See Yourself Become the Villain (Book 3) Chapter Eight
Found Family! The Boys and Supe! Reader
Platonic Yandere! Homelander and Supe! Reader
Platonic! Soldier Boy and Supe! Reader
Chapter Eight: Woken
Summary: (Y/N) wakes.
Chapter Warnings: mentions of torture, of suicidal thoughts, and of SA
Ben held up his hands as (Y/N) tried to stand and glare at him. While they were physically weakened and Ben had all his powers under his control, that didn’t mean (Y/N) wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. He wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate them.
“(Y/N), I’m here to help you,” said Ben.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” said (Y/N).
“I heard you were supposed to be, too,” said Ben.
(Y/N) narrowed their eyes, tried to get out of the tank, and collapsed. Ben moved to catch them, but (Y/N) held up a hand, power glowing in their palm. It sent sparks up their arms, and they gritted their teeth as it burned their skin and tore at their muscles, but they glared at Ben.
“Don’t touch me,” spat (Y/N). “You tried to kill my friends.”
“I—” Ben had no response to that. “Fuck, kid, will you listen—’
“Don’t call me that,” sneered (Y/N), stumbling to their feet and dropping to their knees weakly. “You tried to hurt the people I care about.” They looked around. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck—” They recognized the room. “Why am I—” Their eyes widened as they remembered. The memories returning, the pain, the anger. Annie and Hughie had been in danger. (Y/N) had told Annie to tun and then tried to explode, but the sedatives—Homelander had them. (Y/N) retched and nearly threw up. “How long?”
“What?” said Ben.
“How long have I been here?” said (Y/N), arms trembling. “How long has he had me locked up like a fucking decoration?”
“I don’t know. At least a year. He had been in deep freeze here, too,” said Ben.
“I need to go. I need to find Annie and Hughie.” (Y/N) tried to stand again, but their legs and arms weren’t cooperating. Half their brain was filled with fog, and each time they tried to summon their powers, pain shot through them from the inside out. “Frenchie and Kimiko—If Vought went for us, they went for them—”
“They’re all still alive and out there,” said Ben. “Still trying to kill Homelander.”
(Y/N)’s heart sang in relief. Their family was out there. They tried to stand again, and their legs screamed in exhaustion.
“Listen, (Y/N), I—I want to help you,” said Ben. (Y/N) looked at him warily, and Ben grimaced at the expression. “To stop Homelander, to get you out.”
(Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you.”
That hurt. But Ben kept going. “I know. But I wouldn’t have woken you up if I didn’t mean it, would I?”
(Y/N) looked at the tank. “What’s the catch?”
“You’re still weak,” said Ben. “And Homelander’s in the tower.”
“You fucking—Are you an idiot?” said (Y/N), eyes looking around in panic. Their powers weren’t activating properly, if Homelander showed up—
“I have a plan,” said Ben. (Y/N) eyed him warily again, trying to hold themself up on the wall. “I know, you don’t trust me, but I woke you up, right? That has to count for something.”
(Y/N) narrowed their eyes. “Does Homelander die at the end of this plan?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“I’ll listen, but if I think anything is suspicious, I’ll tear you apart and then throw myself out the window,” said (Y/N).
“You can’t control your powers right now, you can’t fly yet,” said Ben.
(Y/N)’s gaze was hard. “If it means I’d be out of Homelander’s grasp, I don’t care what would happen.”
Ben’s mouth opened and closed. “Shit, ki—(Y/N), you’re intense.”
“What’s your fucking plan?” said (Y/N), and the lights around them flickered.
“Okay. Okay.” Ben held up his hands. “Homelander’s gone off the fucking deep end.”
“No shit, he’s been crazy,” said (Y/N).
“He’s putting people in camps,” said Ben.
(Y/N)’s hands clenched weakly, and they tested their legs. They slid to the ground. Ben reached out, but he held himself back. They didn’t want to be touched. So he wouldn’t touch them.
“And he’s trying to become immortal though this shit called V1, the V that I have in my system,” said Ben.
(Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. “Immortal?”
“Because Butcher has some virus or something. Killed every supe around me but me,” said Ben.
“Sameer’s virus…” murmured (Y/N).
“You know it?”
“I watched a bunch of sheep explode because they were infected.” (Y/N) frowned. “Or I exploded a bunch of sheep. It’s a bit unclear.”
Ben grimaced. “But, point is, that’ll be bad. But there’s no V1. And if there is, he’s not getting it.”
(Y/N) narrowed their eyes. “Why did you wake me up?”
“Because—”
“You don’t need me to destroy some V1, you can do that yourself,” said (Y/N). They tried to stand, held up their hands, and breathed out. They were stable—on their feet, at least.
“Because it was the right thing to do.” That was it.
(Y/N) looked at Ben in disbelief. “The right thing to do would be to get to Hughie and Annie and help them kill Homelander—”
“Fuck no, Butcher’s a cunt. I mean, an asshole,” said Ben. “But, look, Homelander is gonna know if you try to escape.”
“Let’s see what happens,” said (Y/N), stretching their arms. A light flickered, and (Y/N) grimaced as seams opened up on their arm. It ached like hell. “Shit.”
“Look, you can get out and go to that asshole if you want,” said Ben. “But we need to get you out.”
“Already on it,” grumbled (Y/N), moving towards the window. Their knees gave out again, and they held onto a desk.
“You’re going to get yourself killed going out like that. And with Homelander a few floors down? He’ll get you in a second,” said Ben.
And if Homelander was set off, that would lead to more danger. He was unstable, and when it came to (Y/N)—They shivered at what he would do next to them if he learned that the deep freeze wasn’t enough to keep them his. “I don’t want to go back under.”
“I know the feeling,” said Ben. “So, what if we practice waking you up?”
(Y/N) looked at him as they supported themself by the arms. “Practice waking me up?”
“Each time you wake up from deep freeze, you’ll recover faster,” said Ben.
Understanding dawned on them. “So when Homelander’s far enough away and I’m strong enough—”
“You can escape,” said Ben.
(Y/N) shivered. “But that would mean going back into deep freeze, and he would still—”
“(Y/N).” Ben looked at them. “I swear—I want you away from him.” He cleared his throat. “He’s a total dick. He’s got to go.”
“Right,” said (Y/N). Their legs gave out, and the seams opening up. They cried out and covered their mouth to obscure the sound. “Fuck.”
“Your V—It’s deteriorating,” said Ben.
“No shit, I took your blast to the chest,” said (Y/N). They could feel their powers trying to pull them together and fraying at the edge with each moment. “But I’m fine.” They weren’t, and they both knew it.
“…You have to go back under,” said Ben.
“Fuck you,” said (Y/N), and they cried out as another shock wracked their body.
“(Y/N), will you fucking listen?” said Ben, moving to their side, hands hovering to catch them.
“No, I’m going to leave,” said (Y/N). They moved, and the entire world fractured. (Y/N)’s head jerked back, and they let out a silent cry as they collapsed.
“Until we have a solution, you have to—”
“No—”
Ben put his arms under their shoulders, keeping touch to a minimum, and pulled them back towards the tank. “I’ll wake you up again, and you’ll get better faster—”
“I’m getting better now—”
“He is in the building and will tear you apart—”
“I’d rather be dead than be with him!” But (Y/N) fell back into the tank. They reached out, gritting their teeth as electricity sparked uncomfortably beneath their skin. “Please, don’t, don’t—”
“I swear I’ll wake you up again,” said Ben. But they were dying, and Ben couldn’t let that happen.
“Don’t—Don’t leave me in here—” (Y/N) watched the tank shut, and the gas filtered in. They grew lightheaded, and sparks flew around their hands. “Please, Ben—”
“I’ll wake you up tomorrow,” said Ben. “I swear.”
“Ben—”
(Y/N) had one thought as they slowly fell unconscious. Hold onto the waves. Homelander wasn’t going to hold them, and as much as Soldier Boy seemed honest, (Y/N) knew one thing in life was true: they had themself to rely on.
And (Y/N) had let themself be held for too long. If (Y/N) was going to die, they were going to make every moment count.
The tank around them glitched faintly, the pulse steadying into a heartbeat.
l
“All you do is get him on the blower and tell him you wanna see him,” said Butcher. Ryan scoffed. “When you rock up, you chuck the shit in his face and that’ll be it.”
“Why me?” questioned Ryan.
“ ‘Cause he won’t leave the fortress of cuntitude for anyone else,” said Butcher plainly.
“So this is what you wanted to talk to me about,” scoffed Ryan. “Killing my dad.”
Butcher sighed. “Listen, mate—”
“Is that all you think I’m good for?” demanded Ryan.
“I ain’t gonna treat you like a kid no more. Alright? You’re done with that,” said Butcher. He looked Ryan squarely in the eyes. “Homelander raped yer mum.” Ryan jerked. “He nearly tortured (Y/N) to death. He’s gonna burn everything down, and you are the only one who can stop him. Now, normally I don’t put no stock in any of that bollocks about destiny, but if anyone’s got one, it’s you.”
Ryan shifted. “I throw this virus at him…what’ll happen to me and (Y/N)?”
Butcher furrowed his brow. How many people were thinking about (Y/N) whenever there was a threat? Why weren’t people doing what was necessary? A kid. “You’ll die.” Butcher didn’t pull his punches, though. Ryan straightened. “I’ll be close by, and we’ll go together.” He didn’t want for a complete answer and continued, “I ain’t gonna lie to you, this…this is not you’re your mum wanted. But it’s the only way. And it will be justice.”
Ryan’s voice trembled with equal parts grief and anger. “You’re asking me to kill myself?”
“You wouldn’t be the first lad to throw his life away in a war, but you would be the first to save the world doin’ it,” said Butcher.
Ryan stared down at his hands. He exhaled. He swallowed.
“I’ll fetch us a pint,” said Butcher, standing and heading to the bar counter. He took the pints and returned to the table. As he set them down, he slipped a small tracker into Ryan’s pocket. Then, Butcher sat. “Here.” He pushed one towards Ryan. “Told ‘er you were thirty.”
Ryan scoffed and shook his head.
Butcher lifted his pint for a toast. “Fuck the leather, fuck the lace, here’s to the bird who sits on your face.”
Ryan rolled his eyes and took a drink anyways. “Where’d you pick that up?”
“Me old man,” said Butcher.
“You two close?” asked Ryan. He wished his family situation was calm. He wished he had one. He missed his mom.
“Nah, not really,” said Butcher. “He was a…piss artist. Used to lose all his money on the gee-gees. Uh, horses. And then he’d come home, beat the livin’ daylights outta Lennie and me. And then, later, laugh about it with his mates. Yeah, he was a right cunt.”
Ryan grimaced. “Where is he now?”
“Bottom of the Thames,” said Butcher plainly. “I put him there, just the other day.”
Ryan glanced to the side as he absorbed that information.
“Only wish I’d done it sooner,” remarked Butcher. “ ‘Fore he caused more…more damage.” It was cheap manipulation, but it was also true.
Ryan hesitated. “Butcher…Do you think that I could ever—that I might turn into my dad?”
Butcher didn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t know.”
Ryan’s lip trembled slightly. “My mom…Aunt Grace…the others…all I do is hurt people.” He didn’t want to. It was an accident, always, he just wanted to help, but didn’t that still make him a monster? “I can’t be around anyone.”
Butcher leaned forward slightly. “Without us, without supes…the world is a better, safer place.”
“…Would (Y/N) do this?” asked Ryan softly. “To stop him?”
“Yes.” Butcher didn’t hesitate. And goddammit if it wouldn’t be easier if (Y/N) was there, they would have fought tooth and nail and maybe even beaten Homelander, but they were gone.
Ryan slowly nodded. “I’ll do it.” He downed the rest of the pint.
“Tomorrow, then,” said Butcher.
“Tomorrow,” echoed Ryan. Maybe he’d finally be a hero.
l
Soldier Boy was tensed as he walked towards the penthouse. He had been summoned by Homelander, and after the afternoon with (Y/N), he was prepared for Homelander to have noticed something amiss and punish him and, in turn, (Y/N). (Y/N). Soldier Boy felt guilty for putting them back under, but with their condition and the way Homelander was so close at hand, it wasn’t safe enough to smuggle them out yet. It hurt Ben to do it, but he was going to get them strong and safe.
And he wouldn’t leave them to rot there. If he did, he’d be no better than Homelander. So if Homelander knew, then Soldier Boy would blast him to hell and smash that tank apart.
“Homelander?” shouted Soldier Boy warily.
“Up here!”
Soldier Boy would his way through Homelander’s penthouse. “What do you—” He drew up short and jerked back, dumbfounded. “What in the fuck?”
Homelander was laying in a bathtub, submerged beneath milk.
“Is that milk?” said Soldier Boy. He really had no other thoughts than “what the fuck.”
“Better. Breastmilk. From the NICU at Mount Sinai,” said Homelander cheerfully.
` “So, what, you asked me up here so I could watch you swim in tit-jizz?” said Soldier Boy incredulously. At least that was better than Homelander knowing he was planning on freeing (Y/N).
“I want to give you another chance,” said Homelander.
“You want to give me another chance?” repeated Soldier Boy.
“Yes. Help me find that V1,” said Homelander.
“I’d rather fist myself with a handful of razors,” said Soldier Boy succinctly. “Besides, your manager—” he really couldn’t be bothered to remember Sage’s name “—said there’s no V1 to find.”
“Oh, there most certainly is,” said Homelander, leaning back and closing his eyes. “And I am going to find it.” He opened his eyes and grinned.
“Yeah? What makes you so sure?” challenged Soldier Boy.
“An angel told me. It’s my destiny.”
And now he’s hallucinating, thought Soldier Boy. “Just when I thought there was a ceiling to how weird you could get.”
“Yes, yes. Make your jokes.” Homelander huffed bitterly. “You’ve been blessed with immortality, and what have you done with it? Drink and fuck yourself numb. You are a disappointment.”
Yes, perhaps Soldier Boy was. He definitely had been. Even in his time, there had been people who were far more deserving of the label of hero. But he was determined to do better and be better.
“You see—” Homelander stood, and Soldier Boy groaned and looked away “—I am not gonna waste my immortality. I am gonna take what’s rightfully mine. I’m asking if you want a seat at the table because you’re my father. But with or without you…” A disturbingly wide smile appeared on Homelander’s face. “A reckoning is coming.”
