Yours, Mine, and…Ours?
xx4xx
Daryl greeted the tenth sunrise since his brother's desperate summons home just like he had the eighth and the ninth—bare chested and bare footed, nursing a mug of suck-ass coffee on the front porch swing.
This morning's mug boldly read, FBI—Female Body Inspector.
Daryl grunted in reluctant amusement. Despite holding the distinction of being the least offensive mug in Merle's vast collection, the cup was still a source of crude inspiration. Not that Daryl really needed much help in that department. His dreams the last couple of nights had been filled with fire and ice, and the ache he'd woken with both mornings following had been more than body deep. He flexed his cramping right hand, chafing his palm against the rough denim of his jeans while a smirk twitched at his lips. He wouldn't mind performing a thorough inspection of his own, mapping the constellation of freckles beneath the enticing flush that had fueled his most recent fantasies. It was really too bad about the kid, he mused yet again, taking another sip of coffee and forcibly pushing all thoughts of the red head from his mind as he looked out into the yard.
Dew still kissed the freshly shorn grass in wet sparkles, and the sun glowed as if through a pink and dusky blue prism. Like clockwork, Merle's resident woodpecker welcomed the morning, providing a percussive beat of sorts to the lilting whistles of the cheerful, orange chested robins flitting and darting about the multiple homemade bird feeders dispersed across the property.
Daryl focused on the nearest one, a half empty mason jar contraption hanging from a hook with a thin sliver of wire just feet in front of him, and added bird seed to his mile-long, ever-changing mental list. Draining the last dregs of weak caffeine from his mug and resting it on the wide porch rail, he stood up and stretched, absently scratching his chest as he considered his plans for the day.
The porch boards were replaced already, shiny and new with some extra pieces he'd found out back, the measurements for the new door noted and stored in his phone. He'd mown the grass yesterday in the balmy evening hours, hoping to tire his body and mind enough for a dreamless sleep that hadn't come. The cupboards were bare, though, and he'd eaten the last of those crap kid's snack lunches curiously filling Merle's fridge shelves the night before, chasing cold pepperoni and cheese with his final beer.
A trip back into town was imminent, ultimately unavoidable; Daryl knew eventually he'd have no other recourse. Blood was blood, after all. Like it or not—and most times, Daryl didn't like it, Merle was the only family he had left. He sighed heavily and scrubbed his hands over his face, the unshaven stubble scratching roughly against his palms. Then he groaned and let his hands fall away, epithets tightening the resigned scowl on his face. "Fuckin' hell, Brother. You best not make me regret this."
Daryl rubbed his clenched fist against the foggy mirror, squinting critically at his reflection before picking up the razor he'd pilfered from Merle's medicine cabinet and carefully scraping it against his skin. As he worked to clear his face of most of the week-old scruff, he thought back to what else he'd found in his brother's stash—a bottle of Oxy.
Even without each pill being counted, it was obvious the bottle was nearly full, less than a third of its contents used.
The date on the prescription and the amount of refills left unfulfilled would have been pretty conclusive proof to somebody that didn't know his brother like he did, that Merle really was trying, but Daryl wasn't quite ready to make that leap just yet. The bastard had too long a history as an unrepentant screw-up, a history that stretched all the way back to Daryl's childhood. No. Merle wasn't getting a free pass, not from him and not yet, but the surprising find was just another confounding piece of evidence to add to the mounting pile he'd encountered since coming home. It was disconcerting as hell, having his preconceived notions challenged like that, and Daryl was increasingly uncomfortable with this whole shebang. He wasn't sold yet that Merle was telling him the complete truth; nope, the dick was leaving something out, and it was probably something big. His eyes briefly landed on the kitchen chair currently sticking out like a sore thumb from the rest of the bathroom's Spartan décor then returned to his own reflection. If it wasn't something like that, then it looked like his addict brother was definitely beginning to lose his grasp on what few marbles remained in his opiate-fried brain.
