AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think!
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"Holy shit!" Daryl gasped out.
He sat bolt upright in the bed and his hand instinctively went for the nightstand drawer where he knew there was a loaded .38 Special.
"You livin' a dangerous life, brother!" Merle called out.
Immediately, his brother's voice drew Daryl the rest of the way out of the stupor that followed the nightmare—a nightmare that had been interrupted by Merle's dumb ass dragging it into the present and waking world.
"You the one livin' a dangerous life, you stupid fuck," Daryl gasped out. He reached over, grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lighter off the nightstand, and lit a cigarette for himself.
Merle stepped further into the bedroom and picked up the jar. He bent down and set about making quick work of cleanup. Daryl realized, then, what it was that he had heard—what had drawn him from the sleeping world to the waking one. Merle had come in his room and, reaching for the light switch near the top of his chest of drawers, he'd knocked off the jar that contained pocket change, buttons, and any variety of odds and ends that Daryl dropped in there at the end of each day.
"The hell are you doin' in my room, Merle?" Daryl asked. "You just about got yourself shot."
Merle laughed to himself.
"You always respond to every little noise by goin' for your gun, brother?" Merle asked.
"I do when I was havin' a fucked-up dream like I was," Daryl said. "An' then I thought somebody was shootin' in the damned house."
"It banged pretty loud, but…pennies," Merle said. "Couple quarters. Ain't no bullets in this jar, brother. The fuck made you dream you was gettin' shot?"
"Probably that damned detective show Axel was talkin' about. He told me like thirteen episodes yesterday. Musta had my brain just—stewin' over that shit. What'cha doin' in here, Merle?"
Merle put the jar back on the chest of drawers when he'd picked up its spilled contents. Then he walked over and helped himself to Daryl's cigarettes and wiggled a finger to request the lighter.
"Was comin' to see what'cha wanted for breakfast," Merle said. "Late breakfast. Hell, half the reason I come in here is that I got sick of waitin' on you to wake up. Started to think you might be dead. Any damn way, I was feelin' kinda like a whole thing, you know? Pancakes, eggs, bacon—maybe cook up some potatoes. But I didn't know how many I was cookin' for." He frowned and sat down on the edge of Daryl's bed. Daryl moved over to give him room, and moved the ashtray so they could both reach it. "I was hopin' you mighta smuggled your sweet thing in here last night. Might be sleepin' in 'cause you was up all night makin' sweet, sweet animal love to your honey."
Daryl laughed to himself, no longer disgusted by the facial expressions that his brother made, following some nonsense like that which he'd just said, to try and get a rise out of Daryl—or anyone else who he might be harassing.
"She's too skittish for that, Merle," Daryl said. "Not last night."
"Skittish?" Merle asked.
"I think her ex-husband done a number and a half on her, to tell you the truth," Daryl said. "She's worried to death about—about how she looks. You know? Am I tellin' the truth that I like her size? Is she too damn fat? Can she eat them—them chips or whatever and I'm still gonna like her in the morning?"
The corner of Merle's mouth drew up in a half smile.
"How big is this woman?" Merle asked. "You didn't say she was no Hun."
"She ain't. Skinny lil' thing," Daryl said. "Needs to eat, really. But he's got her seein' shit, I think, that just ain't there. Either that or—hell I'd say maybe he was wantin' the bony type, but it don't seem to me she coulda got much bonier without it bein' like a health crisis."
"Kinda funny you should say that shit," Merle said. "Must be somethin' in the water. Woman I picked up last night at Salty's? Shit—she was almost desperate hung up on weight. Apologized to my ass for every fuckin' dimple an' stripe on her body." He laughed to himself. "Finally had to tell her that I'd prefer not to have to spit out a mouthful of pussy to tell her I was enjoyin' everything all right, and that if she didn't stop worryin', I was gonna take that shit personal that I weren't ringin' no bells for her at all."
Daryl shook his head.
"Thanks Merle, for that fuckin' image," Daryl said.
"You offended by some pussy eatin', brother?" Merle asked.
