harder and harder to remind himself why he's letting this son of a bitch stay on at the prison – but Daryl kills his questions on his tongue with a look.
"I took care of it," he says, and then he shrugs away from Rick's touch like he's burned him.
That hurts. Daryl pulling away from him like that, walking away from him…he tries not to take it personal, but he can only do so much, and it still stings.
He's gonna drag him down. Carol's words echo in his head, and much as he'd like to ignore them, they're suddenly ringing a lot truer. This isn't gonna be easy. But then, he reckons nothing in this life worth doing ever is. Especially not now.
He lets Daryl go for the time being. He'll let him cool off a little while, then he'll go look after him. In the meantime, he's got another Dixon to see to, and he's not quite so concerned about this one's feelings.
"Merle!" This time, it's like a gunshot. It isn't loud as one – there's a baby in this room and walkers in the woods, and he's not much inclined to aggravate either – but it's sharp, and it echoes off the walls of the common area.
Merle stops a few feet in front of Rick. He's got a look in his eyes that's a little bit challenging and a little bit snide, and Rick knows, he knows he ain't gonna make this easy. And there's a part of Rick that's just fine with that, because he's got a little bit of steam needs letting off, and Merle's just as good a place as any to aim it.
Of course, looking at him, Rick sees that he's not the only one seemed to think so. Merle's nose is bleeding fresh, and he's not going to lie; he feels a swell of satisfaction knowing that it had to be Daryl that popped him. Probably a long time coming.
Merle must notice where he's looking, because he sniffs and spits a wad of blood on the floor. "Seems Darleena's still got a little fight left in her after all," he says. It ain't a backhanded compliment; Merle can't even give Daryl that. It's an insult, plan and simple, and Rick has half a mind to give him a couple shiners to match that bloody nose of his. "No thanks to you sons 'a bitches."
"Just what's that supposed to mean?" He's doing his God's honest best not to snarl, not to lose his temper. He won't give Merle the satisfaction.
Merle's got no such predilections. His lip curls around crooked teeth, and he steps right up in Rick's face, staring down his swelled-up nose at Rick like he's the scum of the earth in the flesh. "You tell me, Officer Friendly," he says. "He's scrawnier'n a knobby-kneed little girl. So, how's it work? You feed my brother scraps offa your plates, or you make him scrounge in the trash like a real stray?"
For the briefest second, Rick thinks he might hear something sounds a little like concern in Merle's voice, but he loses it somewhere under all the mockery and disgust and the blood pounding in his own ears. He knows Daryl's slimmed up a bit since Atlanta; they all have. Not enough food to go around and too much running and moving, and that little bit of padding he had back when they first met's gone. Daryl's all lean, corded muscle, now, and hard edges and cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and it might be there's a part of Rick that feels guilty every time he sees his ribs standing out when he breathes or his shoulderblades jutting when he aims his crossbow, but he knows that's just part of life now, and he moves on.
But implying it's 'cause he's like some sort of dog they don't feed, 'specially when Rick saw the way he tore into that can of cream of chicken when he got back like he hadn't eaten since he left…Rick's not gonna stand for that.
"Now you listen here, you bitter, racist, hillbilly bastard," Rick says through gritted teeth, "Daryl's one of us, now. And unlike you, we take care of our own." He steps in closer, 'til he can see the pockmarks on his face and smell the rotten stink of his breath, and he stares him down like he could kill him with his eyes. "If you do anything to jeopardize him or this group in any way, I will personally put you down."
Merle just grins, though. "You really think Daryl'd let you put me down? You got another thing coming." He turns his head and spits another wad of blood, this time on Rick's boot, then looks right back up at him. "I'm his brother, and there ain't nothing thicker'n blood."
"I guess we'll just see about that, won't we?" Rick says.
"I guess we will." And there's just something about that cock-sure look on his face, like he thinks he's got his brother all figured out and there ain't no way he could be wrong…Rick knows if this goes on any longer, he's gonna start throwing punches. So instead, he grabs him by his wrist – the one he's still got – and he jerks him around. He's none too gentle about shoving him up the stairs of the cell block, and if he pushes him into one of the cells a little harder than he needs to, well then that's just too bad.
"Hey, now," Merle says once he's gotten his feet back under him from stumbling. "That there's that police brutality."
Rick just slams the cell door shut and locks it. "File a complaint." And then he turns, because even if he's agreed to let Merle stay, he ain't leaving him out to wander. He can't risk the group's safety like that.
And, begrudgingly, he admits it's probably wise not to let the others get at him in the night, either. He knows there're a few scores to settle, and plenty of bad blood. It's just best this way.
"Hey, Officer Friendly," Merle hollers after him as he walks away. Rick doesn't look back, not that that seems to deter Merle any. "He left you for me once. You best remember that."
"And you best get some sleep," Rick calls back. "We start early 'round here."
In the meanwhile, he's got another Dixon needs seeing to.
