Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: "So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."
Warnings: This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, and vague season three spoilers – four spoilers.
Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending god damnit)
Chapter Four
Two houses down, he found the mother-load in the form of a fully stocked liquor cabinet and a brand new baby's room just waitin' to be broken in. He didn't dwell too much on the dust-covered diapers set out on the dresser, or the pictures of the happy couple who'd lived there. Baby bumps, sonograms and due dates plastered across the walls and refrigerator.
He knew better than to look too close.
He flicked a pile of deflated balloons – congratulations, it's a boy! - off to the side as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, content in the knowledge that little orphan Annie was safely corralled in the play pen upstairs, shut up with more toys and stuffed animals then she probably knew what to do with.
He blew out a breath, sagging against the cushion-ridden breakfast nook, determined to enjoy the peace and quiet as the silence of the house settled across his shoulders like a comforting weight. He'd forgotten how easy it was to get all domesticated. It was a trap that seemed primed to cater to all his creature comforts. A decent crib, nice locale, gushy arm chair and a fine selection of happy endings at his disposal.
What more could a man ask for?
He swirled a shot of Bourbon straight from the bottle, smacking his lips appreciatively as he examined the overgrown backyard. Might even have to throw in some 'one's company action' after his stint playin' nursemaid.
He hadn't been kidding about sufferin' through something of a dry spell.
A man had needs after all.
He collapsed on the couch, a controlled fall that was all dust motes and a soft cotton blanket draped across the side. Considering the position of the sun in the sky, they'd stay here for the night. Scrounging up what they could before heading out in the morning. They'd be sleepin' in comfort – four solid walls and everything.
A happy gurgle sounded from somewhere upstairs, enough to make him glare at the ceiling and sink just a few inches lower into the cushions.
He wasn't cut out for this shit.
Mr. Mom might be something Daryl was into, but hell if it didn't run in the family.
He ended up hating himself more than a little bit when halfway through the night – hours spent tossing and turning, unable to sink down into the sweet nirvana the king sized mattress promised – he lurched out of bed and stomped across the hallway.
Not quite awake, he dragged the stupid crib all the way into the master bedroom, cussing up a blue streak as he shut the door behind him. Steadfastly ignoring the way that despite the ruckus, the little princess barely even stirred. Like she was used to it. Craved the closeness even. He told himself that it was just in case. That the master bedroom was big enough for the both of them, that-
He slept like the dead until her inquisitive hums woke him – all gentle and molasses-slow – around nine the next morning. Staring at him through the bars, innocent as anything as the morning sun filtered through the blinds.
He rubbed his eyes, giving her the ol' fish eye as he scritch-scratched his bare chest. Toes stretchin' out across the soft sheets as nerve endings he'd long given up hope for spluttered back to life.
"Mornin' Jude."
They were up before dawn the next day.
The little shit had been fed, watered, changed and was now sportin' what he figured was the world's best walker-fighting get up this side of the apocalypse. Better than the princess 'duds the women had insisted on dressin' her in at any rate.
He'd been avoiding it for as long as he could, but he figured that since he had a whole closet full of options to choose from and her stained sundress needed to be changed sooner rather than later, he might as well take the advantage while he had it.
He settled on a pair of tiny black jeans, a pale blue wife-beater and a fake pleather jacket. Figuring that for once she finally looked her nickname as he stuffed her into the carrier with a blanket and tightened the straps.
There, that was better. He thought, looking down. She wascurled up like a bug in a rug without limiting the use of his good hand. His remaining fingers ghosted across the clasp of his holster.
They were ready.
Ready as they'd ever be.
He paused on the front porch, swinging on his pack, letting the sound of the quiet neighborhood – all long grass and creaking shutters – echo eerily through the still. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as sun-faded trash and last year's leaves whispered across the blacktop.
The atmosphere was different in the suburbs. Empty. Purposeless. Homes like grave stones to lives lived. Some clean, some mouldering and dank, some a fucking minefield of bloody smears and pop-out Halloween closet's. Give him the dirt under his feet any day. Dwellin' on what was said and done didn't do no one any favors.
At least in the wild you could make something for yourself.
Not tip-toe over some soccer mom's grave.
He cocked his head, hips canted east as an empty can of chocolate pudding twanged, popping metallically as the wind skittered it from side to side.
Who in their right mind could even conceive of a can of puddin' that large anyway?
City slickers were some weird fuckin' folk, make no mistake.
But as quickly as the thought rose, he shook it off, releasing it back into the wild as one of Judith's pudgy little fists curled around the collar of his jacket. Anchoring herself all firm and close as he cleared his throat and took the porch steps at an unsteady lunge.
It was time to get goin'.
They had a trail to pick up after all.
Days passed this way.
Yes, plural.
Because fuck if he could figure out where the hell those god damned idiots had gotten off to.
"Nuh-uh," he grunted, insistent, muting the beam of his flashlight in a wad of blanket as he tried to figure out which way was up in the near dark. "Blondie might sing you to sleep, but I sure as hell ain't, so you best get that thought right out of your god damn head. Yah hear?" he declared, raising his voice to be heard above her screeches – loud enough to make his ears ring in the small space as he visualized every walker within a quarter mile zeroing onto their location.
Bedtime on the fourth day was a negotiation in the pouring rain, with only the backseat of an abandoned old-style Lincoln for cover and a lonely stretch of road that spanned out as far as the eye could see in either direction. It was exposed. But the rain was comin' down too hard to tough it out in the brush, especially with miss weak-ass immune system in tow.
"Little miss take me for a ride," he grunted, unstrapping her from his chest and stuffing her into the space where the seats met. Trying and failing to emulate the serene expression the song-bird plastered on whenever the little tyke got all riled up like this. "And after all I've done for you, hauling your useless ass all over hell's creation."
He had to toss out what'd sounded like half an old biddy's spoon collection before there was enough room to climb in. It was a tight fit – cramped - but there was nothing else for it, no other option that involved keeping their hind-ends high and dry as the storm swept in – nipping at their heels as he closed the door with a slam.
Quick as anything the downpour ping-pinged against the metal roof. Almost enough to drown out the rumble of thunder as Mother Nature added her voice into the mix. He shuffled, ignoring the baby as she continued her verbal rampage. Sore back kickin' up a fuss as a fission of light – bright-pale and faster than the eye could see – lanced across the night sky.
Fuck, they were in for it alright.
His lip curled in disgust as he got acquainted with their digs for the night. The car was old, all lumpy seats and questionable stains. His shoulders hunched as the chill set in. He'd slept in worse. They'd just have to make do for the night.
Christ, it smelt like ass.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Two more chapters and this puppy will be done for real! I got an unexpected brain wave and this whole thing got a lot longer than I thought it would be. Someone should put that on my tombstone when I die, really.