“You know, all I see is a freak,” said Soldier Boy. “A freak with a bushel full of grey pubes. Try some Just for Men.” He turned and walked away. His shoulders relaxed in relief, and he glanced at (Y/N)’s tank. Homelander didn’t suspect. Ben had a chance to get them strong enough to be safe from that monster.
• {content} bruce loves using your butt as a pillow
It's past two in the morning when you hear the shower shut off in the bathroom just off the bedroom, which means patrol ran long again, which means you already know how the next ten minutes are going to go.
You don't move from where you're sprawled on your stomach across the bed, book propped open in front of you, one leg kicked up lazily behind you. You're three chapters deep into something you should've finished last week, and you have exactly zero intention of losing your page.
The bathroom door opens on a puff of steam. You don't look up.
"You're still awake," Bruce says, voice rough with the particular tiredness that comes after a bad night — not injured-tired, just done-tired, bone-deep.
"Mm. Waiting for my husband to come home from his little nighttime hobby."
"It's not a hobby." He pads across the room in nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still damp, and you know without looking that he's got that faint crease between his brows he gets when a night's been long but not disastrous. You've learned to read him in increments like that.
"Vigilante crime-fighting is absolutely a hobby, Bruce. You don't get paid."
"I get paid in—" he pauses, clearly searching for something "—civic pride."
"Devastatingly funny. Truly, Gotham's got jokes."
He huffs something that's almost a laugh, and then the mattress dips beside you, and you already know what's coming a full two seconds before it happens.
"Don't you dare—"
Too late. His hand lands square on your backside with an easy, familiar smack, and you yelp into your book.
"Bruce!"
"What." He says it like the most reasonable man alive, already sliding a hand over the spot he just smacked, squeezing once, unbothered, like he's checking the mail. "It's right there."
"It's attached to me, that's not an invitation—"
"It's always an invitation." He says this with the calm, insufferable confidence of a man who has never once been told no and meant it. Which, fine. He hasn't.
You swat weakly behind you, more out of principle than actual objection, and he catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your knuckles like an apology he doesn't mean even a little, and then — inevitably, gravitationally, like this is just where the night was always headed — he folds himself down and drops his head right onto your butt like it's a goose-down pillow he paid four figures for.
"Oh my god."
"Comfortable," he mumbles, already sounding half a step from unconscious. His arm slings loosely over the back of your thighs, anchoring himself there.
"You have an entire pillow. Several, actually. I've counted."
"None of them are this good."
"You're insane. You are a grown man. You run a multi-billion dollar company and dress up as a bat and you are currently using my ass as a headrest."
"Priorities," he says, muffled, eyes clearly already shut.
You sigh the sigh of a woman who married this exact behavior with her eyes wide open, and go back to your book, one hand idly dropping to card through his damp hair because — fine. Fine. It's not like you're going anywhere.
"How was patrol," you ask, mostly just to feel him talk, the low rumble of his voice vibrating faintly against you.
"Quiet. Couple of break-ins. Jason wouldn't stop narrating everything over comms."
"That tracks."
"Alfred left a plate for me. I didn't eat it."
"You're eating it tomorrow before you leave this bed, I don't care whose butt you'd rather be using as furniture."
"Deal," he says, already three-quarters asleep, thumb tracing a slow, absent line against the back of your thigh. "Love you."
"Love you too, you enormous menace." You turn a page one-handed, careful not to jostle him. "Squeeze my butt again and I'm telling Alfred."
"He already knows."
"Bruce."
He just smiles against you, eyes still closed, and doesn't move an inch.
"sweetheart, are you sure you don't want to wear a different coat?" bruce asked. he had been trailing behind you as you tore both closets apart in pursuit of warmth.
you had decided on his navy coat. the one with italian-imported cashmere, hand stitched hemming, and too many visits to the tailor for alterations. you'd sworn up and down it was "so extra" when he first commissioned it.
"no, i do not, honey." you replied, a tad bitterly.
stubbornness. that was great.
bruce tried to keep the edge out of his voice, "what about that jacket you bought in–"
"none of mine fit me." you snapped, slipping the coat on. "maybe you should have put more thought into that before getting me pregnant, bruce."
"that's..." bruce let out a long sigh as he rubbed his temple. he gave a moment's consideration to his words before he spoke again, "y/n. i love when you wear my clothes, you know this. it's just..maybe we should look for a different coat? that color doesn't really go with your outfit anyways. fault of the coat of course."
"i don't care if the coat matches my outfit or not! i'm about to have a baby in like three weeks. so long as something fits and is warm, fashion is the least of my worries."
bruce's jaw worked for a moment before he let out a small disbelieving laugh, "baby, you cared yesterday.."
"yes, well, that was yesterday." you muttered as you shoved your hands into each respective pocket of the coat.
bruce visibly winced, which you raised your eyebrows at.
"if you're hiding your burner phone in here, you should have found a better–" the words died on your tongue as your fingers closed around something small in one of the pockets. you glanced at bruce.
he stared back with a small grimace on his face, his lips pursed into a thin line.
you pulled the little object out before staring at it.
a square...box.
oh.
oh.
a ring box. in your favorite color.
you let out a gasp as you hurriedly looked back at bruce. he stared at the box for a moment more, an "oh well" expression blossoming across his features.
bruce met your eyes finally. "i was going to get a different box–"
you made haste shoving the box back into the jacket pocket before he could completely begin his tangent. "maybe we should look for another coat," you said, slipping it off and handing it off to him.
bruce smiled as he took the coat back from you, holding back a laugh, "you think?"
"yeah. this one doesn't go with my outfit."
note: bruce wayne who can't keep his soon-to-be-wife out of the loop for long, so he immediately starts spilling every thought he's had and every step he's taken during the proposing process to her the moment she finds out 🥹
yandere!werewolf who found you lingering by his territory, your body half-covered in the snowy ground. you were barely breathing, the thin clothes you foolishly put on doing little to retain your limited body heat.
yandere!werewolf who nurses you back to health, hand-feeding you soup, making sure the fur pelts are always up to your chin, providing his own body heat with you.
yandere!werewolf who doesn't let you leave even though your fever has significantly gone down. if you went.. out there without him again, you'd surely die!
yandere!werewolf who treats you like he imprinted on you. he doesn't need anyone else. this imprint may not have happened, but he feels it.
yandere!werewolf who, on the full moon, finally reveals his true form. he's massive as a wolf, bigger than a bear, with paws bigger than the size of your face.
yandere!werewolf who chuffed at you, nuzzling you with his snout to prove he wasn't dangerous. he was proving he could protect you.
yandere!werewolf who knew you had no choice but to stay with him now. if you told anyone else, you'd end up locked in a padded room.
Yandere big brother Dick Grayson will sometimes spontaneously take you to Bludhaven for a few days and won't pack a single one of your belongings. Meaning, you'll be wearing solely his clothing for the entirety of your stay and you're lucky to find a spare toothbrush or hairbrush. (God forbid you try to suggest buying some, the last time you tried he looked at you like you asked him to shave his head bald, then forced you into bed for some suffocatingly tight snuggles—yes he calls them 'snuggles', keep up.)
You're also not remiss to the way he seems to have less and less china every time you come over. You're down to 3 mugs, 2 plates, one normal bowl, and one gravy boat you had to improvise with. There's no shortage of cutlery, however. No, he cuts your food into bites and feeds you by hand purely by choice.
Some days, he'll bring home fast food and you both eat it bundled up in his one blanket on the couch, watching some old sitcom. If he wasn't Bruce's, then you would have wondered if he was broke or a minimalist.
It's not even all that bad, if you ignore the way the apartment's main entrance is locked with Dick's biometric data and all the other doors can't be locked from the inside of the room. It's also not the best that you wake up every morning trapped in a cage of entirely too many of Dick's limbs.
But hey, at least when Bruce steals you back in the middle of the night, jaw clenched and hands hovering over Dick's collar, as if debating whether or not to take him too, your biggest concern then becomes how you're going to survive for the next few weeks.
Being roommates with soap means he gets to hear every part of your life, and vice versa.
Every weekend when you're both able to, you buy takeout and gossip. Soap fills you in on the ongoing bet about when exactly ghost will realize gaz has been flirting with him for weeks, and you fill him in on your recent bedmates without noticing how jealous he is everytime you talk about them.
Right now, fore example, he's working very hard not to snap his chopsticks while you tell him about the guy you hooked up with two days ago. You wake a hand dramatically "like, I get that I'm into older men, don't get me wrong– but usually they can keep up with me!"
"What? Finally sent one into cardiac arrest?" Soap raises a brow teasingly, then adds "so what happened?"
"Nothing!" You toss your hands up, every bit dramatic and charming as you always are "why?! Because he couldn't get it up!!"
"Yikes." Soap mumbles more for the cue to continue, quietly thinking he'd never have an issue getting going if you'd let him–
"Which, isn't usually a problem, it happens yknow? But he was such an ass–" you scowl at the memory, takeout box crinkling slightly from how hard you hold it. Soap frowns too, mostly because he hates knowing someone you trusted to sleep with was mean, "he blamed me! Me! Said I didn't work hard enough!"
From the many, many, detailed accounts soap has heard from you he knows that isn't true. He's had dreams of you sucking him off from how often you talk about it. "What a cunt," soap sneers, knocking his shoulder with yours "bet his profile sucked too."
"It did! But he was nice, so I took a chance. Here, I'll show you–" you reach across the spread of food to grab your phone, settling back practically tucked into soaps side to show him your screen "here, look."
Soap leans over your shoulder, ready to verbally tear this man to shreds like you and him often do only–
John Price, 47.
Not looking for anything serious.
Soap coughs, doubles over choking on his food–
"Holy shit–! Are you okay? Johnny?" You gasp, slapping him on the back until he stops making concerning wheezes.
"That...that's my captain–"
"....oh shit, really?" You look back at the profile. Technically you never ended anything for good with him, just told him to fix his attitude. "Should I go back and bet blackmail?"
See Yourself Become the Villain (Book 3) Chapter Seven
Found Family! The Boys and Supe! Reader
Platonic Yandere! Homelander and Supe! Reader
Platonic! Soldier Boy and Supe! Reader
Chapter Seven: Ascension
Summary: The source of Soldier Boy's survival is revealed. He gets a new idea. The Boys face a new problem with their virus.
Chapter Warnings: Typical "The Boys" content
“Soldier Boy. America’s first hero. Defender of liberty, faith, and family. Branded a traitor by the Legacy media. Scapegoated by Starlight, who was the real mastermind behind the attack on Seven Tower. But from the ashes of injustice, Soldier Boy has been reborn. And America deserves the truth. Since 1984, Soldier Boy has been in Russia, workin’ with our friends in the Kremlin to root out those sneaky traitors in Ukraine.”
“Turns out Russia isn’t our enemy. They’re a strong, family-first nation who don’t put up with trans bathrooms.”
“We’re grateful to Soldier Boy for his courage and sacrifice. And we hope he can forgive us as he takes his rightful place on the Seven.”
Soldier Boy fought not to roll his eyes and stalk out of the room. The video was ridiculous, full of lies, and covering Vought’s asses. The fact that people swallowed it was unbelievably pathetic. The only good that came from it was that Soldier Boy could more easily operate and handle his own plans with no one questioning him.
“It is my honor to present Soldier Boy with the first ever Democratic Medal of Patriotic Freedom,” said Ashley, beaming at the crowd of press. People applauded, and Soldier Boy stepped up to accept the award. She looped it around his neck, shook his hand, and posed.
The cameras flashed, so bright it was blinding. Homelander blinked against the light. It seemed to engulf him, and a low tone rang in his ears.
“My boy,” whispered the familiar, motherly voice in his head. “My poor, sweet boy.”
It died as quickly as it came, and Homelander jolted. He looked at the crowd, all beaming and praising Soldier Boy. Homelander cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“I’m also very proud to say that this great hero is my father.”
Soldier Boy stiffened. Don’t you fucking—
“And also the father of our dear friend, Borealis, who is still in recovery after Starlight’s kidnapping and torture of them,” said Homelander. “They want you all to know that they’re excited to get well and join this super family.” He smiled widely.
Everyone gasped, and the cameras began flashing again. Questions were thrown from every corner while Soldier Boy’s eyes slid to Homelander’s, narrowed and annoyed.
“When did you find out?”
“Is Borealis recovering quickly?”
“How long until a reunion?”
“How did you find out you were a family?”
“Are there any plans for a team-up?”
Soldier Boy gritted his teeth. (Y/N) would hate for this to be known when they woke up. Yet another piece of their privacy was torn apart by Homelander. It disgusted Soldier Boy. Not to mention, Homelander was no son of his. Not at all.
He was glad when the press was escorted out and the ringing of anger in his ears could dissipate. His chest had nearly sparked with power, anger and indignation at the treatment of (Y/N) like a product—like he’d been one, like he still was—burning into him.
“Forty years out of the spotlight, you still got it, huh?” said Homelander, clearing his throat.
Rolling his eyes, Soldier Boy didn’t turn around. That was what this was: a childish outburst because Homelander was embarrassed and jealous of the attention Soldier Boy got. What a fucking pussy. What a fucking asshole? He couldn’t decide which wasn’t offensive. He was trying to do better, but he wasn’t exactly good at that soft shit.
“Sage tells me, uh, socials are blowing up,” continued Homelander, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation of Soldier Boy turning around. His entire tone and body language screamed “notice me, acknowledge me, praise me!” “People magazine, they’re-they’re calling us, uh, America’s sexiest dynasty.”
Soldier Boy’s jaw clenched. (Y/N) shouldn’t be included in that. They may be an adult, but they didn’t want that shit. It was strange to feel so vehemently about another person, Soldier Boy never got so close, but he couldn’t—Fuck. Ben was soft.
“You believe that?” said Homelander with a light chuckle.
Finally, Soldier Boy turned. His gaze was cold, and Homelander fumbled under his stare, a little boy once more.
“Come on, I would never have sent you in there if I knew Butcher had the virus, I wouldn’t have,” said Homelander quickly. “Swear to God.” He paused. “Although, I did tell you not to engage, so…if we’re pointing fingers, I don’t think I should be exclusively at fault here.”
“Gentlemen.” Sage interrupted before Soldier Boy gave away his true feelings and attacked. “Lab results are in.”
“Lab results,” said Homelander, clapping his hands and facing her.