Merle's bail was more than manageable, chump change if you had the right funds or connections according to the message that do-gooder Grimes had left on Daryl's voicemail. He remained at King County Jail more because of the other man involved and his connections, the charges against him hardly warranting such a lengthy stay. Releasing him should take little work, if only someone cared.
The memory of that last comment, spoken in a judgment-laced drawl, made Daryl grit his teeth. "Man don't know shit," he muttered, wincing as the action resulted in him nicking the tender underside of his jaw. Tearing a small piece of toilet paper from its roll, he pressed it against his skin and gave his face a final once over. A couple of quick swipes with some deodorant later, he left the bathroom behind and padded into the bedroom he'd commandeered as his own during his short stay, contemplating the limited wardrobe laid out on the unmade bed. Swearing, he finally unknotted the white towel at his waist and stepped into a pair of jeans that could almost stand on their own. Yanking his gray tee shirt over his head after giving the sleeves an experimental sniff, he plowed an agitated hand through his damp hair to set it to rights and grabbed his wallet from the nightstand. Looked like he'd be buying more than just milk and his brother's freedom today.
The last couple days had given him more than enough time to explore his surroundings, and he'd been pleasantly surprised to discover a detached garage out back. It was a newer structure, easily big enough to house two cars, but only Merle's old rust bucket resided inside. The rest of the area was a workshop of sorts, mason jars and empty soda bottles, among other things, lined up right alongside more traditional, expected tools. The skeleton of a reworked chopper lurked in one corner beside the old push mower he'd dragged out the day before, and a quartet of starving potted plants wilted on a dim, dusty windowsill.
The old clunker groaned when Daryl opened the door to climb inside and sputtered indignantly when he fitted the poorly hidden keys he'd found on the front tire into the ignition to turn it over. He opened the garage door with the remote he found beneath a folded, two week-old newspaper and put the truck in reverse, swearing when the jerky motion scattered the sticky remains of a bag of gummy bears underfoot. He kicked them aside, grimacing, and checked his jeans pocket one last time for his phone before making a wide turn for town.
It was time to bring Merle home.
Daryl made a couple stops first, the bank being purely necessary and the local mom and pop hardware store nothing more than a stalling tactic. Needless to say, it was well into the afternoon before he set foot in the King County Jail.
A young woman with puppy dog eyes and a short, stubby ponytail gathered at the base of her neck barely spared him a second glance, furiously tapping away at the keyboard in front of her. "Take a seat, and someone will be right with you." A fretful furrow appeared between her brows at whatever she saw on her computer monitor, and she grumbled beneath her breath. "Girls totally do everything better."
Daryl couldn't resist snorting. "Not everything."
The girl abruptly looked up, disbelief twisting her mouth, and narrowed those enormous eyes at him. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
The cadet (because that's obviously what she was…she was simply too green to be anything else) had a tomboyish sort of appeal, and Daryl shrugged and folded his arms across his chest, willing to bait a few hooks if it meant relief from his months long dry spell—especially the torment of the last few days; his inherent dislike of the police and their kind was a total non-factor in the decision. She was young but she was legal, and he didn't get the mommy vibe from her, not at all. When it became apparent the display was wholly unimpressive to his audience, he dropped his arms to his sides and smirked; clearly he was barking up the wrong tree. "You said everything. They don't. It's a matter of opinion."
She matched his smirk with one of her own. "You must be Dixon's brother."
"What gave it away?"
"You're the second guy that's hit on me this week," she grinned, her eyes sparkling and bright. "And it's flattering. It really is. You Dixons are not without your charm. But I like girls," she revealed in a stage whisper. Giggling in tickled delight, she pushed away from her desk and motioned for him to wait as she gathered up a stack of paperwork. "I'm actually going to miss your brother. He drives Walsh crazy, and anybody that can give that man hell…let's just say things are going to be a lot less interesting around this place after you two walk out that door."
"Shane Walsh?" Daryl questioned as he accepted the stack of paperwork from her.
"The one and only," the ponytailed cadet wrinkled her nose. "You know him?"
"Went to high school with the prick," Daryl ground out in distaste.
