Merle is alive. He's alive, well-fed, clean and healthy looking, with a giant knife attached to the stump of his arm (of fucking course he has a giant knife strapped to his stump), staring down at Daryl. Daryl's in danger, guns trained on him, outnumbered, but it is all distant because his brother is standing in front of him. Shit-eating grin and all.

Daryl is suddenly and intensely aware of how grimy and under-fed and tired he must look.

He knows that there are other people, standing in a loose circle around him, dark figures blocking out the afternoon sunlight, but he can't look at anyone but his brother.

"Well, you gonna keep gawping at me like an idiot, little brother? Come on, get your ass up out of the dirt," and he offers a hand – left hand, which is jarring, awkward – which Daryl takes. And he's warm and solid and real, rough callused hands same as Daryl remembers and that shakes his stalling mind into motion.

Merle is alive. He's alive, and here, and real (Daryl had been afraid, in the back of his mind, that he'd been imagining it, losing his mind), and he's suddenly weak with relief. His brother is back.

He hauls himself to his feet, grin near splitting his face in two, and hugs his brother, brief and hard enough to bruise. Merle, of course, shoves him back a foot (they've never been hugging men, the Dixons), but he keeps his hand on his brother's shoulder and he's grinning too.

"You're alive! Shit, I told 'em, nothing but Merle can kill Merle, and I was right. Where the hell'd you go, brother? We came back for you and all we found was your fucking hand, you crazy bastard," he says, all in one long breath (Glenn's rubbing off on him, must be, Daryl's never been this talkative).

Merle's eyes go hard for a minute, at the mention of the others, and his smile gets a little thinner, a little meaner. But he answers, and that's good enough. "Oh, I've been all over. Made me some new friends, and everything." He gestures magnanimously with his knife-arm at the others, and Daryl finally pays attention to them.

Four men. They're just the sort of guys Merle ran with before the end of the world, most of them – big, solid guys, a little angry, a little mean, maybe a little too stupid or a little too smart for his own good, not too good at following rules. The kind of guy that had a real hard time with the world-as-it-was, before it ended so abruptly.

Not all of them, though. One of them doesn't belong. He's pretty average looking, really, average height, size, appearance, handsome in an average sort of way; he's dressed like a guy who's mostly unremarkable, carries himself like he's normal, friendly, trustworthy. Approachable.

But there's something about his eyes, when his expression changes. Just for a second there's something else there, behind the friendly-helpful-normal that he's broadcasting.

He's crazier than a shithouse rat – there is something in the back of his eyes, and it's gibbering.

Daryl has a sudden, urgent need for his crossbow. And a knife. And about fifteen miles between him and this man. The desire's strong enough that his fingers twitch for where the bow had fallen in the dirt (where, actually, one of these men had kicked it into the dirt not two minutes ago) but it's gone, taken. A shiver of unease runs through his gut, pooling to nervous energy radiating out to his extremities, tiny tremors of adrenaline shaking his fingers. He wants a weapon, and he wants someone at his back. He feels exposed like this, vulnerable.

That's mostly because he is. He wrestles the feeling down, with an effort. He's alone with these people, he doesn't know where the rest of his group is, he's unarmed, and Merle has always been unpredictable. And that man is bat shit insane. Last thing Daryl needs to be doing is acting like he's afraid; these're the sort of people who'll eat that for breakfast.

"This's my brother, Governor." Merle is talking to crazy-eyes. Who is calling himself governor? That sets the skin between Daryl's shoulder blades crawling with unease, the way it did when he saw his first walker – it's a danger signal, loud and clear, his subconscious yelling and screaming. It's well past time to get away from this man, but Daryl will be damned if he's leaving his brother behind again, over something as small as a bad feeling.

"It's Daryl, isn't it?" Crazy-eyes, Governor, whatever, he's talking to Daryl, staring at him. He's got a friendly face on, and it's almost convincing, but Daryl can't un-see the crazy so it's less convincing than it could be. Daryl meets his eyes and the crawling feeling intensifies almost to the point of being painful. Daryl nods, wary, and the man offers a hand to shake. "Good to meet you. Your brother's been talking about you," Daryl hasn't taken his hand yet, just watching him, and the man has noticed. A muscle in his jaw twitches, his expression tightens, and the crazy flashes to the forefront for a second.

