From those concrete slabs of flooring laying passage from the hallway to the foreboding terrain of the infirmary, the change in scenery was almost indescribable. Anxiety and worry bled through space and time, dissolving into a bond nearly severed by trauma and broken promises long past. The cobblestone became darker. It became deeper. It morphed and molded into a strict collaboration of emotions only pertaining to those who felt a true brotherly bond.

Nobody could feel that pain, aside from Merle Dixon.

A back stood, crooked and slumped in the midst of inner defeat. Strong arms folded over a broad, sweaty, dirty chest. Weathered, slate eyes cast down upon the mash of broken bones and gore that once resembled a very living human being. The significance of the potential corpse itself was inconceivable. The possibility - no - even the notion that the form laying only a few solid feet from the older Dixon was passing to another plane with each grueling second was even further from the grasp of those bold, folded hands.

It was probably why it took the redneck almost a full turn of an hour just to brave himself enough to step closer.

One... two... three.

Three steps. So close a kin, yet so far a mind.

What demons was he fighting just to return? What world could he be trapped in? What if he never returned from it?

"Ye're worse'n walker bait." Thick arms unfolded, tapping his blade-hand against his hip. The words... hollow. The mind almost didn't believe the phrase had tumbled from his own parched mouth. "Geeks might as well crack yer skull open'n grab a straw." Fit to match a tasteless sense of humor, the emptiest of laughs bleated forth from his tongue... the rest caught in his throat.

A weathered face contorted immediately after. A plastic smirk faded to a frown. Slate eyes snapped to a close and the strong male turned ever so slightly to pull up a chair and plop himself down at his brother's bedside.

The weight waved into the uncomfortable seat with a heavy sigh to accompany it and for a moment, Merle Dixon looked everywhere except where his brother lay. As though trying to compute through the former madness that took place only a short time before, through where he stood with the people around him now... through everything... he might have very well found his brother just to lose him all over again.

Silence was a burden. It always was, wasn't it? Truth spilled through every nook and cranny of his brain. Along with truth came the sinking calling card of fear. It clawed its way into the back of the mind and nested. Time slowed and he felt it. The war in his mind against his heart, the pain, the suffering... the helplessness.

Awareness of helplessness.

"You 'member that time..." a strong chin tilted towards the ceiling, trying to blink away painful emotion, "we were kids. 'Fore all the troubles, 'fore I..." a pause. A choke. A continuance. "You got chicken pox, 'member that? Made you stay in bed almost th'whole summer, I was so pissed."

A lone set of five digits roved in recollection over the blade-adorned stump in place of the matching appendage.

"I went out packin' meat with pops'n when I came back, you was burnin' up bad, boy. Like someone started a fire under th'bed." Eyes cast back down to his feet, shuffling them slightly. "'Member my hands were all frozen from packin' the meat in that ice? I remember pops sayin' the cold would help yer fever. I figured: what could be colder than my damn hands?" A small chuckle erupted. True. Amused. "Wound up in th'bed next t'yours, all for tryin' t'take away yer fever." A scoff. An honorable death of humor. Pain. "Take away yer pain..."

A few bleats of air followed before sucking back a large wad of emotion that pooled in his throat. Merle's eyes closed as he raised a closed fist to his mouth to bite slightly; the pain, a welcome distraction from the urge to tear up. That silence proved true; almost making the democratic redneck's heart drop directly into his shoes as his head fell into his opening palm.

"Can't take yer pain away now, baby bruther." Another empty laugh before those slate eyes turned back to his bond. Lids of the right eye tried to imprison a salty badge, blinking hard in sore attempts to dry out the socket and push it back. "But that jus' means it oughtta make y'stronger, right?"

Silence.

"Right?"

Silence...

Some time had passed, how much to be exactly, Rick wasn't sure. All he knew was that he had been seated with his back against the wall for a while now. He had hardly moved from his place outside the infirmary since the others had gone. His mind had become a clutter of thoughts, questions and concerns. All of which brought him no peace of mind that he so desperately wanted and needed.

It was during this time where he tried to gather his thoughts, to compose himself enough to come up with a decent plan, that he heard the faint sound of a laugh coming from inside the infirmary. Initially he paid no attention to it, but then there was something about how Merle sounded afterwards that had.

Rick tilted his head back and turned his face toward the open door as he listened in, quietly. A look of sympathy twisting itself upon his worn face as he heard the helplessness in Merle's voice. This was quite unusual for a character like Merle Dixon. Rick may have only known the man for a short amount of time back in Atlanta, but it had been long enough to see the true nature of how the redneck really was.

However, everything that anyone knew Merle Dixon as from the past was practically non-existent now. In this moment he was a weak, hurt, and defenseless man that was terrified with the idea of losing the one and only thing he cared about in this world. His blood. His family.

There was a genuine love and concern for his baby brother that nothing could compare to. Even in the way he cracked his jokes and laughed to himself; it was the only thing he knew. The only way he knew how to bring comfort to himself. To assure himself that this problem with Daryl would pass in time and that even though things looked bad, that Merle was certain his brother would pull through.

"Right?" - At least that's what Merle told himself...but could he believe those words?

Rick's lips pulled together into a soft frown when Merle's only answer was the discomforting sound of his own voice echoing back at him. He felt the pain of the man in the room behind him. On some levels he could understand his pain, even. Almost too perfectly.

The Sheriff breathed softly as he closed his eyes and brought a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose. He held his fingers there for a while as he tried to fight back his own emotions pertaining to the redneck that had become his closest friend. In some ways he could not help but feel responsible somehow and he hoped that there was some way he could make things right.

At long last the Sheriff brought himself to his feet. He quietly took a step forward and stood outside of the door frame to gaze in. His eyes rested upon the distraught male seated beside the medical bed. Another small frown formed at his lips before he averted his gaze elsewhere. He lingered there a moment longer before he silently disappeared into the darkened depths of the corridor, leaving Merle to be truly alone with his brother.