"Once a prick always a prick," she commented, plucking a pen from her pocket and handing it over. "Fill these out. I'll go see about getting your brother ready. Name's Tara, by the way," she called out as she was leaving.
"Daryl," he muttered softly in reply.
"Nice to meet you, Daryl Dixon."
The whole process didn't take too long.
Before he knew it, his asshole brother was in the truck beside him, and Haggard was bemoaning his mama's failed efforts across the radio waves as the aging vehicle putted across town. Four years' worth of living to catch up on, and the dickhead had nothing to say (not even thanks), choosing instead to stare out the passenger side window like a sullen, stick up its ass child. Daryl finally bit the bullet, settled for something relatively safe. "You reek."
Merle grunted, gripped his pants leg with tension tight fingers.
"You look like one of those damned bush people too," Daryl sneered, his own knuckles white against the steering wheel of the old Ford. "They not give you baths in that place?"
A twitch of his jaw was the only indication Merle gave that he'd heard him. He bumped the volume up on the radio to thwart any further awkward attempts at conversation on Daryl's part.
Daryl soon found himself mirroring his brother's surly expression, only he stared straight ahead at the road. He swore softly when a red light snagged them at the next intersection and turned down the radio with a flick of his wrist, unable to stand the syrupy Dolly Parton tune any longer. "Seriously, Merle?" he blurted suddenly, the strained silence between them getting the better of him. "Yellow roses? Yellow roses damn everywhere? The fuck were you thinking?"
"They attract butterflies or some shit like that! The hell, Lil Brother?" Merle's good arm flailed blindly in his exasperation, and he twisted in his seat to face Daryl. "How many more days were you gonna leave me to rot in that place? I know you been back, Darylina. You tryin' to punish yer old brother?"
"So what if I was?" Daryl snapped, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel with vicious intent. "Don't pretend you're all hurt and offended. You done me wrong, not the other way 'round."
Merle's ire dissolved, and his voice dropped to a soft, guilty rasp. "Maybe. Maybe so. But that girl weren't no count anyway. She played both of us, Baby Brother. You just don't know."
"Jessie weren't never the problem, Merle," Daryl growled. "Not the real problem anyway. She didn't matter. It was the pills. Those goddamn pills. Can't you get that through your thick skull? I couldn't go on pretending everything was fine while you pissed your sorry life away for a fix. Not when you broke your promise."
"I told you already, Darylina. I'm tryin'."
Daryl sighed and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Raising his head, he met his brother's pleading stare with an intense one of his own, just as surprised as Merle at the words that came pouring out of his mouth. "I don't know why, but I believe you. Something's different this time, and I believe you're trying the best you know how."
A flicker of a smile briefly softened Merle's blunt features before he grew serious again. "I am, Baby Brother. You don't know how hard I am."
Shaking his head, Daryl put his foot to the gas when a horn blared behind them, and he belatedly realized the traffic light had turned green. "What does that even mean? Merle, the hell is even going on?"
Merle didn't answer the question, once again staring straight ahead as if afraid to meet Daryl's eyes.
"This is more than some fist fight with some uppity white coat, ain't it?" Daryl pressed harder for answers. He sighed again when Merle's only answer was another question.
"You remember the way to Axel and Big Tiny's place?"
"Bo can't wait for another few minutes?" Daryl snapped, almost immediately feeling remorse when he remembered the helpless ball of fluff he'd rescued from an abandoned restaurant parking lot nearly three years ago. He'd had her delivered to his brother's doorstep when it became obvious a life shuffled between Aaron and Eric's Bed and Breakfast and Sasha's tiny postage stamp apartment during his weeks spent on the rig was no life at all for the affectionate mutt. The drooling lover had been the only tenuous connection the brothers had shared during their four-year estrangement, and he was just as anxious to lay eyes on her as his brother was, but still. "Fuck, Merle. You steal this man's wife or something like that?"
Merle's expression was grim as he grit out a response. "Something like that. Just drive, Daryl. Ole Merle will explain when we get there."
