AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

This chapter might need a Merle being Merle warning. LOL

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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In a lot of ways, Merle felt responsible for his baby brother. He'd never asked for the bouncing bundle of snot, shit, and piss, but that had been exactly what he'd gotten. At ten, Merle was already a "bad kid" to most people who knew him. He was a good for nothing Dixon to most people who didn't know him.

Good or bad, Merle had always done whatever the hell he wanted. His old man was going to beat him, one way or another, so he always figured he might as well make himself happy, however he could, in the intervals between rounds.

Merle's mama had been sweet. Too sweet, really, for the life she'd ended up with. It was the being sweet that killed her, Merle figured. Not the beatings or the alcohol. Not even the fire that burned her ass away to absolute nothingness. Merle always figured it was the being sweet that really did it.

Maybe that's why Merle had always done his best to look out for Daryl.

Somewhere, in Merle, he knew there was a streak of his mama. There was a streak of his daddy, too. He kept the streak of his mama, but he kept it deep. Contained. So the sweetness didn't let the world get to him too damn much. The streak of their mama that ran through Daryl was two counties wide, though, and there was barely enough of the old man to keep Merle from occasionally wondering if their mama had let the mailman, or someone, get a piece of ass for the escape from her shitshow life it might have offered. Daryl had some of their old man, though, in appearance, and the streak of Dixon came out when he was really pressed to show it, so Merle figured that his mama hadn't quite given the old man the run around—though he couldn't blame her if she had.

Daryl had always been the sweet one, so Merle had looked out for him as best he could, ever since he'd been ten and Daryl had been a squirmy little thing that Merle had, at first, thought looked like he'd been boiled or something.

Merle hadn't intended on living with his brother for the rest of his life, but life didn't turn out like you thought it would. Really, Daryl wasn't bad company, and they lived pretty well together. They liked a lot of the same things, and they didn't argue—that was the most important part. They were able, at this point in their lives, to say that most of the stupid shit they might have argued about when they were younger just didn't matter anymore.

They both liked when life was just fucking easy because it had been too hard, for too much time, already.

"Trout basket," Merle said just as soon as Daryl came in the door.

"The fuck did you say?" Daryl asked.

Merle laughed to himself.

"Trout basket," Merle said. "I'm drawin' up a blank."

Daryl put down the bag that he was carrying. Merle didn't have to ask what he'd brought in. The smell hit his nostrils and immediately made his stomach growl. He meant to inquire about the food, but Daryl spoke before he could.

"How many letters?"

"Five," Merle said. "Last word. Oughta be easy. Gotta C, two blanks, an E, and an L."

"Creel," Daryl said quickly and without hesitation.

"Damn—was you sittin' on that one, Daryl?" Merle mused. Daryl laughed in response.

"You taught me that shit. You goin' senile, Merle?"

Merle hummed to himself. He finished up his crossword puzzle, closed the book, and reached behind him to put the book and the ball point pen on the bar so that he'd know where it was when he started looking for it again.

"Might be," he mused. "Might just be. Actually, might just—head on down to Salty's later."

"On a Wednesday, Merle?" Daryl asked.

Merle laughed to himself and stretched.

"Any pussy at a bar on a Wednesday night is a sure fuckin' thing, Daryl," Merle mused. "Middle of the week—there ain't no specials. She knows what the hell she's there for, I promise your ass that."

Daryl lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter so that he could flick ashes into the sink.

"And that's all that matters, ain't it, Merle?" Daryl mused.

There was something in Daryl's tone—some trace of amusement on his features—that made Merle's stomach uncomfortable for a moment. Merle lit himself a cigarette, but decided to use the ashtray on the table like a civilized person. He got up long enough to grab himself a beer out of the fridge, and then he sat down again and twisted the lid off, dropping it next to the ashtray.

"I've heard tell that if you don't bust a nut often enough, your brain gets backed up," Merle said. "You'll lose your memory 'cause you're too damn full of junk—gotta get it out to clear your head." He laughed to himself at Daryl's expression. "Damn, boy. Come to think of it, it's a wonder you even know where the hell the house is."

"Fuck you," Daryl offered with a snort.

"It's true," Merle said. "Ideally, you should come at least once a day, Daryl. Good for your overall health, they say. You remember that article."

"I do," Daryl said. "Also said that focusin' solely on pleasurin' a woman would give you good concentration."

"And teach your ass patience," Merle said with a laugh. "Don't you worry about me, brother. Rule number one is the lady comes first—unless that shit just can't be avoided. Then she comes second and your ass remembers that you been off the horse too long."

Daryl glanced at his phone and turned it over on the counter next to him.

"You ever think about—what the hell it might be like to know that'cha gonna come with the same damn woman every time?" Daryl asked. "Like—forever?"