Clenching and unclenching fists, Soldier Boy didn’t move. He had to play the game. Only then could he get the chance to start to wake, strengthen, and protect (Y/N). He had to know why he survived and make sure they did.
l
“How?” said Hughie, staring at the press conference about Soldier Boy’s previous and continued bravery. “We were there, they all got infected. We watched them all die.”
Butcher shut the TV off and glared at Sameer, who flinched under the intense anger. “How the fuck is that cunt still breathin’?”
Sameer frowned, and then he straightened in alarm. “Oh, no. Oh, no.” He opened a file and flipped through pages of notes. He let out a breath. “He’s got V1 in his bloodstream. Shit.”
“V1? What is V1?” asked Hughie.
“Frederick Vought’s first iteration of Compound V,” explained Sameer.
«
Across the city, at the same moment, the same conversation was occurring between Sage, Homelander, and Soldier Boy.
“V1’s ten times more potent than today’s formula,” explained Sage. “Highly unstable. Only worked on a handful of early supes. You, Bombsight, Torpedo, Private Angel, Stormfront.”
Soldier Boy frowned. “Stormfront—Liberty?” He remembered the name. (Y/N) had told him who Stormfront had been, and, more importantly, what she had done to them. Soldier Boy remembered Liberty and had, in fact (unfortunately), slept with her, but he now that he knew what she’d done to the one person that wasn’t miserable to be around and was the sort of hero Ben had wanted to be, he despised her. He had already found her slightly annoying back in the past, but she’d been hot. Soldier Boy needed to be a little better at dealing with that…
Sage raised a brow but didn’t question how he knew the connection. She suspected, and she preferred to keep her observations to herself until she could use them. “Yes. Also Dr. Vought’s wife Clara. Point is, V1 saved your life and is likely why your generation of supes doesn’t age.”
«
“This is a modern Compound V molecule,” said Sameer, drawing the diagram on a whiteboard. “This is the virus. Its spike proteins bind to the V receptors, kind of like gears meshing. But V1 is different, it looks like this.” He erased the spike proteins. “Nothing for the virus to bind to.”
“You might’ve told us that before we tested it,” said Butcher grumpily.
Sameer huffed. “V1 hasn’t been in circulation since the 1950s. And I thought Soldier Boy was dead.”
“We all did,” agreed MM. It wasn’t Sameer’s fault that he hadn’t taken it into account. “And now all I’m hearin’ is that this motherfucker’s unkillable.” He began to laugh bitterly. Everyone else was silent. Butcher handed MM a flask, and MM took a swig.
“Okay, but what about Homelander?” said Annie. “Does this…does this mean that…”
«
“(Y/N) and I are his children,” said Homelander. “Are we immune, too?”
“No,” said Sage. “Your embryos were shot up with plain old garden-variety V. Like me, like every other Supe.”
Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was fortunate that Homelander wasn’t so immune, but it also meant that the slight hope that (Y/N) would be safe from the virus had been extinguished.
«
“But if Homelander got his hands on some V1, then, theoretically, he’d be like Soldier Boy,” continued Sameer with a grimace. “Immune to the virus. Maybe even immortal.”
Annie and Hughie exchanged a look, as did Kimiko and Frenchie. That would be terrible. But if they got V1, then Annie, Kimiko, and (Y/N) could be safe from the virus. That was, if it didn’t go wrong and mutate within them.
«
“Bring me some,” said Homelander instantly.
“I can’t,” said Sage.
“Why not?” demanded Homelander.
“Vought destroyed every vial,” explained Sage plainly. “There’s none left.”
Homelander frowned. Soldier Boy looked down at the file of his bloodwork. But if there is one out there…He could save (Y/N).
«
Frenchie stepped forward. “Could a vial still exist somewhere?”
“I suppose,” admitted Sameer.
“Wait. If that’s true, then that means he can use that to—” Hughie grimaced.
“We need to get to it before Homelander does,” said Annie firmly. A tiny sliver of hope for (Y/N) had opened up in her heart, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—give up on it.
“How?” said Kimiko incredulously. “I’m sure he knows all this already. We’re fucked.”
“Good point, luv,” said Butcher. “We hit ‘em with the virus today while it still works.”
“That wasn’t at all my point,” retorted Kimiko.
“Butcher’s right,” said MM, pushing down the softness he’d given into not so long ago. He had to be strong, do what needed to be done. This was the pivotal moment.
Butcher snapped and pointed at him. “See? It’s the smart play. We draw him out and hit him today.”
“Okay. How you gonna get in front of him?” challenged Hughie. “Homelander hasn’t been seen outside the Tower in days, which means he’s probably scared of being infected.” He stood and moved towards Butcher, standing at his full height. “And if you release this thing, he just flies up into fucking space until it’s all over, right?” Butcher’s gaze lowered as he realized that Hughie had a point that he hadn’t considered. “SO until you figure that out, we have to find some of this V1. We don’t really have a choice.”
“I know where to start,” said Annie, and all eyes went to her. She pulled out and made a call to the devil himself—Stan Edgar. If anyone knew Vought’s dirty laundry, it was him.
«
“Thank God that stuff’s in you and saved you,” said Homelander, following Soldier Boy out of the meeting with Sage. “Guess all’s well that ends well.”
Soldier Boy’s attempt at patience and quiet plotting ending. “Yeah, well, fuck you.” He turned on Homelander, who drew up short. “You knew Butcher had the virus. You defrosted me just to send me into the fucking woodchipper.”
“No. No, I didn’t,” defended Homelander. This was true. Yes, he had sent Soldier Boy after Butcher because he had been too…scared to, but he had also tried to bring his family together. He deserved a family. That’s all he’d ever wanted. “What I wanted—”
“Well, joke’s on you, asshole,” continued Soldier Boy. “ ‘Cause I’m gonna live, and you’ll die. If the virus doesn’t get you, time will. And when you’re sitting in that wheelchair, shitting in a colostomy bag, I’ll be far away, living the dream.” He’d save (Y/N), and he’d get far away from Homelander and Vought so no one fucked with him again. He watched Homelander’s face twitch at the painful attack. “Look at you. Just the softest, wettest boy.” Soldier Boy scoffed. “You’re pathetic. You’re nothing at all.” And you could never measure up to the hero (Y/N) is. Neither of them could.
Soldier Boy turned and walked away. Homelander stood in the hall, perfectly still. His breath came slow and shallow. He stumbled slightly, grabbed a door handle, and shoved it open. He pressed it closed behind him and slid down the wall, the room dim enough for him to not be overwhelmed. He took a trembling breath. It wasn’t fair.
“Disappointment.”
“Weak.”
“The pitiful disappointment that you are.”
“Deep down, there’s a part of you that is still human.”
“I’ll kill myself before I go back with you.”
“You’re pathetic.”
Edgar’s words, A-Train’s coldness, Soldier Boy’s insults, (Y/N)’s harshness, even Homelander’s own reflection’s sneers echoed in his mind.
Homelander gasped and retched, doubling over. He couldn’t take it. Why didn’t people love him? Why did they hate him when all he was give them everything?! It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair!
A golden light illuminated the air, and Homelander’s gaze snapped up. A curtain of America’s flag pulled back to reveal heavenly clouds, and a woman stepped forth with a wide, motherly smile.
“Madelyn?” murmured Homelander, partly delirious, partly terrified, and partly in awe.
“Oh, my boy,” said Madelyn softly, halo shining around her head. “My sweet boy.” Homelander whimpered. “What is wrong? Why are you so unhappy?”
“My father…and my son…and my sibling…” Homelander sniffled pathetically. “Everything. It’s all fallen apart.”
Madelyn shook her head and smiled. “No. No, it’s exactly what needed to happen. Yes. It’s all been foretold. You’re about to ascend. Become immortal. Divine. A true god.” She raised her chin proudly. “With the love of the world.”
Homelander stared. “But—”
“I know. You think love is weak and human.” Madelyn smirked slightly. “But who is more loved than Jesus? And why should He have more love than you? You save more people than He does.” Homelander slowly pushed himself to his feet as she spoke, staring at her as if she had all of life’s answers. “The one true God.”
“Yes,” breathed Homelander. “But how? How? Millions of people just hate me.” He sniffled at the idea.
“Well, then, you baptize the unfaithful in their own blood,” said Madelyn kindly. Homelander fell to his knees in supplication before her. “Rip babies from their mothers’ wombs.”
“Yes,” whispered Homelander. He had done it before, delivered (Y/N) to the world as a true god.
“Skin parents in front of their children,” continued Madelyn. “Rid the world of the wicked.”
“Yes.”
“The nonbelievers.”
Homelander pressed his hands together and lowered his forehead to them. “They’d call me a monster.”
Madelyn shook her head and cupped his face. “No. The only ones left would be your faithful. And they will love you in their hearts. They’ll cry happy tears at the mere thought of you.”
Homelander’s eyes rolled back at the ecstasy of the thought. Yes. This was his mission in life.
l
As Soldier Boy hurried through the halls to the penthouse, he ran through all his knowledge of what had happened to the old labs from his era. If he could find some, then he could make sure Homelander never got his hands on it. He could deliver it to (Y/N), protect them from the virus. They had his DNA; it was likely it would successfully bind with their blood. It could even heal them from what I did. Ben swallowed and stepped into the room with their tank. It was so sickening to see them still and unmoving.
Ben glanced at the clock. Homelander’s clearly approaching breakdown would give him a few minutes. Quickly, Ben moved to the side of the tank, took hold of the handle, and pulled. It hissed opened, and he coughed as smoke dissipated. It was freezing cold, and he shivered at the memories of being locked up the first time and the weakness of waking both times.
Ben looked down at (Y/N). Come on, kid. Wake up.
They didn’t move for a minute that felt like an eternity. Then, their forehead scrunched. Their eyes opened slightly as they emerged from the dreamlike state of stasis.
“Hey,” said Ben, relieved.
Hearing the voice, seeing the blurry world, and feeling a chill extending to their bones, (Y/N) jerked back. The moment was dulled with months of deep freeze, and all that happened was that they tried to push themself up and promptly fell back with a dull whimper.
Ben caught them and hauled them up while (Y/N) tried to keep their eyes open. “You’re gonna feel like that for a while. The deep freeze does that shit.”
“Deep…freeze—” (Y/N) groaned. “What—”
Their entire body jerked, a flash of green and purple light erupting from within like sparks. The force burned Ben’s fingers, and he had to let go. (Y/N) collapsed onto the side of the tank, and he watched the light crackle through seam-like cracks in (Y/N)’s skin.
His stomach dropped. That was what Soldier Boy’s blast had done to them. They were sick, and it was his fault.
(Y/N) raised their head, eyes lined with exhaustion but fierce with anger. “What the fuck happened?” Their eyes lit up and burned with ferocity. The lights flickered above Ben, and he felt his head swim with an abrupt pressure.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, Death, burials, mourning, walkers (Zombies) the Governor, Angstttttt so much angst.
Part 23
Between Brothers - Part 24
The Georgia sun beats down through the trees, dappling the forest floor with shifting patterns of light and shadow. Daryl moves silently among them, crossbow raised, every sense on high alert.
He's been tracking for hours now, following the distinctive signs of his brother's passage—tire tracks, cigarette butts from the cheap brand Merle always smoked, broken branches that tell the story of a man moving with purpose away from the prison.
Away from him.
Daryl's jaw clenches as he pauses to examine another print in the soft earth. The trail is a day old now. One day of Rick and the others looking at him with that mixture of suspicion and pity that makes his skin crawl.
"He's gone to the Governor," Rick had said, not a question but a statement. "He's chosen his side."
Daryl had defended Merle automatically, the response ingrained from childhood—always cover for Merle, always stand by him, always believe in him even when the evidence says otherwise.
But privately, doubt had gnawed at him. He remembered the tension in the prison, the way Glen still flinched when Merle entered a room.
The way you'd grown quiet and withdrawn since finding that wooden heart, clutching it like a lifeline while looking lost and confused. You'd asked him about it—what it meant.
Maybe Merle had finally had enough of being the outsider, the monster everyone feared. Maybe he'd gone back to where he was valued, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
But Daryl has to know for sure. Has to hear it from Merle himself before he can believe his brother would betray him like that. So he'd slipped away at dawn, ignoring Rick's warnings.
Now, as the trail leads him deeper into unfamiliar territory, Daryl wonders if he'd been wrong to come alone. The forest here is different—older, darker, the trees growing closer together with hanging vines that create a natural barrier.
A sound breaks the forest stillness—the unmistakable groan of a walker somewhere ahead. Daryl freezes, listening. Just one, by the sound of it. He can handle one walker. He raises his crossbow, moving toward the noise with practiced stealth.
The small clearing appears suddenly between the trees, sunlight streaming down in a way that seems almost peaceful. At first, Daryl doesn't see anything, just tall grass swaying gently in the breeze. Then the grass moves against the wind, parting to reveal a figure kneeling over something on the ground.
A walker, feeding.
Daryl's lip curls in disgust as he takes aim. One clean shot to the back of the head, and the threat will be neutralized. His finger tenses on the trigger.
The walker shifts, turning slightly to reach for another piece of whatever poor prick it's consuming, and Daryl gets his first clear look at its profile.
The crossbow dips, just an inch, as shock floods his system.
No.
It can't be.
But it is.
Even from this distance, even with the blood smeared across the once-familiar features, even with the cloudy, dead eyes and grayish skin, Daryl knows his brother.
Something breaks loose inside Daryl's chest, a sound rising in his throat that he barely recognizes as coming from himself—a strangled, wounded noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The crossbow trembles in his suddenly unsteady hands.
At the sound, walker-Merle's head snaps up, milky eyes focusing on the new prey standing at the edge of the clearing. It—he—rises from his crouch, revealing the blood-soaked front of his shirt and the gaping wound in his chest. The stump where his right hand should be is caked with dirt and gore.
Daryl takes an involuntary step back as Merle—no, not Merle, not anymore—lurches to his feet with that distinctive walker gait, a horrible parody of what was once his brother's swagger. A snarl rips from the creature's throat as it starts toward him.
"No," Daryl whispers, the word barely audible even to his own ears. "No, no, no."
His feet feel rooted to the ground, his limbs suddenly heavy as lead. The crossbow slips further, pointing at the forest floor instead of the approaching threat. Some distant part of his brain screams at him to raise the weapon, to protect himself, but his body refuses to comply.
Because it's Merle. His big brother. The person who, for all his faults, was the only constant in Daryl's life.