Axel's handlebar mustache twitched like a rabbit's whiskers as he stared down at them both from his lofty top step perch, and his brow crinkled before he smiled. "About time you two showed up."
Axel and Big Tiny's doublewide was a dump, a junky, cluttered space that should have been condemned and looked minuscule with Big Tiny's massive body standing in the center of it. Takeout containers were piled on every semi-flat surface, and the floor looked like it was vomiting an endless supply of dirty clothes. The combined result was almost overwhelming, and that wasn't counting the skunky sweet smell clinging to Axel's scrawny frame.
Daryl coughed into his forearm and turned stinging eyes on his brother's solid bulk. "This part of your explanation, Merle? 'Cause I'm not impressed."
Merle shrugged off Daryl's snarky jibe and fixed a scowl on his former co-workers.
Big Tiny's expression was painfully earnest, and he flapped a meaty arm toward the trailer's rear exit and the little patch of green beyond its rickety door. "He's outside. Been out there most the afternoon."
Daryl frowned as he watched his brother stalk away.
Axel merely offered him a chill grin in response, collapsing into the nearest chair while Merle's departure seemed to have the opposite effect on Big Tiny; the gentle giant moved in a flurry of sudden activity, bustling around and digging through various piles of shit, gathering what looked to be toys.
Daryl's frown threatened to become a permanent fixation when the big man dumped the whole mess in his arms. "What the hell, Man? Bo don't need no more toys. She's got plenty at home."
Big Tiny's face fell, and his eyes shied away guilty.
"Ain't Bo's toys, Bro," Axel intoned flatly and without a care in the whole wide world. "Ain't seen hide nor hair of our furry friend in two days. Big Tiny let her out to take a leak, and best we can tell, she hightailed it home. Those toys are his. The boy's," the mechanic explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Only it wasn't. Not to Daryl. He didn't have a blessed clue. Not until his brother rejoined them, an owl-eyed little boy clinging to his pants leg.
Merle made the introductions. "Daryl, meet Sam. Sam, this is the brother I told ya so much about. 'Member? He's the one gave Ole Merle Bo."
Daryl covered his face with hands, fighting mightily against the sudden, gripping desire to scream. Well, fuck.
The kid was strange, no two ways around it, and Daryl said as much to Merle between nervous puffs of his cigarette while they watched the boy drag the leftover fries from his Happy Meal across his melting ice cream cone, only to lick the sweetness off and repeat the action until the starchy shoestrings were nothing more than a soppy mess. "He even know how to talk?"
"Course he knows how to talk," Merle rasped out, snatching Daryl's smoke from him and taking a long drag himself. "Just don't feel the need, I reckon."
"You ever heard him?" Daryl mumbled around a fresh cigarette, bringing his lighter up to the tip and letting the small flame catch. More than three years quit, and Merle had him chain smoking in the course of one seriously shitty afternoon. He mentally cursed his brother again for dragging him into such a mess and stuffed the crumpled pack of Morley's back into his jeans pocket. "Maybe he's mute."
Merle scowled at the half serious suggestion, stubbing the glowing nub of his stolen stick of tobacco beneath the toe of his boot when it dropped to the ground. He studied the kid long and hard, from the top of his tousled blond head to the tips of his sneaker hidden toes, and finally proclaimed, "He ain't mute. Little shit's just quiet. Stoic. If you ask me, he's a lot like you at that age."
Daryl scoffed. "Boy ain't no Dixon. That's just some line Jessie sold you so she can skip right on out of town with a free conscience."
"Maybe," Merle allowed. "But here's the thing, Baby Brother. That self-righteous sonuvabitch never once asked about the kid. Abusive bastard didn't care. All he wanted was his wife. When I told him she weren't there, the dumbass tried to sucker punch me. I still beat his ass, one handed."
"Course he wanted his wife," Daryl groused. "Merle, be real here." He whirled around and faced his brother head on when he realized the kid's curious blue eyes were staring straight at him. "Boy ain't no Dixon," he repeated.