Daryl gives in and takes his hand. It isn't the crushing grip he'd expect from Merle's usual crowd, the obvious sort of posturing (I could crush your bones). Even the handshake is firm and honest. He's got good hands, well-formed and capable-looking; they look especially clean next to Daryl's filthy ones, dirt smeared into the creases and under his nails, covered in small nicks and bruises.

"Yeah," Daryl hedges. He doesn't know quite what to do with this man. It's been months since he talked to an outsider peacefully, he's just realized, the farm folks aside, and that's not making it any easier to deal with this alarming bastard. It's made worse by the fact that Daryl doesn't know where any of the rest of his group is, a doubled feeling of vulnerability – he feels exposed, because he doesn't have any one at his back, and he's really concerned about not being able to protect them with these thugs roaming about led by a mad man.

"He also told me you were running with a big group, when you were… separated," he loads the word with a strange emphasis and it makes Daryl angry and defensive. "Still with them?" This is what he was afraid of. He doesn't know what this man wants with them, but he's afraid that it's nothing good.

"Most of 'em are dead. Same night as," he nods his head at Merle. Merle looks at him, suddenly unreadable, and Daryl wants to tell him that they came for him as soon as they could, wants to tell him how glad he is that Merle's alive, how miserable he was not knowing… But not now. "Walkers hit the camp before we got back," from looking for you stays silent but he looks at Merle, steady and significant, and he can see his brother get it. His face goes strange, twitching between satisfaction and regret, and Daryl wonders what's been happening to his brother while they were separated.

He lets his face fall into the old, unfriendly sneer, malicious and mean. It feels strange on his face, awkward and ugly and unfamiliar because he hasn't had to act this way for longer than he's really thought about. But it fits what he needs to look like – contemptuous, superior, a little cold. "The ones that survived split up after that – they were weak 'thout us, brother, it would have been stupid to stay." None of it is a lie, really. A lot of people died, and the Martinez's did split pretty soon afterwards. And they were weak, for a while, before they became a unit, pulled together; it felt like a mistake for him to stay with them, for a long time.

"You mean to tell me you've been on your own since then?" Crazy-eyes is skeptical, understandably, but Daryl is done talking about himself.

"You're awful curious. What's it to you?" If he's been roughing it on his own for months, Daryl figures he gets a pass on politeness, anyhow.

Crazy-eyes flashes a bright, disarming smile and raises his hands placatingly – no harm done, friend, Daryl can almost hear the words in his head – "Fair enough, we can talk later. We've got something of a settlement going, a safe place, and if your brother speaks for you, we could have a place for you there. It might be better than wandering around the woods on your own. We'll let you speak to your brother. Think about it," and he gestures at the other men. They step back, Crazy-eyes still smiling charmingly. If Daryl hadn't seen the crazy, he'd be charmed. (He notices that for all their charm, they're still holding onto his crossbow.)

And. A settlement.

Daryl thinks about staying in one place for more than a few days, thinks about being able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Thinks about Lori, getting bigger and slower and tired. He thinks about what it would mean to live the way they do with a baby, and he can't. He thinks about the way Rick has been getting more and more desperate, pinched and tired around the eyes, as days and months tick by and they don't find a safe place to barricade and hunker down, and about what he'd be willing to do to make things a little easier on the man. He thinks about Carl and Sophia being able to be kids for a little longer, rather than the alarmingly practical, amoral creatures that they sometimes show flashes of these days.

He thinks about it, and he realizes that there isn't much he wouldn't do to make that real.

He wonders, quiet and almost guilty, what Glenn might look like if he weren't constantly wound tight in a permanent state of high-alert, how his smile might look if the constant fear overshadowing it could be pushed to the background.

Daryl wonders what it might feel like, to be able to relax enough to learn to trust people.

He wants all of that, more than he knows how to express or control. It's intense and a little frightening, how much he wants it.

