AN: Here we are, another chapter. There are just a couple more to go here.
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know!
111
Merle might have always wanted to pretend that, somehow, the simple merit of having been born first and, therefore, of having spent more years on Earth, meant that he knew more than Daryl, but it was becoming increasingly clear that there was something to be said for simple personality and instinct. There was also something to be said for how well someone can perfect something that they're passionate about practicing and improving.
Loving his wife and his family wasn't exactly the same as playing an instrument, perfecting neat stiches, or even being able to do somewhat impressive work around the house, but it was something that Daryl practiced and honed, just the same.
It was something in which he took pride.
And showing Merle what a peaceful, happy, loving marriage ought to look like didn't take any planning, or even any consulting with Carol.
"It's not something hard, Merle. It oughta be something that comes naturally, because you enjoy it. But—if it doesn't yet, it'll come naturally once you start it and realize how much you really do like it."
Daryl had, essentially, left his brother with those words of wisdom as he'd led him into the house. The smell of a good breakfast cooking hit him when he came inside, and he went straight to the kitchen with Merle following at some small distance behind him like a quiet, grumpy, hungover ghost of sorts.
Daryl didn't need to do anything that he wouldn't normally do—that wasn't what this was about. So, he kissed Carol's cheek, patted her belly, which always got the warmest smile from her, and accepted the kiss that she offered him in return. The kiss told him, more than anything else, that he was doing a good job at being her husband and, really, that was all that mattered to him.
Carol set the table for breakfast, and Daryl rounded up the kids. He put them in front of their scrambled eggs and toast—the preferred breakfast of both of them, really, though Jack managed to get a great deal of his food on the floor instead of in his mouth—and then Daryl circled around the table warming up coffee for everyone as Carol brought the last of the food from the kitchen for anyone who might want seconds of what she had to offer.
Daryl didn't miss Merle's raised eyebrow, and he understood what his brother was saying without needing the words—words he'd practically forbidden Merle to say. Merle wasn't the kind of man that would serve anyone. He wasn't the kind of man who routinely helped Andrea get the boys settled for a meal. He was the kind of man who sat and waited to be served. He was the kind who waited for his children to be raised—yet he expected to be praised for being a wonderful father based solely on the merit that he'd created his children with Andrea's help.
And Daryl smirked at his brother and nodded his head gently—a way of reminding him that he was also the kind of man that was relying on the good nature of his brother, given that he'd gotten himself thrown out of his own home and the warmth offered by the family that he'd helped to create.
Merle let out a sigh that was half-growl as he settled as deep into his seat as the chair allowed.
"Ain't you got somethin' to say?" Daryl said.
"Food looks good," Merle said after a short stand-off with Daryl.
Carol smiled.
"Thank you," she said.
"Food here is always great," Daryl said. "And—thank you for preparin' it for all of us—even those of us who couldn't be counted on to do what was necessary for remainin' in our own homes."
Carol made a face at Daryl. She asked him, with her eyes, to tell him what he'd learned outside, talking to Merle. Then, she sat down at her place at the table and focused half of her attention on Jack while she focused the other half on the conversation that she wanted to have.
"Am I allowed to know what happened, or is it not proper for little ears?" Carol asked.
"Not proper to ask a man what happens in the privacy of his own home," Merle said quickly and sharply.
Daryl laughed.
"Unless what he does in the privacy of his own home leads him to be invadin' the sanctuary of another's home," Daryl said. "In which case, I think that a man forfeits his right to be all that private about things. Still—it would appear there ain't that much story to tell. Merle just don't know how to behave like a civilized person sometimes, and his wife finally got tired of it."
"Is Andrea OK?" Carol asked.
"That's everybody's first concern," Merle commented, half-grumbling his words to his toast.
"Well—that's 'cause everybody likes Andrea," Daryl said, enjoying Merle's misery really more than he knew was polite or respectable. Still, he just couldn't help himself.
"Andrea's just fine," Merle said. "It ain't her that's been put out the home she worked to provide."
"I'm sure she'll let you back in, Merle," Carol said.
"Just as soon as he earns his way back in the door," Daryl said. "These is the fluffiest eggs I think you've ever made. You do somethin' different to 'em?"
"They're just normal scrambled eggs," Carol said.
"Taste particularly good," Daryl said, meaning it. Carol smiled.
"I did put a little extra seasoning in them," Carol said. "I was afraid they might not be good. I thought—I might've used too much."
"You used just enough," Daryl said. "Gotta do this again. Even Jack's eatin' 'em up better'n usual. Not spillin' quite so much on the floor because he don't wanna miss a bite."
Carol beamed. Her cheeks colored with her enjoyment of the praise. Daryl meant it, of course. Her eggs were delicious, and he did hope she kept up the process. That was, perhaps, the key to it all—Daryl frequently complimented Carol, and he meant his compliments, just like he felt that Carol meant the compliments she paid him with a great deal of frequency.
Meaning a thing was, in many ways, the key to making it feel sincere and making it truly effective. Daryl made a mental note to make sure that his brother knew that—his brother who was moping in his eggs, but certainly still maintaining his appetite.