Walker-Merle is closer now, perhaps ten yards away, arms outstretched, jaw working mechanically as if already tasting his brother's flesh. The sunlight illuminates him fully, revealing the true extent of his injuries—not just the chest wound, but bruises covering his face, missing fingers on his good hand.
The Governor. It has to be. Merle hadn't betrayed them. He'd gone to confront the Governor on his own, and this—this abomination shambling toward Daryl—is the result.
The realization hits Daryl like a physical blow, stealing his breath, making his knees buckle slightly. Guilt crashes over him in waves. He'd doubted his brother, suspected him of betrayal, when all along Merle had been trying to protect them.
To protect you.
To protect him.
"Merle," he chokes out, his voice breaking on the name.
Daryl's shoulders hunch, his body physically curling inward as if trying to protect itself from the emotional pain. His crossbow comes back up mechanically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails him. But he can't pull the trigger. Not yet.
"No," he says again, louder this time, backing up as the walker advances. "No, no, no."
Tears blur his vision, hot and unwelcome. Dixon men don't cry—he learned the hard way that tears only invite more pain. But now they come unbidden, tracking down his cheeks like rivers.
The walker that was once his brother shows no recognition, no hesitation in its relentless approach.
Whatever spark made Merle Dixon who he was—the swagger, the crude jokes, the surprising moments of rough affection, the man who'd carved a perfect heart for a woman he'd never had the courage to tell he loved—is gone, leaving only this hollow shell driven by hunger.
Daryl knows what he has to do. Has done it countless times before to strangers, to friends, to people who deserved better than to exist as mindless, walking corpses. But knowing doesn't make it any easier, doesn't stop the trembling that's spread from his hands to his entire body.
Daryl manages to raise the crossbow again, the movement almost mechanical, driven by survival instinct rather than conscious decision. Through the sight, Merle's ruined face comes into sharp focus. A face Daryl has known his entire life, now transformed into something unrecognizable yet still hauntingly familiar.
"I'm sorry," he whispers again, finger tightening on the trigger.
The bolt flies true, as it always does, embedding itself in what used to be Merle's forehead with a sickening thud. Walker-Merle drops instantly, all animation ceasing as the virus keeping the corpse mobile is finally neutralized.
Daryl stands frozen, crossbow still raised, staring at the crumpled form that was once his brother. The forest around him seems suddenly too quiet, as if even the birds and insects are witnesses to grief.
The crossbow slips from his numb fingers, landing in the grass at his feet. His legs finally give out, and he sinks to his knees just yards from his brother's corpse. A sound escapes him, raw and primal—not quite a scream, not quite a sob, but something more elemental. The sound of something breaking that may never be repaired.
"You stupid son of a bitch," he gasps between heaving breaths. "Why'd you have to go ? Why didn't you take me with you?"
But Merle, for once, has no comeback, no sarcastic retort, no dismissive laugh. There's just the empty shell of what used to be Daryl's big brother, lying still in the grass with a crossbow bolt protruding from his forehead.
Time loses meaning as Daryl kneels in the dirt, grief pouring out of him in waves. The carefully constructed walls he's built around himself over decades crumble like they're made of sand, revealing the wounded child still hiding beneath the hardened survivor.
Eventually, Daryl wipes his face with the back of his hand, leaving behind smears of dirt mixed with tears. He knows what he has to do now. What Merle would expect him to do.
He retrieves his crossbow first, slinging it over his shoulder with mechanical precision. Then, with gentle hands that belie the storm of emotions raging inside him, he removes the bolt from Merle's forehead.
After cleaning the bolt on the grass, Daryl turns back to his brother's body. He can't leave him here, not like this. Merle deserves better. Deserves to be laid to rest properly, not left to rot in the Georgia sun as just another nameless walker.
With strength born of determination rather than physical ability, Daryl lifts his brother's body, one arm under the knees, the other supporting the shoulders. Merle is heavy, deadweight in the most literal sense, but Daryl doesn't falter.
Each step is an effort, not just physically but emotionally. Each step takes him farther from the place where Merle died but closer to the reality that his brother is truly gone.
By the time the prison comes into view through the trees, Daryl's arms are burning with exertion, his body drenched in sweat. But he doesn't stop, doesn't rest.
The sound of the gate opening draws everyone to the yard, but it's not the usual clang of metal that makes your heart stop—it's the sight of Daryl slower than usual, weighted down with something that makes your stomach drop before your mind can process what you're seeing.
You're kneeling by the makeshift washing station, scrubbing blood from someone's shirt in a bucket of murky water. The silence that follows is deafening. Your hands still in the soapy water, suds clinging to your fingers as you look up to see Daryl his movements stiff and mechanical.
With him, is a body wrapped in a dirty tarp.
Even from this distance, even covered, you know. The shape is wrong—too bulky on one side where a prosthetic would be, too familiar in its proportions. Your breath catches in your throat, and the wet shirt slips from your numb fingers back into the bucket with a soft splash.
"Jesus," someone whispers behind you. Carol, maybe, or Glen. You can't tell. Can't focus on anything except the way Daryl's shoulders are set like stone, the way he won't look at anyone.
Rick approaches first, his hand extended. "Daryl, let me—"
"Nah." The word comes out flat, final. Daryl doesn't even look up from the knots. "Got it."
"You don't have to—"
"S'got it." His voice is rougher now, barely controlled. His fingers twitch with jerky, aggressive movements.
"Ain't your problem."
You want to go to him. Every instinct screams at you to drop everything and run to his side, to help him carry this burden. But something holds you back—maybe it's the way Daryl's built a wall around himself that you can see from fifty feet away, or maybe it's the knowledge that this grief isn't yours to share.
Not really.
You had him for what—a few months? A year ? What is that compared to a lifetime, what is that compared to a handful of conversations, some shared meals, those quiet moments on watch when he'd call you "lil-doe" in that Merle reserved just for you.
Daryl had Merle his whole life.
What right do you have when you didn't even recognize what was right there this whole time.
What right do you have to this pain when his brother is standing right there, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together?
So you stay where you are, kneeling in the dirt with your hands dripping soap suds, watching the man you've come to care about more than you should be carried home by his baby brother.
Other people hover nearby—Rick, Carol, even Glen—but Daryl waves them all off with sharp gestures and mumbled curses.
"'M'fine," he keeps saying, even though anyone with eyes can see he's anything but. "Don't need no help."
Daryl cradles the body against his chest like it weighs nothing and everything at the same time. For just a moment, his face cracks—a flash of raw agony that makes your heart clench—before the mask slams back into place.
"Where d'you want—" Rick starts.
"Know where." Daryl's already walking, carrying his brother toward the far corner of the yard where they'd buried others. Where the ground is soft and the fence provides some shelter from prying eyes. "Know where he'd wanna be."
You watch him go, this man who's always been strong, always been the one others lean on, reduced to a solitary figure carrying his dead brother across the yard. The tarp has come loose at one end, and you catch a glimpse of gray skin, of a wrist that's missing a hand—the prosthetic must have been lost somewhere.
The wooden heart in your pocket feels heavier than lead.
The digging takes hours. You can hear it from inside the prison, you spend what time you can outside, watching not wanting to crowd, but wishing you could —the rhythmic scrape of shovel against earth, the occasional curse when he hits a root or a rock. People offer to help, but each time someone approaches, Daryl's voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"'M'fine."
"Don't need nothin'."
"Leave me be."
You try to focus on other things—folding the clean laundry, helping Carol with dinner prep, playing with little Judith when she gets fussy. But your eyes keep drifting to the windows, to the corner of the yard where Daryl labors alone. Sweat darkens his shirt despite the cool evening air. His movements become more erratic as exhaustion sets in, but he doesn't stop. Won't stop.
"Someone should make him eat," Carol says quietly, watching him through the kitchen window. "He's been at it for hours."
"He won't," you reply, surprised by how raw your own voice sounds. "I wouldn't."
She looks at you with those knowing eyes of hers. "You two were close. Merle and you."
Were you? It's hard to say. Close feels like too simple a word now, for whatever had existed between you and Merle. He'd been... complicated. Rough around the edges didn't begin to cover it. He'd made comments that made you scoff, jokes that made you want to hide, advances that you'd brushed off as just "Merle being Merle."
But there had been other moments too. Quiet ones. When he'd share his inner thoughts with you without being asked. When he'd position himself between you and any perceived threat without making a show of it. When he'd taught you to fight.
"I don't know," you admit. "I thought... I thought he'd always be there y'know ?"
Carol's hand finds your shoulder, squeezes gently. "He cared about you. Anyone with eyes could see that."
The words hit harder than they should.
Because if it was so obvious to everyone else, why hadn't it been obvious to you?
Why had you dismissed every gesture, every gentle nickname, every moment of tenderness as just Merle being inappropriate?
Outside, the digging continues.
By the time the sun sets, Daryl has finished. You watch from the fence line as he lowers the wrapped body into the grave with a gentleness that breaks your heart. His movements are slow now, reverent, like he's handling something precious instead of the shell of the man who raised him.
He stands at the edge of the grave for a long time, just staring down. From this distance, you can't see his face, but you can see the way his shoulders shake. The way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.
Then he picks up the shovel and begins to fill in the hole.
This part is harder to watch. Each shovelful of dirt lands with a soft thump that seems to echo in the growing darkness. Daryl's movements are mechanical now, automatic, like he's trying not to think about what he's doing. Like if he thinks too hard about it, he'll break completely.
You want to go to him. The urge is so strong it's almost physical—this need to run out there and take the shovel from Daryl's hands, to make Daryl stop, to hold Merle, if you where entitled to that, to let yourself unravel until the worst of it passes. But you don't believe Daryl would let you.
He'd probably just push you away with harsh words and harsher looks, and why not ... his brother is in the dirt now, and you'd only had months with him, not a lifetime.
So you stay and watch, your heart breaking a little more with each shovelful of earth.
When it's done, when the grave is nothing but a mound of disturbed dirt, Daryl stands there for another long moment. Then he drops the shovel and walks away, heading not toward the prison but toward the far fence where the walkers press against the chain link.
You lose sight of him in the darkness, but you can hear him out there—the wet sounds of his knife finding flesh, the growls and snarls of the dead, the occasional curse when his blade gets stuck. He's taking his grief out on the walkers, channeling his pain into violence.
It goes on for hours.
The prison is quiet now, everyone settled in for the night. You lie on your narrow mattress the one you'd shared with Merle, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of Daryl's one-man war against the fence. The wooden heart sits on your chest, rising and falling with each breath, its smooth surface warm from your body heat.
You'd found it that morning, before everything went wrong. A perfect heart carved, sanded smooth as silk. At the time, you'd thought it was just another little gift from Merle.
Now, in the suffocating darkness, you understand. This was a declaration. A confession carved in wood because he couldn't say it out loud.
How many moments had you missed, too focused on his rough edges, his inappropriate comments to see the man underneath? The man who'd spent hours crafting something beautiful just for you, who'd called you "lil-doe" like it was a prayer, who'd died thinking of your face.
The guilt is suffocating. It sits on your chest like a weight, making it hard to breathe. You'd had chances—so many chances—to see him for who he really was. To look past the walls he'd built, the act he'd put on. But you'd been too stupid to understand
And now he's gone, and you'll never get the chance to tell him you're sorry. Never get the chance to say that maybe, if you'd been braver, if you'd looked harder, things might have grown to have been different.
The sounds from outside have finally stopped. Daryl must have exhausted himself, or run out of walkers to kill. The silence is somehow worse than the violence was.
You sit up, you can't stay here. Can't lie in this bed that still smells like him—leather and motor oil and something uniquely Merle. Can't stare at these walls where he used to sit and whittle, where he'd tell you stories about his and Daryl's childhood in that rough voice that got softer when he talked about his little brother.
Moving quietly, you grab the blanket from the foot of the bed—the one that had covered both of you during the cold nights, the one that Merle had tucked around your shoulders when he thought you were asleep.
It's rough wool, scratchy against your skin, but it's warm and it smells like him and it's all you have left.
You make your way through the prison like a ghost, bare feet silent on the cold concrete. The wooden heart burns in your pocket, a reminder of everything you'd lost, everything you'd never had the chance to find.
The yard is bathed in moonlight, casting long shadows across the ground. You can see the fresh grave in the distance, a dark mound against the pale dirt. There's no marker, no headstone—just disturbed earth and the lingering scent of turned soil.
You walk toward it slowly, the blanket trailing behind you like a shroud. The walkers at the fence have noticed you, their growls and reaching hands a constant backdrop, but they seem far away and unimportant. Nothing matters except the grave, the man beneath the earth.
When you reach the mound, you stop. Stand there in the moonlight with the blanket clutched in your hands and the wooden heart heavy in your pocket. The earth is still soft, still settling. In a few weeks, grass will grow over it. In a few months, it will look like any other patch of ground. But right now, it's fresh and raw and real.
"I'm sorry," you whisper to the silence. Your voice cracks on the words. "I'm so sorry, Merle. I should have... I should ... You we're my best friend."
The wind picks up, rustling through the trees beyond the fence. It sounds almost like a voice, almost like an answer. But it's just wind, just air moving through leaves. The dead don't speak, don't forgive, don't offer comfort to the living.
You pull the wooden heart from your pocket, hold it up to the moonlight. It's beautiful—perfect, really. Every curve smooth, every line deliberate. How long had he spent on it? How many hours had he sat in that cell, carefully shaping this declaration of love while you slept just feet away?
"I found it," you tell the grave. "I found your heart. I'll keep it safe."
The words hang in the air like a confession, like a prayer. You sink to your knees beside the grave, the damp earth soaking through your clothes. The blanket pools around you, and suddenly you're crying—deep, wrenching sobs that you've been holding back all day.
For Merle, for yourself, for all the conversations you'll never get to have, all the moments you'll never share, all the time's you won't get to scoff at him.
For the fact that the crude, vulgar man with one hand had been the one that made you pause on that roof, for the fact you didn't jump.
You cry until there are no tears left, until your throat is raw and your eyes are swollen. Then you lie down beside the grave, pulling the blanket over yourself, your hand resting on the disturbed earth like you're trying to reach him through six feet of dirt and darkness.
The wooden heart lies beside your face, catching the moonlight. Your last thought before exhaustion claims you is that you're finally close to him—as close as you'll ever be again.
Dawn comes slowly, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The prison stirs to life it's Carol who finds you first. She comes looking when you don't show up for breakfast, when the cage is found empty and your blanket missing. Her soft gasp of discovery carries across the yard, drawing others.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispers, kneeling beside you. Her hand smooths your hair gently, trying to wake you without startling you. "Honey, wake up."