"Merle," he starts talking, low and intense, as soon as the others are out of earshot, "who are these guys? Are they for real?"

"Yeah, the place is real alright, nice little town. Calls it Woodbury. There's walls, weapons, patrols. People inside – even kids, old folks. Sometimes they have picnics," he draws the word out with a mocking drawl that makes his feelings on post-apocalyptic picnics all too clear. Merle looks at him consideringly. "You been on your own since we split?"

Daryl grins at him and edges a little closer, speaks a little lower. "Nah. But he don't need to know that just yet." Merle smirks back, and another little piece of clockwork slots into place as he and his brother settle into step. The Dixon brothers stick together, after all. (Well. Mostly. Merle left Daryl behind, once upon a time. But then, Daryl's left Merle behind too, now, so maybe they're something like even, finally.)

"Same group?"

"Yeah," Daryl eyes him. Merle is strangely forgiving, sometimes, about strange things. Though, forgiving is maybe not the right word.

Unpredictable.

He might be able to find a way to fit his people together and keep them all. He doesn't know how, yet, but he'll find a way. He wants this too much not to fight for it. (And what a change that is, from the person he remembers being, who'd sooner spit on a thing he wanted, run it off or ruin it, than reach for it and risk not getting it.)

He takes a long, slow breath and tries to find the right words. "What they did wasn't right. They're sorry for it, and they should be. But we came back for you, brother, I swear; no one meant to leave you there. And," he looks down. Everything he's said is true but what he wants to say next feels somehow, obscurely, like a betrayal. Like it should still just be him-and-Merle, against the world, and having let other people into his life means he's turned his back on Merle. "They're good to me, brother, we watch each other's backs." He swallows hard. "I care," about them, "what happens to them, so I gotta know – is this place for real?"

Merle looks at him, laughs a little meanly. "Oh, you soft bastard. You screwing one of them?" Daryl starts, staring at him wide-eyed. He glares, crossing his arms and adopting a belligerent expression, but it's too late. "You are!" Merle crows, victorious. "Took the world ending to get ya there, but my little bro's finally manned up, huh?" Daryl feels heat creeping up his neck and he looks away from his brother, hoping that he's not as transparent as he feels. No such luck, though, Merle keeps right on. "One of those pretty sisters?"

The mention of sisters throws Daryl for a second (Maggie and the crier? How would Merle know about them?) before he realizes that Merle means Amy and Andrea. Because, of course, Merle doesn't know.

Merle doesn't know a whole lot. Well, hell, Merle hasn't known a whole lot about Daryl in years, this is nothing new. Sadness hits him, sudden and hard and unexpected, at the thought of Amy. He barely even knew her, pretty and sweet and shy as hell (though that might have just been around him and Merle), but losing her had nearly killed Andrea, and Daryl wouldn't have wished losing family on anyone with the world the way it is.

"She's dead, Merle, the younger one. Bit."

"Well, that is a shame," and Daryl can hear what strangers would hear, which is callous, lecherous insincerity. He catches a glimpse of real sympathy in the shifting lines around his eyes, but only because he knows to look for it. They do know how to keep their emotions and other assorted weaknesses under wraps, he and Merle. Because, of course, that pansy bullshit isn't for real men, what are you, bro, a little bitch?

Having been away from his family for a while, Daryl is starting to suspect they might have been a bit fucked up. He can't really remember his brother or father ever saying that they loved him, that they were there for him or proud of him; he's certainly never said it to them either. Physical affection came a distant second to aggression. Family was something that you were loyal to, stuck with, because there was no one else out there worth trusting, and no one else who would have your back. That hadn't seemed unusual until he'd started watching the Grimes, the Morales, Carol and Sophia, and realized that families can do more, and be more; can hold each other up, offer support and security and warmth and care, can make you bigger and better and stronger for being a part of them.

It feels too-large and terrifying, as though any misstep could ruin things, not just for him but for these people too. It feels too good to be real, and he's hovering on the edge of it, unsure of his welcome. But evidence is building up, that they want him and care for him as much as he does them – it shows in the smiles and small favours and kindnesses that go unremarked and with no expectation of repayment; the way Rick is starting to look to him for backup and support; the stream of gestures of comfort, reassurance, inclusion. It'll be hard to deny for much longer, that he is as welcome as he wants to be.