"No," Daryl said. He laughed to himself, though, because he already knew what was coming.
"You know what I told your ass a long time ago, Daryl, about eatin' pussy, don't'cha?" Merle asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Better'n I know the fuckin' Velveeta jingle," Daryl offered. Merle was going to recite his stupid ass poem, anyway, and Daryl knew it.
"Pussy's good for a daily meal," Merle said. "Say it with me, brother."
"Fuck you. I ain't," Daryl said. Merle laughed. He wasn't bothered in the least by Daryl not playing along with him.
"Pussy's good for a daily meal. The more you eat, the better you feel. The better you feel, the longer you live. So, eat all the pussy she's willin' to give."
"Fuckin' poet laureate," Daryl mused.
"You coulda had pussy for breakfast, Daryl, like your ole brother, Merle…but'cha didn't," Merle said.
"You countin' breakfast as what happens at two in the mornin' now?" Daryl asked.
"No," Merle said. "She ain't left not an hour ago. If your ass ain't decided to sleep the whole damn mornin' away, you woulda seen her. Stayed for coffee, but she claimed she had to get on. Had somewhere to be. Some shit she's gotta get done today."
"See—now I know your ass is just in here yankin' me around," Daryl said, helping himself to another cigarette and tossing the pack at Merle so he didn't even have to request it. "Merle Dixon don't believe in wakin' up with a woman in his bed."
Merle laughed to himself. He hummed.
"He does if the pussy's sweet enough he's just gotta taste it again to believe it," Merle said. "It's a rare thing that it tastes as good sober as it did drunk. But I'ma tell you one thing, brother. Even if I make us some good damn pancakes? Ain't nothin' in this lil' mid-mornin' meal gonna compare with what the hell I had 'fore that honey slipped out the door."
Daryl laughed to himself, almost nervously. There was a veritable twinkle in his older brother's eyes, and that was entirely unlike Merle. It wasn't unusual to find the asshole so damn cheerful in the morning that Daryl half wanted to puke on him, but this was something different.
"You're yankin' my chain," Daryl said. "You ain't had fuckin' coffee with her ass!"
"Her cup's in there right now, brother," Merle said. "Ain't moved from where she left it. Why the fuck would I dirty up two cups just to yank you around?"
"Well—was she fat?" Daryl asked.
"What?" Merle asked.
"You said she just about worried your ass to death over—fat and everything else," Daryl said. "Was she fat?"
"Built like a brick house, brother," Merle mused. The twinkle hadn't faded, in the least, in his eye. "Eleven outta fuckin' ten and an ass that'd bring a damn tear to your eye. Hell—way she rode my dick? Did bring a fuckin' tear to my eye, I'ma tell you that damned much. Pussy that good makes a man not ashamed to cry about it."
"Shit," Daryl said with a laugh at his brother's antics. "Let me guess. She looked just like Farrah Fawcett."
Merle was clearly amused.
"Better," Merle said.
"Better'n Farrah Fawcett? You feelin' OK, Merle? You have a stroke or somethin' from all your exertion?"
Merle snorted.
"My point is that I ain't never seen Farrah Fawcett in the damned mornin', Daryl," Merle said. "Don't know what her ass looks like wakin' up after some good fuckin'. I know what this woman was lookin' like, though, an' didn't not a damn thing that mattered wash offa her when she excused herself to the bathroom to clean up. And there weren't nothin' sober that turned out to be some smoke an' mirrors shit for when I was drunk. She was all woman the whole damn time."
Daryl's face felt warm. Merle had always wanted, for himself, some nice movie relationship—someone he could get addicted to, since Merle had a particularly strong addictive personality—but the women he'd chosen had never been that type. Maybe, once or twice, Merle had thought he'd found something worth holding onto. They'd slipped through his fingers quickly enough, though, that Daryl couldn't remember their names or faces, and he doubted Merle could either. It had been a long time since Merle had even quit looking for that. It was easier to turn them loose, himself, the moment he was done with them, and pretend he didn't care, than it was to have his feelings hurt.