"You talkin' about marriage?" Merle asked. Daryl hummed and nodded. They'd talked about everything in their lives. If you lived with someone pretty much forever, you got around to talking about every single thing, just about, that two people could discuss. Sometimes, like in the case of women, you talked about the same thing nearly every day. Marriage was no strange topic to either of them—yet they came back to it often…nearly as often as they got on the topic of women. "Your lil' sweet thang got your ass thinkin' about marriage, boy?"

"I'm just askin' if you ever thought about it," Daryl said. "Somethin' besides the flavor of the night at Salty's, Merle."

Merle laughed to himself.

"I told you before," Merle mused, lighting himself another cigarette. "And I'll tell you again. There's too damn much Dixon in me. The way I am. The shit I like. Ain't no damn woman like that shit but a real fuckin' hellcat. And the best thing you can do with a hellcat is turn 'em outdoors 'cause they ain't fit to stay in the house."

"You like the same damn movies I like," Daryl said. "And for just a damn minute quit pretendin' you like that shit 'cause there ain't fuck else on. We got somethin' like a hundred channels. If you was just watchin' it to rot your brain, you could find some other shit. But you don't—'cause you like that shit. You like the part where everything looks warm. Looks like it smells good an' the lights are just right and shit. You like the comin' home part…and you fuckin' know it."

"But you don't come home to a fuckin' hellcat, Daryl. You come home to a fuckin' lap cat. And you can mark my words—there ain't no lap cats that want Dixons. Dixons are like old Toms. They're strays. Don't act right for the civilized lap cat. Lap cats don't want Dixons. You know that. And you know you don't want no hellcat long term, neither."

Daryl had tried relationships. He wanted his own slice of Happily Ever After, and he'd tried to get it. A week. Two weeks. The longest Daryl had ever kept one woman was three months. It never lasted. The hellcats didn't exactly break Daryl's heart, but they weren't right for the image he had in his head. They weren't right for him—and he didn't really like them like he wanted to like them, either. None of them had ever really lit his proverbial fire. It was always the same—he thought he was smitten for her, or he wanted to be, and he went after it hard, determined to make it into something like those movies; something that looked like it smelled like cinnamon and felt like living in Christmas. He'd always come in, after it burned itself out, and sit down across from Merle, disappointed, because he'd tried to make a lap cat out of a hellcat.

Merle sighed.

"You can't make no lap cat outta no hellcat, Daryl," Merle said. "And there ain't no lap cat wants a Dixon." Merle stopped. He thought about how bad his baby brother wanted his Happily Ever After. He thought about how bad he wanted Daryl to have what the hell he wanted. "Maybe—maybe you gonna find one, someday. A lap cat that'll curl up real nice with you."

"But you couldn't?" Daryl asked. Merle laughed to himself and tasted the beer.

"I got a helluva lot more Dixon in me, Darylina, than you ever even imagined havin'," Merle mused. "I'm too damn rough around the edges. They don't even want seconds with my ass—I come to close to breakin' 'em right outta the damn gate."

"Why not just—not break 'em, Merle?" Daryl asked. "Gotta say—she's skittish as all get out. She sure ain't eatin' outta my hand, and she ain't no lap cat—not yet. But I think Carol's got potential. But—hell, long as we talkin' about cats as a damn metaphor, it ain't no different than Little Gray we had."

Little Gray had been a stray cat that had taken up around their house some years back. She'd come to them as just what her name implied—a little gray kitten. She'd hollered and screamed and driven them crazy until they'd fed her on just about anything they could put on a plate and chuck out the door. They'd figured she'd leave when she ate her fill, that first night after she just showed up on the doorstep. She hadn't, though. She'd just hung around getting fatter and fluffier. Both of them had wanted something desperate to pet and hold the cat—like some kind of inexplicable need. She was having no part of being touched or held, though.

So, they'd started sitting outside with her. Just sitting. They'd started moving the plate closer each day—just a little closer. They'd started with offering a hand to sniff and, eventually, she'd thanked them for their hospitality by brushing her body against their hands—her choice. It was always by Little Gray's choice. Finally, she'd eventually let herself be petted and rubbed. She'd never really gotten around to letting herself be held, though. And, one day, Little Gray had disappeared in much the same way she'd shown up—without any warning.

"You gotta treat 'em good, Merle, if you want 'em to stick around," Daryl said. "Gotta go easy. Gentle."

"I ain't easy, and I ain't gentle," Merle said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"You're a chickenshit is what you are," Daryl said. "You forget I know you. Better'n any damn body in this world. You could be easy some. If that's what you wanted. But you're too damn hung up on hurtin' her so she don't stay around—that way you don't gotta get your feelings hurt if she leaves."