The silence has stretched on into awkwardness while he was thinking about what a kinder family might have felt like, and he tries to shake it off. "Merle. I don't want to lose you again," his brother shifts away, and looks deeply uncomfortable, but Daryl presses on – if he stops talking the words will dry up and he's pretty sure they'll never talk like this again if he lets himself give up now. "But I don't want to leave them behind either. Can you deal with them? Is this place ok?" Merle scowls thunderously, looks away, tries to shrug out from Daryl's hand on his shoulder. Daryl holds on and waits.

"Fine. Fine, alright. Don't expect me to make nice, but," he frowns at the ground, but Daryl can see his brother relaxing just a bit; he's pretty sure he's won this one. He grins widely and Merle shoves him. It's none-too-gentle, but it's what's always passed for affection from Merle. "Soft, brother, you're getting soft."

"Whatever," he reaches over and pushes Merle back. While it looks like they're making nice and having a reunion, Daryl edges in closer and ducks his head down, nods sharply to indicate crazy-eyes. "Who is that guy?"

Merle glances at his group who are still waiting nearby, watching the woods for walkers. "Who, good old boss-man? He likes people to call him Governor."

No fucking way. "That's their leader? You can't be serious, Merle, he's crazier than a bag of angel dust."

The title is not a good sign, either, as far as mental stability is concerned.

Merle throws his head back and laughs, loud and obnoxious, drawing attention. Daryl notices that when he starts talking again, though, it's still in a low enough whisper for privacy. "Brother, am I glad you're back. Most of these dumb bastards couldn't catch a clue if I'da dropped it hogtied at their feet. Yeah, there's something wrong with him, don't know what exactly, but he's good at what he does. People listen to him, like him, get all gooey and eager to please." What about Merle, Daryl can't help but wonder – how long has his brother been playing goon and henchman to this… Governor? Has he gone 'gooey and eager to please'?

He looks strange, that's for sure. Daryl had noticed the obvious things first – well-fed, healthy, clean – and assumed that all was mostly well with Merle, but there is something wrong with the way he holds himself, the lines around his eyes settling in different, harder tracks, shoulders held high and tight and defensive. He looks tired, beaten-down, weirdly listless despite the surface appearance of vigour and aggro.

No, Daryl will not be leaving Merle behind here. They're both leaving, or they're both staying.

"Aw, shit, fine. Fine. Can't be worse than the way things're going now, at least," Daryl says, and almost immediately curses himself for a fool. There's no better way to invite trouble than to say something like that. Too late to take it back now, though.

Merle strides back to his people and Daryl trails after him, hunched in on himself, playing up the defensive loner just in case. It's not hard – without the crossbow, and with his gun impossible to get at without drawing attention, he's feeling pretty vulnerable.

Watching the Governor talk to his brother, though it raises his hackles nearly around his ears, gives him a pretty good idea of how to deal with him.

He treats Merle like a dangerous dog – useful when he's properly directed, but a blunt instrument; stupid, expendable. It's the same way he seems to treat the other three, it's probably not unique to Merle but Daryl would like to wring crazy-eyes' neck all the same. It's handy, of course, because he's certainly not going to expect much from Daryl, either, as Merle's brother – he can be the dumb redneck, no threat unless you put a weapon in his hands and point him in the right direction.

So Daryl tries make himself look and act and feel like that kind of man; very competent in certain, specific ways, but small and stupid and suspicious, mean and narrow-eyed, easily manipulated. It leaves him feeling sick and angry, as though his skin is too tight, as though he's stuffing himself into clothes that haven't fit him in years. But he needs to look like easy pickings and watching the way crazy-eyes treats his men, with that sort of familiar barely-there contempt and superiority, he's pretty sure this is the way to do it.

Once crazy-eyes is through questioning Merle about Daryl, he turns his attention to Daryl. It is not hard to hunch up defensively under his regard – there is something that feels just slightly off about this man, and when he is staring straight at Daryl it is harder to ignore the urge to just turn around and head for the hills.