"Who's to say he ain't?" Merle shrugged hopefully. "Like Jessie said, why would she lie about something like that?"
"Why wouldn't she?" Daryl shot back, wholly unconvinced. "This is bullshit, Merle. Bullshit, and you know it. It's just another lie she told to make herself feel better about abandoning her own kid. C'mon, Brother. Even you can't be that desperate to believe her."
"You didn't see her, Daryl." Serious and white-faced, Merle implored Daryl to at least consider the possibility that what he was saying might be true. "She'd been worked over good, and she was crying, begging me to give the boy a chance. To get him out of a bad situation." When he realized that his words had struck home, he took a deep breath and continued. "Look. I know it's crazy, and the girl might be playing us both for fools."
"You know she fucking is," Daryl cut in, savagely stabbing the butt of his cigarette into the peeling paint of their picnic bench sentinel. He folded his arms across his chest and curbed his more violent urges with the knowledge that the little snot factory was probably watching his every move.
Merle joined him atop the picnic bench and offered the boy a reassuring nod before lowering his voice til the gravel sound scraped across Daryl's fraying nerves. "You two's got history, and ain't all of it pretty."
"We fooled around some in vocational school, scratched each other's itch when the mood struck us after graduation." Daryl grunted and lifted a finger to scratch at his brow then side-eyed his brother. "Wasn't no damned relationship. Hell, she screwed you first chance she got."
"Wasn't like that."
The old argument barely registered with Daryl. He was too busy gnawing his thumbnail in thought. "You really think he's a Dixon?"
"Could be. Most likely he's yours. Might be he's mine. But the way I see it now with his mama out of the picture," Merle fixed him with a meaningful look, "he's ours, either way, and ain't nobody gonna tell me we ain't better Dixons than our old man. We take care of our own, Baby Brother."
After a while, Daryl nodded, rubbed his ragged nail against the rough denim of his jeans and slid from the tabletop. Two sets of eyes stared at him, heavy with expectation. "What you waiting on? Boy can't live in those Star Wars pajamas forever."
It shouldn't have been hard, two grown men buying clothes for a little boy—hell, they all had the same plumbing, but it was one of the toughest things Daryl had ever done. Not for the first time, he wished he'd never answered Merle's call, wished he'd told Abraham to hang the damn phone up. The kid blinked up at him slowly while Daryl rifled through dozens upon dozens of pairs of little kids' underwear, feeling vaguely like some kind of pedophile. "Boxers or briefs?"
"True Dixons go au naturel," Merle winked, holding up a pack of plain white crew socks for closer inspection. He glanced back and forth between the socks and the boy's small feet before finally making his choice and throwing two packs of the socks into their cart. "Damned machine's always eatin' them anyway."
"C'mon, Kid. Boxers or briefs? Don't make me pull your pants down and look." Daryl pulled his best, most threatening face, but the tyke's blank expression didn't change, and he looked over to Merle, scratching at the bit of scruff left on his chin. He frowned when a horrifying thought occurred to him and absently flicked away the forgotten scrap of toilet paper when he felt it on his fingertips. "You don't think he still wears those big kid diapers, do you? He is on the scrawny side."
Merle's gleeful cackle earned him a package of dinosaur briefs to the face. "Kid's too old for pull-ups, and he's too young for Depends. Can see now why you don't like dating the pretty mamas, Darylina. You don't know shit about kids."
"And you do?" Daryl scoffed, looking down when he felt a small hand tug at his shirt. He groaned out loud when a tiny index finger pointed over his shoulder. "Fuckin' underoos?"
"Hey," Merle chastised shortly and mimed a cutting motion across his throat with his good arm.
Daryl rolled his eyes at his brother.
"As I recall, Wonder Woman used to be your favorite."
Daryl made sure his obscene response was completely out of the boy's line of sight, and soon, their cart resembled the superhero hall of fame. Pajamas were less of a challenge, and eventually they moved on to normal, everyday wear, which was much easier. Daryl just picked up stuff that he would wear if he were three feet tall and still sucked his thumb when he thought nobody was looking (they were going to have to work on that; Dixons weren't pussies). Before he was finished, the kid had a tee-shirt for every day of the week, a couple pairs of jeans, and some shorts for when he just couldn't help but fly that little nerd flag of his. Only thing left was shoes, and Merle was taking care of that.