"Do you want me to talk to Andrea?" Carol asked, still dividing her attention between the children and the conversation. June required very little help, and was mostly happy to simply eat her breakfast and swing her feet, so Daryl waved Carol off of her efforts to try to keep up with both of them and put some extra jam on June's toast when it was requested.
"You talk to Andrea if you got things to talk to her about," Daryl said, "but I don't think it's nobody but Merle that needs to talk to Andrea on his behalf."
"You enjoyin' this, ain't you, Brother?" Merle asked.
Daryl smiled at him.
"I'd be lyin' if I said I weren't," he said, picking up his coffee and ignoring Carol's gentle scolding and only half-meant slap to his arm.
111
"It's been said that men don't change, Daryl," Carol said.
"You believe that's true?" He asked. He rested his hand on her head and gently nudged her into resting her head against his shoulder again.
They were dancing in the bedroom, in private, and without music. They were dancing, not because they liked the music or felt any inclination to move in response to it—given that there wasn't any—but, rather, because they simply liked the swaying together in the quiet darkness of their dimly lit bedroom.
They were dancing together to the sound of silence, perhaps—to the sound of a day well done. They were dancing to the quiet sound of their children sleeping and, by some extension, Merle either sleeping or stewing over his predicament without words. They were dancing to the sound of their hearts beating, which neither of them could hear at the moment, but which undoubtedly drummed together in some sort of primal calling out to each other.
At least, that was what Daryl imagined, when he asked his wife to dance with him, and she must have felt at least somewhat the same, because she didn't protest the gentle swaying they did.
Carol giggled when Daryl picked up their steps a touch and twirled her before settling in again to the gentle rocking that sometimes made her yawn.
"I think sometimes it's true, at least," Carol said. "I think—for men like you, that I hope it's true. I wouldn't want you to change."
"I've changed a whole lot," Daryl said.
"No, you haven't," Carol said.
"You kiddin'?" Daryl responded. "I change every day. I've been changin' since I met you. In fact, one of the biggest reasons that I changed a whole lot was because I met you. Got direction in my life. Purpose. You changed me…for the better."
"You feel the same to me," Carol said. "Wonderful. That hasn't changed."
"I didn't say everything changed," Daryl said. "How I feel about you hasn't changed. Maybe it's…well…maybe it has changed. Like changed shape around the edges and all. But it's only gotten stronger. Better. It won't never change in a bad way."
"You think all men change?" Carol asked.
"I think they all can," Daryl said. "If you couldn't change, what would be the point? There wouldn't be no point in learning anything. There wouldn't be no such thing as growing. You'd come into the world just as you were ever going to be, and when you saw something about yourself that you didn't like, well…you'd be doomed to spend your life like that—always seein' the wrong, but never being able to fix it."
"When you put it like that…" Carol mused.
Carol yawned, and Daryl smiled to himself. There was something about knowing she was relaxed in his arms that made him feel good. It made him feel like a good man. It made him feel strong, and kind, and worthy to hold something as precious as his wife and child, while Carol relaxed so completely that she yawned and leaned against him, letting him hold a great deal of her weight while she swayed on her feet, at least a little confident that, were she to drop off entirely to sleep, he wouldn't let her fall or get hurt.
"When I put it like that, huh? You're just willing to believe me? I don't have to argue my case any better than that?" Daryl teased.
Carol laughed quietly.
"You're a smart man," she offered. "You just know things, Daryl. And I've hardly ever known you not to be right, in the end. I'd say you're right about this. Maybe every man can change—even Merle. Still…"
"Still?" Daryl pressed, when Carol broke off.
She pulled away so that she could look at him. The light in the bedroom was dim, but he could see that one cheek was red from having spent some time pressing it against him. Her eyelids looked heavy. He'd have no trouble convincing her to crawl into bed with him and sleep soon.
"It's Merle that's got to want to change, don't you think?" Carol asked.
"Absolutely," Daryl agreed without hesitation. "Merle ain't got the sense God gave mud most days, but…he does love Andrea. And—for whatever reason, she loves him."
"So—they'll work it out," Carol said.
"They'll work it out," Daryl said. "Besides…he was payin' awful close attention tonight when you were curled up with me on the couch, readin' your book while the kids were playing."
"What was there to pay attention to?" Carol asked.
Daryl smiled at her. He touched her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek.
"How happy we were," Daryl said. "How happy we are. Maybe—wishing for that kind of happiness with the woman he loves, you know? Maybe recognizing that it's worth letting go of some stupid notions of what it means to be a man to get it."
"Merle would have to do a lot of changing to be half the man that you are, Daryl," Carol offered. Daryl felt warm, because he knew that she meant it. She believed it to be so.
"Maybe all Merle's gotta do is change enough to be the man that Andrea wants him to be," Daryl said. "And—I gotta believe, for his sake, that he's capable of that."
Carol laughed quietly, the sweet, tinkling kind of laughter that always tugged at something in Daryl's chest.
"I have to believe he is for our sake," Carol said. "It's the only way we'll ever get him out of our house!"