"This town of yours – secure?" Daryl figures he can get away with a certain rude abruptness, given that he's supposed to be a crazy forest-dweller, and he is not above taking advantage of that.

He flashes the charming, self-deprecating smile again, and Daryl can feel himself wanting to be taken in, wanting to believe that this man is what he is pretending to be, but he resists. "Well, I couldn't honestly say that we've seen anywhere really secure since-" he trails off, looks appropriately sober and regretful, and Daryl spends a moment admiring the showmanship of it all. "But, we've worked hard to carve out a little bit of safety, and we work hard to keep it that way. I'd say it's a damn sight better than living on the run, now, wouldn't you Merle?" The modesty, probably false but charming nevertheless, is belied a little by the strange intensity of his stare, as well as the fact that even when he addresses Merle, he never looks away from Daryl.

Merle grunts an affirmative, and the challenging look is back in the Governor's eye – he isn't going to offer again. If Daryl wants to join, he is going to have to admit that he isn't entirely self-sufficient, going to have to ask outright, put himself in the Governor's debt in an obvious, memorable, embarrassing way. He wants it to be entirely clear that Daryl owes him. Daryl is starting to get how he plays his game, and how he has all these otherwise ornery, unmanageable men following him with so little protest. The man is clever as hell, he'll give him that.

He lets his reluctance show, lets pride and fierce independence war with need and the reality that no one can live the way he claims to be living for long. Then he gives in, a faint slump of his shoulders making him look hunched-in and vulnerable and unhappy about it.

"It – yeah, guess you're right. Might be a nice change," he says, hedging, angling for an invitation.

None, as he half-expected, is forthcoming. "Of course, we have to be careful who we let in. I can't tell you how much trouble it would be, to have someone in the community who didn't pull his own weight, didn't listen to orders. A stranger could betray us in so many ways; it's a risk letting anyone new in from the outside. I'm sure you can see the problem I have here, Daryl." He's smiling, the smug bastard. As far as he knows, he has Daryl over a barrel – alone, tired, unarmed – and he fully intends to watch him squirm for a while, beg and plead a little, before he lets up. Bastard.

Even knowing that he isn't actually as helpless as he is pretending to be, it makes him burn with humiliation and anger. His face flushes to red angry splotches, his hands ball into fists in his pockets and it is a real effort of will to keep from glaring. Keeping this act going is beginning to feel like balancing on a knife's edge, which disaster waiting on either side, but he's started now, and he's going to have to see it through. "I can help, though, I can hunt, and trap, and track. I know guns and I'm a good shot with the crossbow," he can't help the way his eyes keep darting to his crossbow, being held inexpertly by one of crazy-eyes' goons. "I can carry my own weight and then some," he says, half-desperate and half-proud, letting the words spill out in a bit of a jumble and then abruptly going stony and silent and glaring, when it's clear that he has essentially thrown himself on this man's mercy and resents it quite a lot.

The governor looks at him, long and slow and considering. Gloating, and Daryl grits his teeth and tries not to let it show on his face that he is willing the man to burst into flames. "Well, you seem very capable," and again he emphasizes the word in such an odd way that despite it being a complimentary statement Daryl can't help but feel insulted. "And your brother has vouched for you. We can always use another able-body, of course. Why don't you come on back to Woodbury, Daryl? I'm sure we can find a use for you somewhere," he says, and doesn't need to say, and you'll do whatever I tell you to, or you'll be out on your ass and vulnerable without us. It is perfectly obvious, and every one of the men around him seems to recognize it – Daryl has no doubt, suddenly, that most of these men feel so deeply obligated to crazy eyes that they'll do whatever he tells them almost without question. He must have had most of them like this, once, vulnerable and too weak to go on alone, and he probably never quite lets them forget what they owe him.

He seems to know just how and when to play people, and he is fucking dangerous.

"I – ah- thank you," Daryl says, gruff and clearly uncomfortable and deeply relieved. If he's going to bring up the topic of the rest of his group, now is probably the only time for it. "There's just. Uh. Just one thing, I should tell you," he hedges, thinking desperately for a way to introduce the prospect of ten to seventeen other people (Daryl isn't sure if he is including Randall and the farm folk in his counts, yet). Two guns swing back around to train on him, and he realizes that it sounds like he is about to say he's bit.

