17

Dallas decided to ignore Daryl the next morning and carry on like he was invisible. He was out like a light, anyway. He slammed the bathroom door when he took a shower and let the bread box snap shut as he made a turkey sandwich then left for the garage. Daryl kept sleeping.

When he leisurely woke up around eleven, he breathed a sigh of satisfaction that he was the only one there. He eventually made his way into the small bathroom and removed his shirt. He gently began unwrapping the bandage and kept his top teeth dug into his bottom lip. It didn't look like he would need stitches. As far as scarring would go, that was inevitable. But he viewed himself out of the woods somewhat for now. He took a long shower in the cramped bathroom then wandered into Dallas' room on a low-standards hunt for a shirt and socks.

Dallas Dixon's bedroom looked like a frat boys dorm room. Assorted varieties of crushed and shot up beer cans dotted the floor and stamped out cigarettes were overflowing from ashtrays scattered around the room. The unmade queen sized bed was jammed into the end of the room and there was barely any space to get around it. Across from the bed was a small dresser whose corner was chipped from being repeatedly hit by the door when it opened. The dresser had a mirror attached to it and the majority of the dressers top was taken up by a precariously placed TV. His eyes involuntarily opened wide when he saw the pictures that were tucked into the edges of the mirror. There were old school pictures of him and Merle when they were really little and Merle still almost looked cute and sweet. Dallas and Jolene's wedding photo. Dallas' first motorcycle. Dallas sitting at the kitchen table of the house holding Daryl when he was a baby, Jolene standing with her arms on Dallas' shoulders.

These images made him profoundly happy and when he glanced in the mirror his smiling face was reflected back at him. Letting the grin stay on his face, he rummaged through the first door and found an old flannel shirt. Thinned by age and wear, he held the faded shirt firmly by the collar with one hand and ripped the shirt sleeves off with the other. He buttoned it quickly and studied himself in the mirror. The shirt's plaid pattern may have been a bright red once upon a time, but now it was just a murky brown. His hair was still a bit damp, he noted that it was getting a bit long. He dug through some more drawers until he found a pair of socks, pulled on his boots, and trudged back into the kitchen as his stomach began to grumble.

Standing over the spot where Dallas made him count made Daryl freeze. He closed his eyes and saw himself cowering on the floor from above and he couldn't breathe. His feet felt like thousand pound weights as he forced himself to move forward to reach the fridge. His eyes focused to the bulb in the fridge as he hung from the open door to survey his options. Milk, beer, deli meat. The stuff of champions, he thought sarcastically. He shoveled a handful of what turned out to be turkey into his mouth and licked his fingertips absently as he studied the milk for an expiration date. Picking it up and shaking it he heard chunks bounce around. He poured it down the sink with disgust. He burst through the front door and elected to go back to drain the boxcar, if necessary.

Arriving at the car, Daryl began his inspections. What was left of the water had pooled in one area, so he used his knife to completely free a board and let the water out. The bottom mattress was soggy, but the one on top of it was fine. The edges of Sadie's purple blanket were also damp, but fine aside from that. He dragged the blanket, empty duffel bag, and backpack up on the the car's side to dry in the sun for the afternoon. After spreading everything out, he laid himself out on the car too. The wood was warming his back and the sun lit up his front. He thought about school. He felt no remorse. He felt a lot more than remorse toward Merle, he realized.

Merle knew how much Daryl prized that crossbow. In truth an technicality, Merle was right. It wasn't Daryl's. Their uncle gave it to their dad, and dad had let Merle have it. Guns sounded far more glorious to Dallas Dixon, anyway. But Merle eventually thought it was dumb too, and the crossbow finally trickled down to him. He liked it. He was good with it. Stupid Merle. He hung out on the car as his possessions dried, he didn't know for how long. When everything was sufficiently dry, he returned the items back to the car. He decided to go bother Merle. He sauntered down the street toward Shotgun Willie's with his hands shoved in his pockets and his scars creeping off his shoulder blades.

"Daryl Dixon, you creep!"

He stopped at the shrill voice and cringed.

"You just drop out of school, like a big bum?!" She shoved him from behind and he stumbled forward a few feet.

"Jesus Christ!" He spun to face her. "Would you calm down?"

She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, awaiting an answer.

The Dixon shrug. "I paid my dues."

"You sound just like your stupid brother."

They stood and glared at each other.

"What're you doing out here, anyway," he asked in a desperate grab for her to change the subject.