You surface slowly, consciousness returning in fragments. The hard ground beneath you, the scratchy blanket over you, the wooden heart clutched in your palm. For a moment, you're disoriented, unsure where you are or why you're here.
Then you see the grave beside you, and it all comes rushing back.
"Come on," Carol says gently. "Let's get you inside. Get you warm."
But you don't want to go inside. Don't want to leave him alone out here. Your hand tightens on the wooden heart, and you shake your head.
"I can't," you whisper. "I can't leave him."
"You're not leaving him," Carol says, her voice infinitely patient. "He's not going anywhere. But you're going to make yourself sick sleeping out here."
"No," you say, your voice growing more desperate. "No, I'm not leaving him. I'm not—" Your breath catches, and suddenly the words are pouring out of you in a torrent.
"He's alone down there. He's cold and it's dark and he's all by himself and I can't—I can't just leave him like that."Carol reaches for you, but you scramble back, curling the blanket around you.
"You don't understand," you continue, your voice breaking. "He made me strong. He made me safe. He was my best friend, he was—" The sobs start anew, ugly and raw, tearing from your chest.
"He taught me how to survive, how to fight, how to be brave when I didn't think I could be. And now he's gone and I'm supposed to just... what? Go have breakfast? Pretend like my whole world didn't just end?" You're rambling now, the words tumbling over each other between gasping breaths.
"I used to be so scared and he knew that. He always knew that but he never gave me shit about it he'd just... just be there ... and I wouldn't be afraid because nothing was serious when he was there. And now he's down there in the dark and I'm up here and what if he's scared? What if he needs me and I'm not there?" The wooden heart digs into your palm as you clutch it tighter.
"I can't leave him alone. I can't. He never left me alone, not once. He was always there, even when there was no one there was Merle, always just making sure I was okay. And now I'm supposed to what just walk away?" Your voice rises to nearly a shout, hoarse with grief and desperation.
"He's my best friend! He's the only reason I'm still here, the only reason I'm still fighting, and you want me to just... just abandon him? Leave him cold and alone in the ground while I go inside where it's warm and safe? How is that fair? How is that right?" The sobs overwhelm you then, and you double over, your forehead pressed against the dirt of his grave.
Your shoulders shake with the force of your crying, and you can barely breathe between the waves of grief crashing over you. "We saved each other so many times and now he's gone and I'm still here and I don't know how to do this without him. I don't know how to be strong without him telling me I can be."
Others have gathered now—Rick, Maggie, even Glen. They stand at a respectful distance, but you can feel their eyes on you, their concern, their pity.
You must look pathetic, lying in the dirt beside a grave, clutching a piece of carved wood like a lifeline.
"Why didn't you tell me, why didn't you let me save you, its what we do."
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, Death, descriptions of death, dying, walkers (Zombies) the Governor, Angstttttt so much angst.
A/N: 😭😭😭 so dark, fic does get brighter again but not for a while. Sorry 🥺
Part 22
Between Brothers - Part 23
The Georgia backroads are quiet in the early morning, the only sounds coming from the old sedan Merle hotwired from the prison outskirts. He drives with his window down, right arm resting on the door frame, metal blade glinting in the sun. His face is a mask of determination, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead. But his mind—his mind is on her.
On the way she'd looked that morning, curled up in her bed with sunlight streaming through the bars, painting golden stripes across her sleeping face. He'd stood there longer than he should have, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes cast shadows, the peaceful expression she only wore in sleep.
Before he'd left for this damn fool mission, he'd carved something for her—a perfect wooden heart, smooth as silk, left where she'd find it when she woke.
She'd never know what it meant. Never know that Merle Dixon, the crude bastard everyone expected him to be, had spent hours whittling away at that piece of wood, thinking about her gentle hands, her soft voice, the way she'd smile at him like he was worth something.
"Lil-doe," he murmurs to the empty car, the nickname falling from his lips like a prayer. She'd always roll her eyes when he called her that, thinking he was just being his usual inappropriate self. Never understanding that to him, she was something precious and fragile that needed protecting.
The weight of the gun in his lap is reassuring. He'd taken it from the prison armory, along with spare magazines and the last half of a bottle of Jack. Not enough for a war, but enough for what he has planned for the bastard. Enough to buy her time to get away when everything goes to hell.
Merle isn't one for introspection, never has been. But these past few days have forced him to confront feelings he's spent a lifetime burying.
The way his chest tightens when she laughs at something Carl says. The desperate need to be better than he is, just once, for her.
He'd seen her last night in the cell block, singing softly to Rick's baby girl, her voice floating through the prison like something from another world.
A world where someone like him might have had a chance with someone like her. Where his rough hands might have been gentle enough to cradle.her to him, where his damaged heart might have been whole enough to offer her something real.
But that world doesn't exist. This one does—the one where walkers roam and good people die and pricks like him make the hard choices.
He'd asked Daryl to watch over her, made his brother promise without explaining why. Daryl had given him that look—the one that said he knew exactly what Merle was really asking. His baby brother wasn't blind. He'd seen the way Merle's eyes followed her, the way he'd go quiet when she entered a room, the way he'd volunteer for any duty that might put him near her.
"Take care of her," he'd said, gripping Daryl's shoulder. "She's... she's good. Pure. This world's gonna try to break that, but don't let it. You hear me?"
"She won't even know I'm gone at first," Merle spoke aloud to the car. "Probably think I just wandered off to cause trouble somewhere. But when she realizes... when she finds that heart... hope she knows ... she meant something."
The road curves ahead, and Merle slows as he approaches the old silos. His chest aches—not from any physical wound, but from the weight of everything he'll never get to say to her.
All the mornings he'll never watch her sleep, all the smiles he'll never earn, all the chances he'll never take.
He parks behind an abandoned tractor and sits for a moment, letting himself imagine a different ending. One where he drives back to the prison, finds her awake, sees her holding his carved heart.
One where he finds the courage to tell her how he feels while she's awake, where he has the courage to tell her she has his whole heart, before it's too late.
But Merle Dixon has never been a man for fairy tales.
He checks his gun and approaches the silo, thinking of her one last time—not as she was in his fantasies, but as she'd been that morning, peaceful and beautiful and completely unaware that she was loved.
"Sorry, lil-doe," he whispers to the empty air. "But if I take out this bastard at least you've got a chance."
The Governor is waiting inside, just as Merle knew he would be. The confrontation plays out exactly as expected—the false negotiations, the inevitable betrayal, the moment when Merle realizes his mistake.
But even as Martinez's rifle connects with his temple, even as he's overwhelmed and captured, his last coherent thought isn't of his own survival.
It's of her, waking up alone, finding a wooden heart with no explanation.
Hours later, restrained and bleeding in a abandoned barn, Merle Dixon faces his death with something approaching peace. The Governor circles him, knife in hand, talking about retribution and messages and the price of betrayal.
But Merle's mind is elsewhere—on gentle hands and soft smiles, on wit that could make a man forget, just for a moment, what kind of man he really was.
"Any last words?" the Governor asks, raising the blade.
Merle looks up at him, summoning what dignity he can. In his mind, he sees her face one final time—not afraid, not disgusted, but looking at him with something that might have been understanding.
"Prettiest little angel in Georgia," he says quietly not to the Governor but to himself.
The Governor frowns, not understanding, but Merle doesn't elaborate. Some things are too precious to explain to monsters.
Merle's thoughts are of her—not as the girl who never knew she was loved, but as the one who made him want to be better than he was.
The one who made him capable of this final, selfless act.
"Love you, lil-doe," he thinks as consciousness fades. "Always did."
Death comes to Merle Dixon not as an ending, but as a choice. The choice to protect what mattered most, even if she would never know the depth of his sacrifice.
First, there is pain – sharp, overwhelming, all-consuming as the Governor's knife pierces his heart. But even as the blade slides between his ribs, his last coherent thought isn't of the agony or the betrayal.
It's of her face that morning, peaceful in sleep.
Then comes a curious lightness as his body begins to fail, blood pressure dropping, oxygen-starved brain sending distress signals that manifest as tunnel vision and ringing ears.
In the encroaching darkness, he sees her again – not as she was in the prison, but as she might have been in another life. A life where there were no walkers, no fear, no walls between them built of class and circumstance and his own terrible choices.
In this vision, she's wearing a sundress, standing in a field of wildflowers under a sky so blue it hurts to look at. She's laughing – that pure, joyful sound he'd only heard a handful of times – and she's looking at him like he's worthy of that laughter.
Her hand reaches for his, fingers intertwining without hesitation, without the careful distance and sharp wit she'd always maintained.
The heart, he thinks desperately as consciousness slips away. Did she find the heart?
But the vision shifts, becomes more elaborate, more beautiful, more heartbreaking. He sees the life she deserves – a house with a garden where she can grow flowers just because they're pretty, not because they're useful.
A kitchen where she can cook for people she loves instead of rationing canned goods. Children's laughter in the yard, little ones who call her mama and look at her with the same adoration he felt when he watched her with Rick's baby.
He sees her in that other world, safe and cherished and free from the constant fear that haunts her now. There's a man beside her – not him, because even in his fantasies he knows he's not good enough – but someone strong, educated and worthy of her light.
Someone who can give her the stability she craves, the security she deserves, the love she doesn't even realize she deserves.
She should have that, he thinks, his heart breaking even as it stops beating. She should have everything.
The Governor and Martinez move away, discussing something in low voices that Merle can no longer comprehend. His body slumps into the blood that pools on the barn floor beneath him, dark and spreading.
The same deep red as the sunset he'd watched with her just three days ago, when she'd sat beside him on the watchtower and asked if he thought they'd ever be safe again.
He'd wanted to tell her then. Wanted to say that he'd die to keep her safe, that her safety was the only thing that mattered anymore. Instead, he'd just joked crudely and offered her his water bottle, watching the way her lips curved in that small, grateful smile that made his chest tight.
In his dying mind, he rewrites that moment.
He sees himself finding the courage to be honest, to tell her she deserved more than safety – she deserved happiness. He imagines saying the words that had lived in his throat for months.
"You deserve someone who'll wake up every morning grateful just to see you breathe. Someone who'll bring you shit for no reason, who'll hold your hand when you're scared, who'll love you the way you love everyone else – completely, without reservation."
He sees her in that other world, in that other life, wearing a wedding dress that isn't torn or stained with walker blood. Walking toward someone who deserves her, someone who can give her children if she wants them and a future and all the beautiful, ordinary things the apocalypse stole from her.
He sees her old and gray and surrounded by grandchildren, dying peacefully in her sleep after a life full of love and laughter and all the small joys that make existence worthwhile.
That's what you should have, lil-doe, he thinks, his consciousness fragmenting.
Minutes pass. Merle's breathing becomes shallow, irregular gasps. His heartbeat falters, struggles, and finally stops. Clinical death has arrived, but in this new world, death is merely a transition.
But in these final moments before the pathogen takes hold, his mind conjures one last beautiful lie. He sees her again, older now, silver threading through her hair, sitting on a porch swing in the golden light of evening.
She's reading a book – not a survival manual or a medical text, but something just for pleasure, something that makes her smile. There are laugh lines around her eyes, the kind that come from years of happiness, and she's wearing a simple gold band on her finger.
In this vision, she looks up from her book and sees him watching her. But instead of the quick wit and roll of her eyes she always reserved for his jokes, she smiles with genuine warmth.
"Thank you," she says, and somehow he knows she's not talking about the water bottle or the guard duty or any of the small kindnesses he tried to show her.
She's thanking him for this – for choosing to die so she could live to have this moment, this life, this peace he's imagining for her.
"You deserved it all, lil-doe," he whispers, but whether the words leave his lips or just echo in his dying mind, he can't tell. "Every damn bit of it."
The vision fades, and brutal reality crashes back. He's dying alone, and she's back at the prison, unaware that he's gone, unaware that she was loved, unaware that a man who'd never been good enough for anything had found something worth being good for.
The Governor approaches the now-still body, checking for a pulse at the neck. Finding none, he nods to Martinez, Merle's eyes are fixed and glazed, staring at nothing. The same eyes that had watched her sleep, that had memorized every mark on her face, that had looked at her with a love she'd never recognized.
"How long does it usually take?" Martinez asks, keeping his distance.
"Merle was strong." the Governor replies, pulling up a chair to watch with sick fascination. "Shouldn't be long."
Strong enough to save you, the dying part of Merle's consciousness whispers.
The transformation begins subtly. First, the cooling body temperature reverses, a low-grade fever building as whatever pathogen causes reanimation activates. The fingers twitch – the same fingers that had spent hours carving smooth curves into wood, that had trembled when she'd curled into him.
But even as the biological process begins, somewhere in the darkening recesses of his mind, Merle clings to one last fantasy.
He imagines himself in that other world, the one where he's clean and sober and worthy of her.
Where he has a steady job and a house with a front porch and hands that have never killed anyone.
He sees himself coming home from work to find her in the kitchen, humming while she cooks.
She turns when she hears him, and there's no wariness in her eyes, no careful distance. There's only love – the kind he'd dreamed about but never dared to hope for.
"How was your day?" she asks, and he tells her about ordinary things – traffic and weather and the funny thing his coworker said at lunch.
Normal, beautiful, boring things that people who aren't fighting for their lives get to care about.
He sees her, eyes bright with joy as she unwraps presents. He sees her on their wedding day, walking toward him in a dress that isn't tattered or stained, her face radiant with happiness.
He sees lazy Sunday mornings where they can stay in bed and talk about nothing, where the biggest worry is whether they have enough coffee for breakfast.
That's what you should have, he thinks again, but the thought is getting harder to hold onto. Birthday parties and anniversaries and someone to grow old with.
Color returns to the face, not the flush of life but a grayish pallor. Inside what was once Merle Dixon, neural pathways that had shut down begin to fire again, but differently.
Not the complex network that had housed memories of her laugh, her kindness, her gentle way of saying "Your Immpossible"– but a primitive system driven by a single imperative.
The beautiful visions are fading, replaced by something darker and more primal. But he fights it, holds onto the image of her happiness for as long as he can.
In his fracturing mind, he sees her dancing – not careful reserved movements she made in the apartment in Woodbury, but free and joyful and alive.
She's spinning in a field of flowers, arms outstretched, laughing at the sky.