Daryl worried that his brother, for the first time in probably more than twenty years, had just set himself up for some hurt feelings.
"Hey," Daryl said. "I'm happy for you, brother. You—uh—get this angel's number? Or she flew right on back off to heaven without leavin' any contact information?"
Merle smirked at him.
"I got a number," Merle said.
"You gonna use it?" Daryl asked. He could tell, from Merle's expression, that he was battling some inner demon. If he used the number, he risked allowing the woman to hurt him. If he didn't, he'd still get hurt, but maybe it was easier to drive the stake through his own heart than it was to allow someone else to do it.
"Well…" Merle mused, drawing out the word like he was considering a response. "That's enough about me. What happened with your lil' woman? Say she's skittish?"
"She's gonna be fine," Daryl said. "She's just got her shit, you know? And hell, don't we fuckin' all?"
Merle laughed to himself.
"Speak for your own damned self," Merle said. "I don't got shit."
"Yeah—alright," Daryl said. "Well, I gotta piss. So as much as I'm enjoyin' this lil' slumber party…"
"You want my food or you don't?" Merle asked. "That's the whole damn reason I'm in here."
"I want food, Merle," Daryl said. "Whatever the hell it is you got to offer."
Merle got up from the side of the bed and shuffled out of the room. Daryl let himself into the bathroom and relieved his bladder. He washed his hands and used his fingers to run enough water through his har to take care of the pieces that were sticking up in odd directions.
Finally, he joined Merle in the kitchen, but he sat at the table and kept out of his brother's way while Merle—still looking very pleased with everything about his whole sorry life—went about cheerfully preparing a Huddle House worthy breakfast.
"You had a good time?" Merle asked, resurrecting the partially abandoned conversation.
"Real good time," Daryl admitted. "I like her, Merle."
Merle hummed.
"And how she feel about you, Darylina?"
"I think she likes me, too," Daryl said.
"But she ain't come back with you," Merle said. "And—I'm guessin' she ain't invited you in?"
"She ain't ready for that, Merle," Daryl said.
"Skittish," Merle supplied. Daryl hummed. "Forgive my ass for sayin' it, but she weren't so damned skittish last week."
"She was drunk, Merle," Daryl said. "And I think—maybe she was going through something."
"Like a break up or some shit? Caught you on the rebound?" Merle asked.
"Not like that," Daryl said. "Hell—like maybe she just got lonely."
"She still lonely?" Merle asked. "Look—I ain't tryin' to bust your bubble, but I'ma worry about you, brother. I know you. If she's just gonna jerk your ass around..."
"You think because she didn't fuck me, she's jerkin' me around?" Daryl asked, almost amused by the thought. Merle half shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he didn't want to commit to that idea entirely, but that wasn't the exact opposite of what he was saying. "She's not jerkin' me around, Merle. She's just—scared. And I respect that. Fuck if I ain't scared of a lot of shit."
"You was scared of my ass this mornin'," Merle said with a laugh.
"Asshole," Daryl shot back. "She give me a kiss last night. Sweet lil' kiss goodnight."
"And you contented with that?" Merle asked.
"Gotta be," Daryl said. "I don't want a thing that ain't freely given, and I know you know what the hell I mean."
"I just don't wanna see your ass get dragged bad enough that looks like she took you down sixty miles of bad fuckin' highway," Merle said, like he was talking to the scrambled eggs that he eyed mournfully. "That's all, brother."
Daryl's stomach tightened with the sentiment. He believed his brother. He also believed that Carol had no intention of dragging him in any way, shape, or form.
"I hear you, brother," Daryl offered. "And—I feel the same damn way."
Merle looked at him over his shoulder.
"Fuck you mean?" He asked.
Daryl shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm just sayin'—be careful. Whether you talk about it or not? I can see shit in your eyes, Merle. Practically smell that shit on you—and it ain't pussy I'm smellin'. Just remember, brother, fuckin' Lucifer was an angel once, himself."