"When she leaves, brother," Merle said. "If her ass even wanted to stay with a damn Dixon in the first place, for more'n a night. It's when she leaves…not if. Besides—you talkin' like someone that's got somethin' to show for all his infinite fuckin' wisdom."

"No," Daryl said. "I don't. Not yet, maybe. But—at least I'm tryin' to get what I want, Merle. I'm just sayin' you ain't gettin' no younger. You ever want more'n a hellcat, you might oughta start tryin' to find you somethin' different."

"Told you—ain't nobody wants a Dixon but a hellcat," Merle said, shaking his head, his stomach ached from the conversation and he wished he could go back to before it had begun. Daryl was an idealist. He always had been. A regular glass is half full kind of asshole—especially as far as Dixons went. Maybe part of that was their mama's fault. There was so much of her in Daryl. Maybe part of that was Merle's fault—he'd always hated to see his baby brother squalling. He'd give him anything he could to make him feel better. He'd always told him things would get better. He'd always told him he could have anything he wanted—at least eventually. Maybe it had gone to Daryl's head so that he believed the nonsense.

Of course, even standing there with that damn dumb look on his face—with Merle knowing he was courting a woman who might be a stray that could be turned lap cat, but probably wouldn't want a rough-around-the-edges slice of white trash like everyone knew the Dixons were—Merle didn't have the heart to hurt his brother and take away the hope of something that made him so pleased.

"I hope you get your lap cat, Daryl," Merle said. "But—there's too damn much Dixon in me. Ain't nothin' wants my ass but a hellcat—and hellcats don't want more'n a night 'fore you turn 'em out. That's just the damn way it is."

"What if—she was just equal parts, Merle?" Daryl asked. "Equal parts—hellcat and lap cat?"

Merle laughed to himself. He shook his head. He was tired of the conversation. He was tired of thinking about what could have been, what might be, what wasn't, and what had never been. Too much thinking about that kind of thing only soured the stomach and made everything ache more than it normally did.

"What's in the bag, brother?" Merle asked, doing his best to make it clear that he was changing the subject.

Daryl was busy on his phone; his attention having turned to the device. He looked up and hummed at Merle, so Merle repeated his question.

"Oh—yeah…Nice Rack's. I picked up food." He turned back to whatever he was doing on his phone.

"You gonna bring it over here, or we gonna just let that shit sit an' congeal real good?" Daryl was focused on his phone. "That your lil' kitty we was talkin' about that's got your attention so good, boy?"

Daryl looked at him, brow furrowed, and then his expression softened. He laughed to himself.

"Somethin' like that. Hey—listen—fuck—I gotta head out. I'll be back later tonight."

Merle was surprised at Daryl's abruptness. He immediately grabbed for his keys. He meant he was leaving, and he was leaving right away.

"Somethin' wrong, brother?"

"No," Daryl said. "Just—somethin' important. I gotta go."

"You gonna tell me what?"

"When I get home, Merle," Daryl said. "Don't'cha worry. Just—have a good night. I'ma be home late."

Merle stood up, following his brother to the door, entirely bewildered by Daryl's' behavior.

"You alright, brother?"

"I'm fine," Daryl assured him, finally sounding sincere and not so frantic. "Just gotta go, Merle."

"You ain't even eat," Merle said.

"You eat it," Daryl said. "All yours."

"You got a fuckin' sack full of food here, brother," Merle said, glancing toward the bag that looked like it had enough for three people packed inside.

"It'll last you all night," Daryl promised, taking the porch steps two at a time like his ass was on fire. Merle stayed at the door until Daryl's brake lights told him he was at the end of the driveway. Then he closed the door, laughed to himself, and headed back into the kitchen.

"He's fuckin' weird sometimes," Merle mused to himself. He loved his brother—he loved him more than he'd ever loved anything or anyone. But that didn't mean that Merle didn't know that his brother was a little bit weird—hell, maybe everyone was, though.

Of course, it might be Daryl's particular brand of weird that got him the lap cat he wanted so damn much—Daryl had been more heartbroken, honestly, over Little Gray than Merle had, after all, because Merle had expected she would up and leave one day, whereas Daryl had hoped she would stay forever—and Merle wanted the lap cat kind of movie-worthy for his brother before it was just too late to have it.

Merle quickly gave up the idea of going to Salty's. He wouldn't mind a piece of ass—who would? But it was too damn much work, honestly, and he was feeling a little deflated from the conversation with Daryl. He didn't like getting sappy with his brother—or with anyone—but there was at least a little of his mama inside him, rattling around like pennies in a coffee can. He wouldn't mind that Hallmark movie bullshit for himself, but there wasn't someone like that for him. The hellcats lit out the moment the door was open, and they didn't look back. Just like Little Gray, they came, allowed themselves to be touched for a while and only on their terms, and then they just disappeared—that was the part that Daryl forgot so often, and that was the part that Merle was willing to let him forget.