Turned out, Merle was far from taking care of it; the asshole was having a mini meltdown and scaring the boy from the looks of it.
The pair of them looked up at Daryl when he arrived with pleading blue eyes. "How hard can it be to find a pair of shoes? Move aside, Ladies." But when he pushed his brother aside, he immediately recognized the dilemma and felt a dull ache begin to throb somewhere within the vicinity of his heart. Shit.
"Kid don't know how to tie his own shoes yet," Merle muttered quietly.
Mad at him or not, Daryl didn't like seeing his brother look so defeated, and he quickly looked around for a solution to their problem. When his gaze landed on a colorful display at the end of the aisle, he couldn't decide whether to grimace or smile. "It's alright. We got ourselves an easy fix."
The Crocs squeaked obnoxiously, and they were fugly (Merle expressly forbid him to say fuck in front of the kid, go figure, and so the fucking ugly shoes became the fugly shoes). Daryl was more embarrassed by them when they entered the discount grocery than the stained Star Wars pajamas the kid stubbornly refused to change, and once or twice he wandered off on his own. But like his own shadow, he couldn't shake the tyke or his loud-mouthed brother, and all the good will he'd felt toward the both of them earlier started to slowly fade away. Finally, he made a suggestion he hoped would spare them all the bitch fit he felt brewing within. "Look. Why don't you two take this half of the store, and I'll take the other? It'll save time, and we'll still have the light to look for Bo on the way home."
At the mention of the furry Houdini, Merle's good humor faded, and the disappointed pout the boy affected nearly dragged the concrete ground. "Good idea, Darylina. We'll meet you up front. You know what to get?"
"Kid eats the same thing as everybody else, I reckon," Daryl grumbled. Then he remembered all those crap prepackaged snack lunches that'd been all Merle had in his fridge, and he sighed. "Yeah. I know what to get. Shouldn't be that hard. You're out of everything. Meet you in ten?"
Just like that, Merle's smirk returned. "You really aren't around kids that much. Make it fifteen, but don't get yer panties in a twist if it's twenty."
"Fu…"
Merle's shit-eating grin held a note of warning.
"Blow me."
"Sure," Merle chortled obnoxiously. "I'll blow you a bubble. Just need some gum first." He shifted his eyes to the boy watching their whole exchange with sleepy eyed fascination. "I bet Sam here's an excellent bubble blower."
The deflection wasn't amusing to Daryl in the least, but he understood it, and dammit, wasn't he in a helluva fix? His brother had him right back where he wanted him, and Daryl didn't like it one bit. "Fifteen or I'm leaving your ass."
Merle's knowing laughter followed him across the building. "We'll see, Baby Brother."
"Yeah right, we'll see," Daryl growled as he grabbed his own cart and started methodically working his way through the other side of the store. He'd just about cleared the establishment out of the little cheese and pepperoni snacks when a small hand darted out to grab the last one. "Watch it. I was just about to…" His aggravation died down abruptly when those same red curls that'd haunted his dreams for days tickled his forearm, and the seductive sensation sent electricity sweeping throughout his system. His gaze snapped to those blue sky eyes of hers and he smirked at the recognition he saw there. "If it isn't the Skittles Lady." That blush she couldn't seem to control almost made him as hot as her hair, and fuck if he could help himself, kid or no kid. "You come here often, Sweetheart?"
She bit that bee-stung bottom lip of hers and took her sweet time answering. "No. Yes. I mean…"
She was suspicious, and that made her smart; Daryl found her even prettier for it. "Relax," he said to put her at ease. "Just making conversation. Kids like those, yeah?" He waved his hand at the package in her hands, and he felt his own cheeks burn when her gaze dropped to his cart full of junk then lifted back to his own.