Dance, lil-doe, he pleads with the darkness closing in. Be happy and never look back, do that for ol' Merle.
Hunger.
The Governor leans forward, watching with clinical interest as the body on the floor begins to stir more noticeably. The chest doesn't rise and fall – whatever animates the dead doesn't require oxygen – but muscles throughout the body contract and release as the transformation progresses.
An hour after death, the eyes that had once looked at her with such desperate longing begin to change. The pupils dilate fully, the irises clouding over with a milky film.
The jaw works soundlessly at first, teeth clicking together – the same mouth that had wanted to whisper "I love you" a thousand times, but had only ever managed crude jokes and rough banter.
"Almost there," the Governor observes, as if watching a fascinating experiment rather than the destruction of a human soul.
Two hours after Merle Dixon's heart stopped beating, his body jerks violently, head lifting from the floor, fingers clawing at nothing.
But just before the final transformation completes, just before Merle Dixon disappears forever, his consciousness flickers one last time.
Through the haze of approaching oblivion, he sees a figure approaching – not the Governor or Martinez, but someone else. Someone familiar.
Daryl.
His baby brother stands there, crossbow in hand, eyes hard with the kind of determination Merle taught him. But there's something else there too – understanding, maybe even forgiveness.
"Merle," Daryl says, and his voice is gentle in a way it hasn't been since they were kids.
"Daryl," Merle tries to say, but his vocal cords are changing, the words coming out as a strangled sound. Still, somehow, his brother understands.
"I know," Daryl says, kneeling beside what's left of his brother. "S'okay, I know why you did it."
The vision wavers, but Merle holds onto it desperately. This is his last chance, his final moment of clarity before the hunger takes over completely.
"Take care of her," he manages to rasp, the words barely human but carrying all the desperate love he'd never been able to express. "Take care of our lil-doe. Promise me."
Daryl's eyes fill with tears he'd never let fall in the real world. "M'here," he whispers. "I'll keep her safe. M'not gonna let you down."
Thank you, Merle thinks, but the words won't come anymore. The vision of his brother begins to fade, and with it, the last of his humanity.
A guttural moan escapes his throat – the first sound of his new existence. But for just a moment, just one precious heartbeat, it almost sounds like he's saying her name.
"Lil-doe."
Then the man is gone, and only the monster remains.
The Governor stands, nodding to Martinez. "It's time. Get the chains."
They work efficiently, securing the newly turned walker with heavy chains around its torso, binding its arms to its sides. The creature that was once Merle snaps and snarls, driven by instinct rather than thought.
No recognition flickers in those clouded eyes, no memory of who it was or what it cared for. No trace of the man who had loved her so desperately that he'd died trying to keep her safe.
When the walker is securely restrained, the Governor crouches before it, studying its face with something like satisfaction. "Let's send them a message," he says, rising to his feet. "Release him at nightfall. Point him toward the prison."
Martinez looks uncertain. "He won't get far."
"He doesn't need to," the Governor replies, gathering his things. "Just far enough for them to find him. For her to see what becomes of those who cross me."
The casual cruelty of it – that she might be the one to encounter this thing, that her gentle heart might break seeing what he'd become – would have driven Merle to murder. But Merle is gone, and this shell knows nothing of love or protection or sacrifice.
As they leave, the barn falls silent except for the continuous growls and snapping teeth of the walker secured in the center of the floor. Nothing remains of Merle Dixon now – not his wit, not his survival instinct, not his final attempt at redemption.
Not his secret tenderness, his careful carvings, his whispered thoughts for the Girlie he'd loved from afar.
Nothing but a shell that will shuffle through the darkness until it finds what it hungers for, completely unaware that it's moving toward the very person the man it used to be had died trying to protect.
Somewhere in the prison, a wooden heart sits on a pillow, waiting to be found. A perfect symbol of a love that was real, even if it was never understood – carved by hands that now claw, left by a man who is now a monster, for the Girl who will never know that her name was the last word on his lips as he died.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, fluff, walkers (Zombies) the Governor, Angstttttt so much angst.
A/N: it's gonna hurt
Part 21
Between Brothers - Part 22
The night air was thick with humidity and the ever-present stench of decay that seemed to cling to everything these days. Merle sat perched on the guard tower, his prosthetic resting on a rifle while his good hand worked at whittling another piece of wood—not another deer this time, but something simpler, just to keep his fingers busy. The metal of his prosthetic caught the moonlight, a constant reminder of what this world had cost him.
Below in the yard, a few walkers pressed against the fence, their low moans creating a symphony of death that had become as familiar as breathing. Merle barely glanced at them anymore—they were just background noise, like crickets used to be before the world went to hell.
"Ugly sons of bitches, ain't they?" Merle called down to where Daryl was making his rounds, crossbow slung across his shoulder. "That one there looks like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Henderson. Always knew that bitch was dead inside."
Daryl's boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the base of the tower. "Yeah, well, least she can't give ya detention now," he muttered, his voice carrying that familiar rasp that came from years of cigarettes and not enough talking.
"Hell, baby brother, way I see it, we're all in detention now. Life sentence in the shittiest school ever built." Merle's laugh was rough, like gravel in a blender. "But hey, at least the cafeteria food can't get any worse."
Daryl started climbing the ladder, his movements careful and practiced. When he reached the top, he settled himself against the opposite wall, far enough to give Merle space but close enough to talk without raising their voices. The brothers had learned to read each other's moods over the years, and tonight felt different somehow.
"Quiet tonight," Daryl observed, adjusting his crossbow across his knees.
"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts. You know how this shit goes—quiet now means we're gonna be knee-deep in walker guts tomorrow." Merle's knife worked steadily at the wood, carving away thin slivers. "Speakin' of which, you remember that time we went huntin' up near Dawsonville and you got your ass stuck in that bog?"
"Wasn't stuck," Daryl grumbled, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Jus'... takin' a'break."
"Takin' a break, my ass. You were sinkin' like a stone, cryin' like a little girl. 'Merle, help me! Merle, I'm gonna die!' Christ, you were maybe twelve years old, all knees and elbows and pure panic."
"I was ten," Daryl corrected, his drawl thick with memory. "An' I wasn't cryin'. Was just... concerned 'bout the situation."
"Concerned about the situation," Merle repeated, his voice mockingly refined. "Well, ain't you just the philosopher. Point is, I hauled your scrawny ass outta there, didn't I? Got myself covered in that nasty-ass swamp water and probably caught three different diseases, but I got you out."
The memory hung between them for a moment, one of the few good ones from a childhood full of bad memories. Daryl picked at the wood planking with his thumbnail, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken.
"'Member what I told ya that day?" Merle continued, his voice losing some of its usual edge. "After we got ya cleaned up and back to solid ground?"
"Mmm," Daryl said quietly, looking through his hair.
"No matter what kind of shit storm we're in, no matter how deep the bog gets, we watch each other's backs. That ain't changed, baby brother. Not ever."
Daryl nodded, but something in Merle's tone made him look up sharply. There was an intensity there, a weight to the words that went beyond simple brotherly bonding.
"'Course it ain't," Daryl said carefully. "W'you talkin' 'bout?"
Merle was quiet for a moment, his knife pausing in its work. Down in the yard, one of the walkers let out a particularly pitiful moan, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted—one of the few sounds from the old world that remained unchanged.
"Just thinkin' about things, is all. About how things can change real quick in this world. One minute you're here, next minute you're walker chow." He resumed his carving, not looking at Daryl. "Makes a man think about what he's leavin' behind."
"Y'ain't goin' nowhere," Daryl said firmly.
"We got a good thing here, don't get me wrong. But it ain't gonna last forever. Nothin' good ever does, not for people like us." Merle's laugh was bitter now.
"Dixons. We're survivors, baby brother, but we ain't lucky. Never have been. We fight and we scrape and we make it through by the skin of our teeth, but eventually..." Merle shrugged. "Eventually everybody's number comes up."
Daryl was quiet for a long moment, processing the unusual melancholy in his brother's voice. Merle wasn't typically one for philosophical discussions, especially not about mortality.
Usually, he covered any serious thoughts with crude jokes or unnecessary violence.
"S'what's this really about?" Daryl asked. "You bit ?"
"Nah, I'm fine as frog's hair. Just... thinkin' about the future is all. About what happens if one of us don't make it." Merle's prosthetic clicked against the rifle as he adjusted his position. "You know that lil doe of ours?"
Daryl's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "W'about her?"
"She's good people, ain't she? Sweet little thing, always tryin' to help everybody, always got a kind word even for a piece of shit like me." Merle's voice had gone soft, almost reverent. "Reminds me of them deer we used to see up in the mountains. You know the ones—all graceful and careful, but strong as hell underneath."
Daryl nodded chewing on his lower lip. He'd made the same comparison himself, though he'd never said it out loud.
"Girlie's got too much faith in people, too much trust. That's gonna get her killed someday if she ain't careful." Merle's knife had stopped moving entirely now, his attention focused entirely on his baby brother. "She needs somebody who understands how ugly this world can get, somebody who can keep her safe without breakin' that light inside her."
"Merle—"
"I'm just sayin', if somethin' were to happen to me, you'd make sure she was okay, right? You'd watch out for her?"
There it was—the real question, wrapped up in hypotheticals and careful phrasing. Daryl felt something cold settle in his stomach, something he couldn't quite name.
"'Course," he said slowly. "Nothin's gonna happen to ya. W'both gonna watch out for her."
"Yeah, well, humor me. Say somethin' did happen. Say I got bit, or took a bullet, or just had a really bad day. You'd make sure she was okay? You'd make sure she knew that... that she mattered?"
Daryl studied his brother's profile in the moonlight. Merle's jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but there was something vulnerable in his posture that Daryl recognized from childhood—the way Merle used to look when their father was on a particularly bad bender and they were trying to figure out how to avoid the worst of it.
"She'd matter to you," Daryl said, not quite a question.
"She matters to everybody. Hell, even Carol's taken a shine to her, and you know how picky that woman is about who she lets into her circle." Merle's laugh was forced. "Just... if somethin' happened, you'd make sure she didn't blame herself, right? Make sure she knew it wasn't her fault?"
"Why would she blame herself?"
"People do that, especially people like her. They think if they'd just been better, or faster, or smarter, they could've saved everybody. Could've made the difference." Merle's voice was rough now, heavy with something that might have been regret. "Don't want her carryin' that weight around. Girl's got enough to worry about."
Daryl was quiet for a long moment, listening to the night sounds—the distant moans of walkers, the creak of the fence, the whisper of wind through the trees. Finally, he spoke.
"Y'plannin' somethin' stupid?"
"When am I not plannin' on doin' somethin' stupid?" Merle's grin was sharp in the moonlight. "But nah, baby brother. Just want to know that if the worst happens, you got my back. That you'll take care of the people who matter."
"I got you" Daryl said simply. "Always"
"Good. That's... that's good." Merle resumed his carving, but his movements were less steady now. "You know, she asked me about my carvin' the other day. Said she liked the little deer I made."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Said it reminded her of somethin' from home, before all this shit started. Some story her grandmother used to tell her about forest spirits or some such nonsense." Merle's smile was genuine this time. "Got this look in her eyes when she talked about it, all soft and far away. Made me think maybe there's still some magic left in this world after all."
"Maybe."
"Maybe." Merle was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, you just remember what I said. About lookin' after her. About makin' sure she knows she matters."
Daryl made a noise low in his throat, one Merle knew was a agreement, not a dismissal.
"Good. Now, you want to hear about the time I convinced Bobby Jenkins that his woman was cheatin' on him with a scarecrow?"
And just like that, the moment passed. Merle launched into another outrageous story, his voice carrying across the night air with its usual crude enthusiasm.
But Daryl continued to watch his brother's face, noting the careful way Merle avoided his eyes, the slight tremor in his good hand as he worked at the wood.
The pre-dawn darkness wrapped around the prison like a shroud, thick and heavy with the promise of another scorching Georgia day. In the quiet of the prison, most everyone was still lost in whatever dreams they could manage in this hellish world.
But Merle Dixon couldn't sleep—hadn't been able to for days now, you were curled up beside him on the thin mattress, your face pressed against his chest, fitting against him like you'd been made for this exact spot.
The blanket—his blanket, the one he'd quietly made sure you had the warmest of—was pulled up to your chin, and your breathing was soft and even in that space between sleep and waking.
Look at her, Merle thought, his good hand resting carefully on your hip, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. Prettiest damn thing in this whole godforsaken world, and she's here with me. How the hell did I get so lucky?
Your hair was mussed from sleep, catching what little light filtered through the barred window, and there was a peaceful expression on your face that made something in Merle's chest tighten painfully.
He'd memorized every detail of your face over the months—the way your nose wrinkled when you laughed, how your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the little scar from some childhood accident you'd told him about.
"Mmm," you murmured, still mostly asleep, pressing against him slightly. "You're warm."
"Always am, sugar," Merle replied softly, his voice carrying none of its usual harsh edge. "Like a damn furnace, ain't I?"
You made a small sound of agreement, your hand finding his where it rested on your hip, fingers intertwining with his. The gesture was so natural, so trusting, that Merle felt his throat tighten.
After everything, after all the shit I've done, all the ways I've fucked up, she still trusts me enough to sleep next to me.
"Can't sleep again?" you asked, your voice thick with drowsiness but tinged with concern. You always worried when he couldn't sleep, always tried to help in your gentle way.
"Nah, just enjoyin' the view," Merle said, attempting his usual crude humor. "Got me a real nice piece of ass pressed up against me. What red-blooded American male would waste time sleepin'?"
You scoffed softly, the sound he'd grown to love more than any music. "You're incorrigible."
"That's a mighty big word for this time of mornin', sugar. You sure you ain't still dreamin'?"
"Positive. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with you." But there was affection in your voice, the kind of fond exasperation that came from months of putting up with his particular brand of charm.
Merle's chest rumbled with quiet laughter. "Lucky you. Most girlies would kill for the privilege of wakin' up next to all this." He gestured to himself with his prosthetic, the metal catching a glint of moonlight.
"Most girls have better sense than I do, apparently."
"Damn right they do. You got terrible taste in men, lil doe. Absolutely terrible."
The nickname rolled off his tongue like honey, sweet and deliberate. He'd started calling you that months ago, back when you were still skittish around walkers, still jumped every time they came close. Now it felt like a prayer, something sacred between just the two of you.
