Late again, yes, but I do believe I'll have a chapter up this weekend. Hugs all around. This one's a bit short, but I hope you'll see where I'm going with it.

It was almost four before Daryl made it back from dropping the girl off. He could hear the TV on before he even unlocked the door of his apartment room, which more than likely meant that Merle was still awake. Or at least in the living room, which would maybe get Daryl his room back. He'd spent too many nights sleeping on his own fucking couch. Wasn't even a good couch, but the actual owners of the place were gone and Merle had got the keys from them somehow - Merle could be persuasive, kindly or not - and were letting them pay weekly. Better than nothing. But considering it was Daryl who was making those weekly payments, he would've liked to get the bed sometimes.

Sure enough, when he opened the door he was greeted by the sight of Merle. He was alive, which was something. Could be worse. His wifebeater was yellowing, and if he got his ass off the couch Daryl was pretty sure there would be a stain there. The air was heavier in here than it had been outside, thick with sweat and heat and the smell of skunked beer that lay in bottles littered around the couch. He stayed near the door for a second, but he couldn't hear anyone else besides the TV, male or female.

Neither of them said anything as Daryl walked slowly forward, but Merle's eyes were on him as he tossed his keys onto the coffee table. They skidded along its surface until they dropped with a clink to the floor at Merle's feet.

"Awful late," Merle said, leaning back against the couch with his feet up on the table, remote in his hand. He at least looked sober now, his eyes more alert and alive than Daryl had seen in the last couple days. They wrinkled as he smiled lewdly, the only way he seemed to be able to smile. "Look like you've been chewed up and spit right back out."

"Brought more beer," he grunted, ignoring him and holding up the 6 pack of beer he had bought from the gas station on the corner just a few minutes ago. Peace offering, to help ease the guilt of the little pack of pills that weighed heavy in his shirt pocket, feeling hard against his chest. He'd never given them. Had passed off some lie about the dealer not showing. It hadn't been too big a deal, not at first when Merle'd been too drunk or high or maybe both to tell what he'd been saying. But his stash had dried up since then, and now he was dealing with that lie.

Merle snorted. "'Bout damn time. Dry as dirt over here, brother."

Sober. Was he ever sober anymore? But he didn't look high. He looked irritated, his fingers flexing over and over again on the bottle he was already holding in one hand, his leg bouncing with his tapping foot. He rolled his neck, cracking it loudly.

Daryl hesitated before putting the bottles on the table, too, but Merle didn't move for them. He stood back up straight, stretching his shoulders and lost as to what to do. He knew his brother, at least better than anyone else, but this was still tricky. Like diffusing a bomb except knowing that even if you cut the right one all you were getting was a smaller explosion.

"Maybe you could shower," he said, standing there and looking at the mess that was his brother. He'd have to peel him off that goddamn couch, maybe throw him in the bathroom and sit outside the door til he'd washed off at least some of the smell. Wouldn't be the first time he'd been reduced to babysitter.

But that had been the wrong damn wire to cut. He knew it before the words were even out of his mouth.

"Don't like the way I smell?" Merle asked, and from his tone Daryl could tell shit was going to start whether he liked it or not. Merle stood up, dropping the bottle in his hand, letting the yellow liquid spill and fizz onto the floor. He wasn't just cranky, Daryl could see now. He wanted to fight. Should've sensed that as soon as he walked through the door.

"Easy," he said quietly. Not standing up straight. Allowing himself to shrink, just a little bit, to be small, because anything else might've lead to punches being thrown and more furniture being broken and maybe Merle would leave and Daryl would be by himself again. The tension was thick, rolling off both of them in waves that broke against his shoulders, splashing him in nerves. He didn't want to fight. But he would, if Merle made him.

But then Merle smiled, clasping his brother on the shoulder before collapsing back onto the couch again. "Don't get yer panties all in a bunch," he groaned reaching for the remote and clicking the volume of the tv back on, settling his feet back on the table.

Daryl relaxed. The bomb hadn't been detonated, at least for now. He walked to get one of the beers he had bought, bending over to snap the top off using the edge of the table. Two brothers drinking beer. Could've been normal, if they even had a normal anymore.

He was about to sit down to join him, but it wasn't until Daryl heard the moans that he realized it was porn Merle was watching, classless plastic girls all over each other, all kinds of loud, unnatural noises coming from their mouths. Daryl thought briefly about picking that fight, just changing the channel or turning the whole TV off, but quickly decided against it, crossing in front of the couch to go into the bedroom instead. If he didn't figure out where to get the money to pay next week's stay he wouldn't have to worry about the TV at all.

He stopped at the doorway, looking back at his brother. He was already out of awareness, his eyes glazed over, the remote slipping out of his limp hand. Even keeping him in sight, Daryl was losing him. "Could go out tomorrow," he suggested suddenly, the words out of his mouth before he could think them through. "Better'n drinkin' here." Maybe getting him out of his apartment would make him forget about the pills. Cool off without disappearing, either physically or within himself. Find a girl that didn't have to be paid for at the end of the night.

It seemed to take a second before the words registered, but then Merle licked his lips and looked at him. He was cast in blue light from the TV, making it harder to read his face. But then he smiled, nodding his head. "That's what I'm talkin' about, baby brother. Time to put the 'dicks' in 'Dixon' to use," he groaned, stretching his arms behind his head and looking back at the TV.

Daryl let himself smile, some of the tension is his torso easing out. Because at least there was some kind of a plan, something to erase the monotony of the days. He went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him to help muffle the TV. The bed was a mess in front of him, but otherwise the room was bare. He stripped all the sheets off, trying not to look at them or think about what might be on them as he dropped them to the floor. He didn't have any replacements, so he fell straight onto the mattress, the springs squeaking and pressing right up against his back under the thin fabric. Shitty bed. Shitty apartment. Shitty building. Just shitty.

It had occurred to him that there were certain benefits to doing things Merle's way, to staying off the books and off the tracks. Merle had connections, Daryl could at least give him that, and before he had really dropped low with the drugs he'd always been able to scrounge up some place to crash. Daryl had only been paying rent for two months but it was already sucking him dry. He'd been doing little pickup jobs around town, mostly helping out with landscaping on some of the nicer places, but it was nothing steady. He couldn't deny that he was struggling, and as much as he didn't want to see it, the only solution he could think of was staring him in the face. He'd thought of it when he'd been riding back.

He would have to sell his bike. Was nice. Would make him money, a couple grand maybe, enough to sustain both of them for the time being. But just the thought of it being gone twisted something inside of him so hard that his fingers twitched into a fist on the bed.

He leaned forward onto his elbows when Merle kicked the door open, the door knob making a notch into the drywall as it thudded.

"Gotta piss so bad my eyeballs are floatin'," he said by way of explanation, flicking the light of the bathroom on. He didn't bother to shut the door all the way, and Daryl closed his eyes again against the sound of piss.

Shitty.

It was hard to remember, sometimes, why he was doing this. Why he didn't let Merle just disappear. Give him the pills. But that couldn't happen, because Merle had said it himself: they were a pair. Dixon through and through, brothers til the end. A name that Daryl had learned to own, even when it didn't do him any good. Because what was he without it? What did he have going for him? Seven bucks and a mattress someone else had been throwing out?

So he would sell the bike, the same bike Blondie had clutched him so hard on just hours ago. Little No-Last-Name Beth, who maybe might've had a baby. The thought was comforting, in some weird fucked up way, because he kind of felt like they were even - could a drug deal and a teen pregnancy be rated equal, in the world of fucked over things? - like maybe he'd be able to look her in the eye when she asked about Merle.

He guessed he'd find out soon enough.