Her blue eyes danced, and a shy smile tugged at her mouth. "Kids of all ages, looks like."
Rather than feeling uncomfortable, Daryl found he liked it when she teased him; he liked it a whole damn lot. The corner of his mouth curled, and he shrugged with a bashfulness he hadn't felt since grade school. "A man cannot survive on takeout alone." She laughed, and the sound filled him with warmth. Still, she didn't take his unwitting, unplanned invitation for what it was, and Daryl couldn't help feeling disappointed, just a little. Hell. He was more than just a little disappointed, and the foreign feeling stung.
"I really should go. I left my daughter with the neighbors, and I've been gone too long already. It was nice talking to you…"
"Daryl." Daryl let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding when her searching smile softened, and she gave him a little wave farewell.
"Nice talking to you, Daryl. Maybe I'll see you around."
"Maybe you will."
The boy had conked out before they even made it through the checkout line, and he snored softly in the cab of the truck, stretched out between the two of them.
Daryl had long since given up trying to dislodge him. His last attempt had almost been the death of them all when the whining little shit had blindly grabbed his dick when he tried to pry him loose. No, he'd left well enough alone, and the kid was currently drooling a river on his thigh, a plight Merle was wholly unsympathetic about, and that just pissed Daryl off more. "Why ain't you the kiddie pillow?"
Merle tore his attention from the white picket fences of suburbia passing them by and offered him a sly grin. "I ain't the sweet one, that's why." His eyes drifted to the bag of candy still clutched in Daryl's hand, and he chuckled. "That a present from the pretty little mouse? Saw you talkin' to her."
The same teenaged cashier from days ago had handed him the Skittles with his change. When Daryl tried to hand them back to her, she shook her head with a beaming smile then gave him a bit of unsolicited advice.
"You know, next time you should totally buy her flowers. She seems like the type of lady that'd really really appreciate them."
Merle had been witness to his mumbled thanks, to even more than that if he were telling the truth, and Daryl found himself curious as to what his brother thought he actually saw. He wouldn't let himself ask, though. "Ain't really my type."
"Sure looked like your type from where Ole Merle was standing."
Daryl lifted his thumb to his mouth. "Shut up, Merle."
Suburbia gave way to farm country, and silence settled upon the cab again, interrupted only by the occasional snore from Sam. Shadows grew longer and deeper and the green Georgia fields seemed to melt into one another and stretch as far as the eye could see.
Daryl knew there'd be no finding Bo tonight. When Merle started up again, he allowed it, 'cause he knew his brother had reached the same conclusion and they both needed the distraction.
"I know you didn't have to answer that phone. I know you didn't want to."
Daryl didn't bother denying a truth they both knew. Tearing into the Skittles with his teeth, he offered his brother a handful. When Merle declined, he emptied a third of the bag into his mouth and took the turn that would lead them home. He took it slow, but the truck's tires still spit gravel at them, and the air was stagnant when both brothers rolled up their windows.
"I fucked up, Baby Brother. I know that. The girl, the pills. I was so used to having you around. That's not an excuse; I'm just sayin'."
Funny thing was, Daryl understood. He had for a while now. But loneliness wasn't a free pass to act stupid. He'd made enough of his own mistakes to know. And now they found themselves in another fine mess. He smoothed an unconscious hand over the boy's sweaty hair and sighed. "They ain't going to let you keep him just because you want to. He's still got another man's name on his birth certificate, and neither one of us got legal rights to the boy. I know you don't want to believe it, but Jessie might be lying. You're going to need a test."
Merle's eyes glittered in the darkness. "You're going to need a test too."
"We're going to need a damn good lawyer."
Merle's laugh was bitter and sharp. "Where we gonna find us one of those?"
Rick Grimes came to mind, and Daryl pushed down his own misgivings. The man had been a good guy in high school; it stood to reason he hadn't changed all that much. The message on Daryl's voicemail proved that. "I think I might know somebody that can help."
So...threw you guys a major curve ball there.
I'd love to hear what you think.
:)
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Thanks so much for reading!