"It's lunch."

"Oh." He was unprepared for the big brawling hulk that came up beside Sadie and threw his ape of an arm around her. "The hell're you?" he sneered, though still cautious.

"Well, I am Miss Pinkman's lunch date… But what's it to you, trailer trash," the boy drawled, not looking at Daryl and squeezing Sadie in half a bear hug.

Sadie coaxed the magnitude of his hug down until only his arm hung loosely around her shoulders. She smiled nervously. Daryl wouldn't have been surprised if there was smoke pouring out of his ears like those old cartoons he and Merle would watch when they were little.

"Don't be an asshole," she teasingly lectured the other boy. He ignored her and floated toward the group of kids at the end of the street. "He's one of Jesse's best friends. He's like my brother," she tried to explain. But Daryl already had his back to her and was back on track to Willie's.

"I don't care, could be your date. Don't phase me at all," he called over his shoulder.

She jogged to catch up with him and stood in his path. "I'm not going to sit around and wait while you get your shit together, I'm gonna live my life, too," she warned him.

He viewed this as a disclaimer, but in his mind everything was already void and rent. He tossed his head in the direction of the diner and his hair served as a sufficient curtain to block her out. "I think I hear your friends callin'." He left her standing in the dirt with her mouth hanging open.

Merle was behind the counter, still washing the dishes that never seemed to be clean. Daryl cleared his throat. Merle turned, nodded at his little brother, and continued with his work. Daryl made his way behind the bar and sat on the counter as Merle scrubbed an empty pitcher. "We had dinner last night," he said aloud to no one in particular.

"Ain't that sweet."

"Nothing happened. It wasn't bad." Daryl let his legs swing. "He's got pictures of us up. You used to be cute." He smirked.

Merle turned the water off and finally turned to face his brother. "So you think you're alright now?"

"I don't know. I guess."

"Well, I'd like to think so. It'd make me happy." Merle Dixon let his face betray him for an instant and gave Daryl a small smile. "Uncle Jess is coming by, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after."

At the mention of their only uncle, and half-uncle at that, Daryl felt a shred of something he could physically hold on to. Uncle Jess made Dallas happy, and happiness was a commodity that they had all been lacking for a long time. "Cool."

Merle grit his teeth and dropped the bomb with no preamble. "I'm heading back with him. To enlist. Give it a shot, shooting some shit."

"You're joinin' the army?!" Daryl's voice came out much higher than he had intended, and Merle picked up on this.

"I ain't running off to Jupiter, calm your tits," the older Dixon offered as comfort. He reached under the bar and pulled out a glass bottle with copper liquid in it. Motioning for Daryl to grab two freshly washed glasses, he sat himself at the bar and waited as Daryl sat gingerly near him. "Scotch," he stated, pouring a small amount in each glass. He picked his up and make a toasting acting to Daryl, and Daryl sheepishly complied. "To bombs burstin' in air!" Merle watched as his underage brother ingested the liquor and smiled at the thought of corrupting him a little. Daryl made a face, but held the drink down. Merle poured more. "It's a good thing. I'll get money. I'll get to see stuff. Shoot people." He slammed down the second shot, Daryl took a deep breath and downed his.

Daryl was beginning to feel warm. Or maybe it was his blood. Just his blood. Yup, that was it, his blood was warm. It was nice. He was letting the shock set it, the shock that wasn't really all that shocking, when he thought about it. Merle always found a way out. And it was alway him first. Sometimes Daryl thought that maybe Merle was a tiny bit chivalrous and might just maybe put him, his own flesh and blood, before himself. But all evidence pointed to the opposite. After the second shot, Merle still seemed fine. It was the third shot, at two o'clock on a weekday afternoon, that began to claw at his senses. His heart was now going much faster, and he was so warm. "Merle, stop giving me alcohol, you ass," he gasped. He slid his glass across the bar and it stopped itself just short of the edge.

Merle laughed a hollow laugh, but he put the scotch away. He felt good now, he had a decent buzz. And Drunk Daryl seemed like promising enough entertainment. He opened the small fridge under the bar and popped open two beers. He placed one on the bar in front of his brother, then sunk into a nearby couch. He watched Daryl like an amused hunter would watch an infant animal, like a falcon toying with its prey in steely viselike talons. Daryl eyed the beer and after a few overdramatic seconds, groped for it and began chugging. Merle let out a small laugh. Tonight was going to be fun.