My little doe, he thought, pressing his face into your hair and breathing in the scent of the cheap shampoo you'd found on the last supply run. My beautiful, perfect, too-good-for-this-world little doe.
"You know," you said quietly, your voice growing more serious, "I never properly thanked you."
"Thanked me? For what, sugar? My sparkling personality? My devastatingly good looks? My charming way with words?"
"For Atlanta. For the rooftop." Your voice was barely above a whisper now. "For not letting me jump."
The words hit Merle like a physical blow. Atlanta. The rooftop. The day he'd lost his hand but gained something infinitely more precious—the knowledge that you'd risk everything to save him. The day he'd realized that maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth fighting for in this world.
Hell, lil-doe you saved me, he thought, the memory playing out in his mind like a film reel. Could've run, could've saved herself, but she stayed. But she got me outta there when any sane person would've left me to rot.
"Hell, You're the one who saved my worthless ass." he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"We saved each other," you corrected, your fingers tightening around his. "That's what we do."
What we do. The words echoed in his mind, and Merle felt something break inside his chest. Because after today ... after today, you'd be safe, and Daryl would take care of you the way Merle never could.
The silence stretched between you, comfortable and warm, and Merle felt the weight of everything he'd never said pressing down on him. All the words he'd swallowed, all the feelings he'd buried under crude jokes and casual cruelty.
He'd spent so long being afraid—afraid of rejection, afraid of tainting you, afraid of admitting that a Dixon man was capable of love.
But time was running out, and some things needed to be said, even if you'd never fully remember them.
"You know what I love about you?" he murmured, his voice so soft it was barely audible.
"My stunning intelligence? My wit?" you teased sleepily, but there was something in your tone that suggested you knew this was different, that something had shifted in the air between you.
"Your heart," he said simply. "Your big, beautiful, stupid heart that still believes in good things. Still believes in people, even when they don't deserve it."
His good hand moved from your hip to your face, fingers tracing the line of your jaw with reverent gentleness. You made a soft sound, leaning into his touch, and Merle felt his resolve crumble a little more.
Look at her, he thought desperately. Look how she trusts me. How she lets me touch her like this. How did I get so goddamn lucky?
"Merle, you being wer-" you whispered, and his name on your lips sounded like absolution.
"Shh," he murmured cutting you off, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Just let me... let me look at you for a minute."
In the dim light, your face was perfect—soft and peaceful and so beautiful it hurt to look at. Merle traced every feature with his fingertips, memorizing the feel of your skin, the way you sighed when he touched you. His thumb ghosted over your lips.
She's half asleep, he told himself. She won't remember this tomorrow. Won't remember how pathetic I'm bein', how weak.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. This wasn't weakness—this was the strongest thing he'd ever done. This was love, pure and simple, and it was killing him.
"You know what else I love about you?" he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The way you hum when you're workin'. The way you scrunch up your nose when you're concentratin'. The way you always save the best bits of food for everybody else. The way you look at me like I'm worth somethin'."
Your eyes flicked open, for less then a few seconds, meeting his in the darkness. They were soft and unfocused with sleep, but there was something there—a question, maybe, or a recognition that this moment was different from all the others.
"What's wrong?" you slurred, your voice thick as sleep pulled you under again.
"Nothin's wrong, lil doe. Everything's perfect. You're perfect." His hand cupped your face, thumb stroking across your cheek. "I just... I need you to know somethin'."
"Mmm." You hummed noncommittally.
For a moment, he couldn't speak. The words were there, burning in his throat, but they felt too big, too important. How do you tell someone that they saved your soul? How do you explain that you'd burn down the world to keep them safe?
Just say it you pussy, he told himself. Just once, say it like you mean it.
"I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of everything he'd never been able to say.
I love you so goddamn much it scares me. Love the way you laugh, love the way you cry over dead flowers, love the way you make me want to be better than I am. Love you more than I ever thought possible, he thought watching your chest rise and fall peacefully.
You nodded slightly, and for a moment, Merle thought you might be fully awake, might remember this. But then you sank back into that dreamy half-sleep, a small smile playing at your lips.
"Mmm, Yea Love you too, you big sook" you murmured, the words slurred with drowsiness.
She loves me, Merle thought, his heart breaking and soaring at the same time. Maybe not the same way, but it's enough, more then I deserve.
He leaned down then, pressing his lips to yours in the softest kiss he'd ever given. It was gentle and reverent, a goodbye disguised as a caress. You sighed into his mouth, and for a moment, Merle let himself believe that this moment could last forever.
When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed, that peaceful expression on your face. He watched you for a long moment, drinking in every detail, trying to burn this image into his memory.
This is it, he thought. This is as close to heaven as a Dixon'll ever get.
Slowly, carefully, he began to untangle himself from you. Your face scrunched up in protest as he moved away, and you made a small sound of complaint that nearly broke his resolve.
"Shh," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Just gotta get up, lil-doe. You go back to sleep for me."
He eased himself off the mattress, his movements careful and quiet. From his pocket, he pulled out the small wooden carving he'd finished the night before—not a deer this time, but a small heart, smooth and perfect.
She'll understand, he told himself as he placed it on the small table beside the bed where you'd see it when you woke up.
Maybe not right away, but eventually.
Eventually she'll understand why.
He stood there for a moment, looking down at you, memorizing this last image of peace. Your hair spread across the pillow, one hand reaching out to where he'd been lying, searching for him even in sleep.
I'm sorry, he thought, the words he couldn't say aloud. I'm sorry I can't be the man you deserve. I'm sorry I can't stay. I'm sorry I'm too much of a coward to tell you the truth when you're awake.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't about cowardice. It was about love—the kind of love that put someone else's safety above your own happiness. The kind of love that made the hard choices, even when they destroyed you.
She'll be safe, he told himself as he turned away from the bed. Daryl will take care of her. He's a good man, better than me. He'll give her the life she deserves.
The thought should have comforted him, but instead, it felt like a knife twisting in his chest. He paused at the door, looking back one last time at the girl who'd saved him in every way that mattered.
"Goodbye, lil doe," he whispered, so quietly that even he barely heard it. "I love you. I love you so goddamn much."
Then he was gone, slipping through the prison corridors like a ghost, leaving behind the only good thing he'd ever found in this world. Behind him, you stirred slightly in your sleep, your hand closing around empty air where he'd been, and somewhere in your dreams, you whispered his name.
The wooden heart sat on the table, a silent testament to a love that would never be, and in the growing light of dawn, it cast a shadow that looked almost like two people embracing, holding each other tight against the darkness of the world.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, self sabotage, angst, fluff, walkers (Zombies) Canon level racism, violence, the Governor, baby Judith, fluffffff.
Part 20
Between Brothers - Part 21
The morning sun filtered through the prison's grimy windows, casting long shadows across the common area where the group gathered for their daily routines.
Three weeks had passed since that day in the mail room, and something had shifted in the delicate ecosystem of the prison. Merle was trying—really trying—though his version of "fitting in" still involved enough colorful language to make a sailor blush and enough crude jokes to earn disapproving looks from Hershel.
"Shit, old man, that leg of yours givin' you trouble again?" Merle had asked that morning, watching Hershel favor his good leg as he moved around the makeshift kitchen.
"Want me to take a look? I ain't no doctor, but I know my way around broken things."
The offer had been genuine, delivered with less of Merle's usual swagger and more of something that might have been called concern.
Hershel had accepted with a nod and a quiet "Thank you, Merle," that seemed to surprise them both.
It was these small moments that were slowly, carefully building bridges between Merle and the people who had every reason to distrust him.
When Glen had struggled with a stuck gate mechanism, Merle had wordlessly appeared with a makeshift tool fashioned from scrap metal.
When Maggie had mentioned needing help moving supplies, he'd volunteered before anyone else could speak up.
Always gruff, always accompanied by some inappropriate comment that made everyone uncomfortable, but the help was real.
"Reckon he's tryin'," Daryl had murmured to you one evening, watching his brother help Carl with some minor repair work on the fence.
But it was the way Merle looked at you that had really changed, something softer, more complex—a mixture of protective instinct and genuine affection that he seemed to be struggling to understand himself.
Today was no different. You'd volunteered to help Beth with Judith while the others worked on expanding the garden area.
The baby had been fussy all morning, crying despite Beth's best efforts to soothe her. It wasn't until you'd settled into one of the chairs they'd scavenged from the prison offices, holding Judith against your chest while humming a half-remembered lullaby, that she'd finally quieted.
"There's you go," you murmured, adjusting the blanket around her tiny form. "That's better now, isn't it?"
Beth smiled from where she was folding clean cloth diapers nearby. "You're a natural with her. She always settles down for you."
"Babies can sense when someone's calm," you replied, gently bouncing Judith as she made soft cooing sounds.
"My mum used to say that. Said they could tell who was safe and who wasn't."
"Your mother sounds wise," Beth said, her voice carrying that wistful tone that crept in whenever anyone mentioned the people they'd lost.
"She was." You pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Judith's head, breathing in that unique baby scent that somehow still smelled like hope in a world gone mad.
"She would have loved you, little one. Would have spoiled you rotten." You cooed.
What you didn't notice was the figure standing in the doorway, watching the scene with an expression of stunned fascination.
Merle had come looking for you to ask about something—what, he'd already forgotten the moment he'd seen you with the baby.
There was something about the way you held her, so carefully, so tenderly. The way you spoke to her in that soft voice, the one he'd only heard when you were trying to calm him down. The way Beth looked at you with such obvious trust and affection, like you were already family.
Merle had never been good with babies. Hell, he'd barely been good with Daryl when his little brother was small, and that had been his own blood.
But watching you now, seeing the gentle way you supported Judith's head, the patient way you rocked her when she started to fuss again—it did something strange to his chest.
Made it tight and warm in a way that had nothing to do with the Georgia heat.
"Merle? You alright there?"
He startled, realizing he'd been staring. Beth was looking at him with curious eyes, Judith still contentedly settled in your arms.
"Yeah, Sugar. Just... just checkin' on y'all. Make sure nobody needed nothin'." He cleared his throat, trying to shake off whatever the hell had just happened to him. "Carry on with your... baby stuff."
You looked up at him then, and that smile—the one that made his prosthetic twitch and his real hand clench into a fist—spread across your face. "Want to say hello to Judith? I think she likes visitors."
"Nah, I'm good. Don't know nothin' about babies." But even as he said it, he found himself stepping closer, drawn by something he couldn't name.
"Neither did I, before all this," you said gently. "But they're not as fragile as they look."
Beth stood up, gathering the folded diapers. "I should go help Maggie in the garden. You two can handle her for a bit, right?" She was already walking away before either of you could protest, leaving you alone with Merle and the baby.
"Sneaky little thing," Merle muttered, but there was no real annoyance in his voice.
You laughed softly. "She's been trying to get people to spend more time with Judith. Says it's good for everyone."
"That right?" Merle edged closer, peering down at the baby with something that might have been wonder. "She don't seem like much. All pink and... small."
"She's perfect," you said simply. "Want to hold her?"
"Hell no. I'd probably break her or somethin'. These hands ain't made for delicate things." He held up his prosthetic as evidence the blade taped to it catching the light.
"Your hands are fine," you said, and the certainty in your voice made him look at you sharply. "You've been gentler with me than anyone has in a long time, even with your damn mouth."
The admission hung between you like a confession. Merle's throat worked soundlessly for a moment, and you could see the war playing out in his expression—the part of him that wanted to make some crude joke to deflect from the moment, and the part that was tired of hiding behind his own walls.
"That's different," he said finally. "You ain't a helpless baby."
"No, but I was a stranger. And you chose to be kind to me anyway." You adjusted Judith in your arms, her tiny hand grasping at the fabric of your shirt. "That says something about the man you really are, Merle."
He was quiet for a long time after that, just watching you with the baby. Eventually, he settled into the chair beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"She really does like you," he observed as Judith made happy gurgling sounds. "Smart kid. Knows quality when she sees it."
"Merle..." you started, but he was already standing up, that familiar restlessness taking hold.
"I got some work to do 'fore dinner. You good here with the little princess?"
"We're fine," you assured him. "Thank you for checking on us."
He nodded once, then disappeared back into the depths of the prison, leaving you shaking your head.
The temperature had dropped significantly by the time everyone was settling in for the night. The prison's heating system was long dead, and Georgia's cold seemed determined to seep through every crack and crevice in the concrete walls.
You'd layered on every piece of clothing you owned, but it still wasn't enough to stop the shivers that wracked your body as you made your way to the cage you still shared with Merle.
The sleeping arrangements had evolved naturally over the past few weeks. At first, you'd tried to maintain some distance, taking opposite sides of the small space. But the cold was relentless, and Merle had noticed the way you curled into yourself at night, teeth chattering despite the thin blankets.
"Ain't no point in both of us freezin' our asses off when we could be warm."
The cuddling had started as pure practicality—shared body heat in a world where warmth was a luxury. But somewhere along the way, it had become something more. The way Merle would wait for you to get comfortable before settling in himself.
The way his arm would tighten around you protectively when you had nightmares. The way he'd mutter soft reassurances in your ear when you'd wake up gasping from dreams of the dead.
Tonight felt different, though. There was a tension in the air that hadn't been there before, an electricity that made his skin prickle with awareness.
"Cold again tonight," you observed, settling onto the thin mattress.
"Mmm." Merle was unusually quiet, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you. Something was clearly on his mind.
"Everything okay?" You scooted closer, concerned by his silence. "You've been quiet since dinner."
"Just thinking, honey" he said, but didn't elaborate.
"Sounds dangerous for a man like you" you chuckled.
When he didnt answer you waited, having learned that pushing Merle rarely yielded results. Sometimes the best thing you could do was simply be present, letting him work through whatever was churning in that complicated mind of his.
After what felt like an eternity, he turned to face you. In the dim light filtering through the window, you could see something in his expression that made your breath catch.
Vulnerability, raw and unguarded, like he'd forgotten to put on his usual armor.
"Got somethin' for you," he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"Merle, you don't have to—"
"Just... let me do this, alright?" He reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, pulling out something small wrapped in a scrap of cloth. "Been workin' on it for a while now. Figured... figured you might like it."
With careful fingers, you unwrapped the cloth to reveal a small wooden deer, no bigger than your palm. It had been carved with obvious care, every detail lovingly crafted despite the limitations of working with only one hand.
The proportions were perfect, the grain of the wood smooth under your fingers. It was beautiful in its simplicity, a piece of art born from patience and dedication.