He is saved from having to answer by Andrea's inimitable dramatic timing – within seconds of Daryl mentioning 'just one thing,' there she is.

She barges through the same trees that Daryl had, although slowly enough that she keeps her feet firmly planted and her gun in hand. There is a single, shocked moment of inactivity as everyone simply stares at the new addition. They are visibly torn between threat and beautiful woman, and Daryl can see her taking full advantage of that moment to appraise the situation herself. She moves, sharp and decisive, before any of the rest of them can – but she moves to stand between Daryl and the guns pointing at him and he is very much not alright with this. His chest clenches once, hard and sharp and it leaves him breathless with alarm.

There she is anyways, legs braced, stance solid, gun trained level and steady at the governor's chest – proving once and for all that whatever leftover crazy she's dealing with notwithstanding, she's got a real tactical streak in her, aiming for the brains rather than the brawn. "Ok, Daryl?" she addresses him, but doesn't turn even slightly away from crazy-eyes.

Crazy-eyes, though, is ignoring her – still focussed exclusively on Daryl, his air of smug complacency (fucking finally) replaced by a long, assessing once-over. Andrea bristles, but otherwise keeps completely focussed. That may yet come to a violent crisis – she hates to be dismissed or overlooked, and she's reacted violently and recklessly to smaller slights than this. "M'fine," he mutters, preoccupied but reassuring, and lays a hand on her shoulder to try to draw her back out of the centre of her own little ball of aggro to at least stand beside him rather than dead ahead. She sets her feet, stands her ground and ignores his request to move, though she doesn't shake him off.

So, when Merle starts laughing, low and getting louder, it's to Andrea in the middle of a Mexican standoff, glaring at crazy-eyes, and Daryl standing too close at her back, hand on her shoulder. He feels the tension in her body ratchet impossibly higher until she's practically vibrating under his hand. "Merle?"

"Miss me, darlin'?" She goes briefly speechless with indignation and Daryl takes the opportunity to pull her back and out of the direct line of fire.

The governor cuts smoothly into the stunned silence. "Is this your, 'just one thing,' then, Dixon?" Once again, despite being perfectly polite on the face of it, there is something about the way that crazy-eyes talks that has Daryl's hackles up around his ears.

But he can still see Lori in his mind's eye, too heavily pregnant to keep running, and Woodbury still seems like the best solution. "Sort of. Uh. When I said that it would have been stupid to stay," and he doesn't see it, but he would be willing to swear he can feel Andrea's eyebrows rising, "I, uh, I implied that I was not that stupid. I was," he says, and is once again saved from further explanation by a second dramatic entrance and, damn, either his timing is really great, or they're actually just waiting in the bushes for his cues. The thought of the latter is almost enough to make him laugh, despite the wildly inappropriate time and place.

This time, though, it's Glenn. Daryl can't help but look over to him, quick and assessing, and he catches the tail end of a similar look from Glenn just as he settles, warm and solid and steady, bare inches from Daryl's other shoulder. He's standing there with a shot gun and a smirk (false bravado, but it does the job) and Daryl very nearly goes weak in the knees. There's something about the lines of his body, smooth and confident, the light flush to his face, his eyes hard and bright and sure, hands steady. Daryl wants to put his hands all over Glenn. He wants to press his mouth to bare skin; he wants to smell him, taste him, he wants- He wants.

"I… see," crazy-eyes says, and Daryl has the uncomfortable feeling that maybe he does, in fact, see. More than Daryl really wants him to. Well. There's nothing he can do about it now.


Guys, my family is really great. I don't know how to write bad familial relationships, figuring out their interactions was like pulling teeth. Angry, armed, resentful teeth that love each other. I don't even know. Also, I couldn't stop picturing the scene in the Hobbit with the dwarves arriving in twos to Beorn's house in the woods, when I started writing people showing up one by one to the showdown in the woods. I kept giggling like a tool, it was very dignified.