Tonight, Merle would settle for some beers and all the barbecue his stomach could hold. Maybe he'd find one of those stupid ass movies to watch. Just because it wasn't real, after all, didn't mean that he didn't enjoy the escape.

Merle was arranging ribs on a plate—a whole rack that Daryl had picked out—when there was a hard knock at the door. Merle laughed to himself.

"Door ain't locked, asshole," he called out. "You'da been in a world of shit, though, if I'da been passed out an' you forgot your keys—havin' to take the back door off the track again."

Merle opened the door, but he didn't expect to see what he saw.

She smiled at him.

"I'll keep that in mind," she offered. "In case I'm ever locked out and need to get back in."

Merle's heart immediately started pounding in his chest—hard.

"Andrea…"

"You didn't call, Merle, and that—hurts my feelings."

His stomach squeezed as hard as his chest. If his arm had gone numb, he would have figured it was some kind of fatal heart attack.

"Didn't figure you'd answer," Merle said.

A smile turned up the corner of her mouth. She was wearing a black coat, and she toyed with the stiff belt that tied the jacket. Merle watched her fingers as they worked out the knot.

"A little bird told me you might think that," Andrea said. "That you liked—direct. No room for misinterpretation."

She dropped the belt and slipped the coat just off her shoulders, revealing that she was wearing lingerie underneath it—and nothing more.

"You shouldn't be runnin' around outside like that," Merle said quickly. He didn't know why he said it, though. What she did was her business, not his. If she wanted to run around butt ass naked, there was little that he could say about it.

She didn't scold him, though.

"Then you better let me in," Andrea said with a smile.

Merle grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the house. He closed the door behind her and locked it without a thought.

"What the hell you doin' here?"

"It's not obvious?" Andrea asked. She slipped the coat back up on her shoulders, but Merle could still see bare skin beneath it. He was fully aware of how little she was wearing—painfully aware, actually. Someone else, it seemed, hadn't forgotten her, either. Merle wasn't sure what to say, or what to do. He hadn't been prepared for her presence in the least—and certainly not following the discussion he'd just had with his brother.

"Just showed up on the doorstep," he mused to himself.

Andrea smiled, swallowing it back so that it was little more than a smirk. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Maybe a little like a stray?" She offered. Merle's stomach tightened at her choice of words, and his heart drummed hard. His dick though, was struggling to be heard over all the noise and confusion—he had promised it a trip to Salty's and then reneged, but this was better because she—she'd been better than anyone else he'd ever found at Salty's, or anywhere else for that matter. She pursed her lips at Merle. "You want the pussy to go away?" She asked.

Merle wished he had the ability to slap himself, because he felt like that was the only thing that could get him out of this stupor. He grabbed the top of her arms and a quick expression crossed her face that made him loosen his grip just a little.

"Fuck, no," he managed to get out. "But I gotta warn your ass—I don't know how to do second times."

"Same as first times," Andrea said. She winked at him. "Just maybe with a few new positions." She rested her hands on his shoulders and worked the muscles there before she kissed his jaw and then bit him, just hard enough to get his attention without damaging the skin, right where she'd kissed him. "If you think this old Tom could handle that," she said, keeping her voice low. It sent a jolt through his whole body that had him feeling less like an old Tom and more like some barely-haired kid ready to embarrass himself in front of the first woman he ever saw naked.

He laughed to himself.

"I'll give you whatever you want, Sugar," he offered. "Take care of your ass real good. Just like you like it. But you oughta know—I'ma want a lil' of what suits me, too. I want some shit on my terms."

"I'm counting on it," Andrea said. "All of it. Don't worry, Merle. I like it rough."

"Shit," Merle growled. He reached and caught her hair, twisting it around his fingers. As he pulled it, he directed her back toward the bedroom. "You know where the hell we goin'," he offered. She came willingly, backing up instead of turning to walk in front of him. She pulled him, once, off course. He let her, and she pushed him into the wall. She rubbed her body against him—her perfect fucking body. Merle leg go of her hair. His hands explored the soft skin of her waist. Sliding around, inside the silky underwear, he squeezed her ass cheeks. "Perfect fuckin' ass," he growled.

"You think so?" She mused. He growled his confirmation. She'd already popped the button his pants. She'd worked the zipper down. Merle leaned and bit the crook of her neck when she wrapped her hand around his dick. "Does this mean you're happy to see me? Even though you threw my ass out of the house and didn't call me back?"

"Thought you wouldn't come no damn way," Merle said.

"I'm here now," Andrea said, stroking him. "What are you going to do with me?"

"I'ma fuck the hell outta you," Merle said.

"Be careful, Merle," Andrea warned. He could hear the humor in her voice. "Fuck the hell out of a hellcat and she just might never leave."