"Merle..." you breathed, turning the carving over in your hands. "This is incredible."
"Just some scrap wood I found. Figured you might like havin' somethin' pretty to look at in all this ugliness." he said, but you could hear the pleased note in his voice.
"How did you...?" You looked up at him, then back at the deer. "How did you manage this with...?"
"One hand?" He held up his prosthetic, the metal catching the moonlight. "Took some creative problem-solvin'. Had to rig up a way to hold the wood steady while I worked. Daryl helped some, though he don't know what it was for."
The idea of Merle spending hours working on this, fighting against the limitations of his disability to create something beautiful for you, made your throat tight with emotion. "Why a deer?"
His smile was soft, almost shy. "You know why, lil doe."
And you did. The nickname he'd given you, the one that had started as just another in his repertoire of endearments but had become something special, something that belonged only to you.
A doe—gentle, quick, beautiful in her wariness.
It was how he saw you, and somehow, incredibly, it was how you were learning to see yourself.
"Thank you," you whispered, leaning over to press a soft kiss to his cheek, before settling on the mattress. "It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's ever given me."
The kiss was meant to be innocent, a simple expression of gratitude. But when you looked up at him, you found yourself caught in the intensity of his gaze.
"You don't gotta thank me, lil-doe," he said quietly. "Just... wanted you to know that you matter. That you're worth more than all the pretty things this world used to have to offer."
The words hit you like a physical blow, not because they hurt but because they were so completely unexpected. Merle Dixon, the man who'd spent his life hiding feelings behind crude jokes and volatile anger, was sitting in a prison cell telling you that you mattered to him.
"Merle..." you started, but found yourself at a loss for words.
"I know I ain't easy to be around," he continued, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Know I'm rough and crude, but you make me want to be better, lil doe. Make me want to be the kind of man who deserves to sit next to someone holding a baby and looking like a angel."
"Saw you with little Judith, saw how gentle you were with her, how Beth trusts you... and I thought, 'That's what good looks like.' That's what I been missin' my whole damn life." His smile was rueful.
"You're not missing anything," you said firmly, clutching the wooden deer to your chest. "You're here, you're trying, you're caring for people who matter to you. That's what good looks like too."
"Is it?"
"Yes." You reached out with your free hand, covering his prosthetic with your palm. "This doesn't make you less, Merle. Your past doesn't make you less. The way you grew up doesn't make you less. You're here, you're present, and you're choosing to be better every day. That's good."
He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to memorize your face. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm..." He stopped himself abruptly, jaw clenching as he seemed to wrestle with whatever he'd been about to say. "Shit. This is... you're important, lil doe. More than you probably know."
The almost-confession hung between you like a bridge half-built, something significant left unfinished. You could see the war playing out in his expression.
"Merle..." you began, but he was already shaking his head.
"Don't go getting all sentimental on me now, sugar-tits" he said, but his voice lacked its usual edge. "Just... wanted you to have somethin' nice, is all."
You looked down at the deer in your hands, studying the careful details, running a finger over one of its antlers. "Why a buck, though? You call me little doe."
His smile was crooked, almost embarrassed. "Well, hell, Sugar. Can't have my lil doe walkin' around without her buck watchin' over her, can I?"
"Her buck?" you asked, confused.
"Buck, Stag—whatever the hell you wanna call it." He gestured at the carving with his prosthetic.
"Point is, every doe needs someone keepin' an eye on her. Makin' sure she don't get herself into trouble. And since I can't be with you every damn minute..." He trailed off.
The meaning made your lips curl up into that smile that made his chest warm. Not just a deer—a stag. A protector.
"Merle..." you whispered, understanding flooding through you.
"Look, I needed you to know that someone's lookin' out for you, even when you can't see 'em."
You looked down at the carving again, at the hours of work and care that had gone into creating something beautiful just for you. When you looked back up at him, your eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I know that when I'm scared, you're the first person I look for." you said honestly. "And I know that this—" you held up the carving "—is the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me."
Merle shifted beside you, the familiar sound of buckles filled the small space as Merle worked to remove his prosthetic for the night. He set it carefully against the wall within easy reach, a habit born of necessity in a world where you never knew when you'd need to move fast.
"Thing gets heavy after a while," Merle said quietly, flexing his shoulders as he settled the prosthetic aside. The stump of his arm was pale in the moonlight, the scars from his amputation long since healed but still visible.
With his prosthetic removed, Merle seemed somehow smaller, more human.
The aggressive edge that the metal attachment gave him was gone, leaving behind just a man who'd survived impossible odds. He rolled his shoulder, working out the kinks from wearing the device all day, before carefully positioning himself on the thin mattress.
He settled back against the mattress and opened his arms to you, you settled back against his chest, holding the wooden deer up to catch the moonlight filtering through the window.
His good hand came to rest over yours, fingers intertwining as you both held the carving together. You could feel the warmth of his palm against the back of your hand."it's so detailed." you murmured, tracing the carved antlers with your fingertip.
Merle's thumb followed the same path, his calloused skin rough against your knuckles as he guided your hand along the smooth wood. The simple touch felt more intimate than it should have, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned closer to see what you were pointing out.
You turned the carving over in your hands, marveling at the way he'd managed to capture the graceful curve of the deer's neck. Merle's fingers traced along yours, following the line of the wood grain, his touch so gentle it was almost reverent.
His fingertips brushed against your wrist, the deer felt warm in your joined hands, as if it had absorbed some of the care that had gone into its creation.
Merle's fingers were steady as they helped support the carving, his stump wrapped securely around your waist to keep you close, not that he would admit it.
Outside, the wind howled through the prison's broken windows, and somewhere in the distance, the dead moaned their eternal hunger. But here, in this small cage, wrapped in Merle's arms with his gift, you felt something you'd almost forgotten existed, safe.
"C'mon" Merle said gently taking the carving and placing it on the bench you used as a side table.
"Sleep now, lil doe," he murmured against your hair.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, self sabotage, angst, fluff, walkers (Zombies) Canon level racism, violence, Woodbury, the Governor, hostility, drug use, talk of alcohol consumption.
Part 19
Between Brothers - Part 20
The prison walls felt like they were closing in, even though they stretched higher and wider than any place you'd called home in months. Gray concrete and rusted metal bars created a maze of shadows that seemed to shift with every flicker of candlelight. You'd been here a couple weeks now, and while Rick's group had grudgingly accepted your presence, the sideways glances and whispered conversations when you passed told a different story.
But it wasn't really about you, was it? It was about Merle.
Even now, as you made your way through the corridors, you could hear his voice echoing off the walls, loud and grating as he regaled someone with a story they clearly didn't want to hear.
"...and that sumbitch Governor thought he could just take my blade like I was some kinda pussy..." Merle's voice carried that familiar edge, part bravado, part barely contained rage.
You found him in what used to be the prison's mail room, rifling through cabinets with his good hand while his prosthetic—now sporting a wicked-looking knife duct-taped to the metal base—knocked papers and debris to the floor. The sound of bits and pieces hitting concrete echoed through the empty room.
"Merle." Your voice came out softer than intended.
He spun around, and for just a moment, you caught something vulnerable in his expression before that trademark smirk slid back into place.
"Well, well. If it ain't my lil doe, sneakin' up on me like some kinda ghost."
"What are you doing?" You stepped closer, noting the scattered paper, the way his pupils seemed just a little too dilated in the dim light.
"Just lookin' for some aspirin, sugar-tits. All this prison livin's givin' me a headache." He kicked at a empty box with his boot, the gesture too casual, too rehearsed.
You'd seen enough of the world before to notice the slight tremor in his hands, the way he kept licking his lips, the manic energy that seemed to radiate from him like heat from a fever.
Drugs - he was looking for drugs.
"Merle." You said his name again, firmer this time.
"Now don't you start with me, honey. I ain't in the mood for no lecture from—"
"From what?" You interrupted, surprising yourself with the steel in your voice. "From someone who actually gives a damn about you?"
That shut him up. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, like a fish gasping for air. The knife on his prosthetic caught the light as he shifted his weight.
"You don't know what you're talkin' about," he said finally, but the fight had gone out of his voice.
"I know you're hurting." You took another step closer. "I know you're scared."
"Scared?" The word came out like a snarl. "Merle Dixon ain't scared of nothin', 'specially not in some busted-up prison with a bunch of—"
"Then why are you looking for a fix ?" The question hung in the air between you like smoke. "Why are you hiding in here instead of trying to make things right with the people who are supposed to be on our side now?"
His laugh was bitter, sharp enough to cut. "Make things right? You think I can just waltz on up to that colored gal and say 'sorry I called you names' and everything'll be right as rain?"
"Michonne," you said quietly. "Her name is Michonne."
"What?"
"The woman you keep calling 'that colored gal.' Her name is Michonne. And she's not my enemy, Merle. She doesn't have to be yours either."
He stared at you for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher, more uncertain. "You really think it's that simple, lil doe?"
"I think it's a start." You gestured to the mess around his feet. "This isn't helping anyone. Least of all you."
"Yeah, well..." He scratched at his stubble with his good hand. "Maybe I don't deserve no help."
The admission was so quiet you almost missed it. But there it was, hanging between you like a confession whispered in a church pew. Merle Dixon, the man who swaggered through life like he owned it, admitting he might not be worth saving.
"That's not your call to make," you said.
"Ain't it?" He looked down at his prosthetic, at the knife he'd taped there like some kind of medieval weapon. "Look at me, lil-doe. I'm a one-handed redneck with a mouth that don't know when to quit and a temper that gets people killed. What exactly am I bringin' to this little party?"
Before you could answer, footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Heavy boots, familiar gait. Daryl.
"Shit," Merle muttered, suddenly looking like a teenager caught sneaking out after curfew.
"Y'all in here?" Daryl's voice carried that characteristic mumble, words running together like water over stones. "Been lookin' all over for ya."
He appeared in the doorway, crossbow slung over his shoulder, taking in the scene with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. The scattered debris, Merle's guilty expression, the way you were standing between them like a human shield.
"Found us," Merle said with forced cheer. "Was just showin' our girl here the facilities. Real top-notch operation you got goin'."
"Uh-huh." Daryl's gaze flicked to you, a silent question in his eyes. You gave the slightest shake of your head. Not now.
"M'here to tell ya Rick wants to talk," Daryl continued, his words blending together in that soft Georgia drawl. "Both of ya. Somethin' about work."
"Course he does." Merle's bravado was back, but it felt brittle now, like ice over deep water. "Can't have the ol'Merle just sittin' around enjoyin' the hospitality."
"Merle." Daryl's voice carried a warning. "Don't."
"Don't what, baby brother?" Merle's voice was rising again, that familiar edge creeping back. "You think I don't see how they look at us? How they whisper when we walk by?"
"They're just—" you began.
"Just what, lil doe? Just protectin' their own? Just makin' sure the big bad Dixon don't corrupt their little slice of paradise?" He gestured around the ruined room with his prosthetic. "Well, newsflash, sugar'. Paradise was lost a long time ago."
The silence that followed was deafening. Daryl shifted his weight, the leather of his vest creaking softly. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.
"Y'done?" Daryl asked finally.
Merle's shoulders sagged. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm done."
"Good." Daryl stepped into the room, debris crunching under his boots. "'Cause we got work to do. And standin' around feelin' sorry for ourselves ain't gonna get it done."
"When'd you get so wise, baby brother?" Merle asked, but there was no bite to it anymore.
"'Round the same time you started actin' like a damn fool," Daryl replied, but his tone was gentle. "Now c'mon. Rick's waitin', and I ain't gonna be the one to tell him we couldn't find ya."
Merle nodded, then looked at you. "You comin', lil doe?"
"In a minute," you said. "I'll catch up."
The brothers exchanged a look—some silent communication that came from years of being all each other had. Then Merle was walking past you, his prosthetic clicking against the concrete floor.
"Hey, Merle?" you called out when he reached the doorway.
He turned back, eyebrows raised.
"Her name is Michonne," you said again. "And she's been through hell, just like the rest of us. Just like you."
He stared at you for a long moment, then nodded once. "I'll... I'll keep that in mind."
After he left, you and Daryl stood in the ruins, surrounded by the evidence of Merle's desperate search for oblivion.
"Y'okay ?" Daryl asked quietly.
"Ill be alright" You said softly bending down to collect some of the scattered papers. "We should go," you said finally.
"Yeah." Daryl stood, offering you his hand. "W'should."
But neither of you moved. Not yet. For just a moment, in the ruins, you stood together in the gray light filtering through barred windows, surrounded by the debris of Merle's pain and the weight of your own uncertain futures.
But for now, in this moment, you were just two people trying to hold together someone you both cared about, even when he seemed determined to fall apart.
"Daryl?" you said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For... for coming to find us."
He nodded, that shy smile ghosting across his features. "M'always gonna find ya, Both of ya."
The sun cast long shadows across the prison yard as you watched Glen check his pistol for the third time. His movements were efficient, practiced—the kind of muscle memory that came from months of life-or-death supply runs.
You'd been observing the group's routines for almost a week now, learning the rhythms of their survival, and today felt like the right time to push.
"Mind if I tag along?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual as you approached the beat-up Honda they'd been loading with empty bags and water jugs.
Glen looked up, surprise flickering across his features. "On the run? I don't know... Rick hasn't really approved—"
"Rick's got his hands full with the fence repairs," you interrupted gently. "And you could use an extra pair of eyes. I won't get in the way."
He hesitated, glancing back toward the prison where you could see Daryl working on reinforcing one of the watch towers. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just... you arrived with Merle right? And after everything that happened in Woodbury..."
"I understand." You did understand. Trust was a luxury none of them could afford to give freely anymore. "But I need to start pulling my weight around here. Can't do that sitting behind these walls."
Glen studied your face for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. But you stick close, and if I say we leave, we leave. No arguments."
"No arguments," you agreed, fighting back a smile as you climbed into the passenger seat.
The drive through the Georgia countryside was tense at first, both of you hyperaware of every shadow, every rustling bush that might hide a walker. But as the miles passed and the Honda's engine settled into a steady rhythm, some of the tension began to ease.
"So," Glen said, eyes still scanning the road ahead, "what was it like? Living in Woodbury with the Governor?"
You'd been expecting this question, but it still made your stomach tighten. "Complicated," you said finally. "At first, it seemed like paradise. Hot showers, electricity, people who weren't trying to kill you every day. But there was always this... undercurrent. Like everyone was performing in a play, and if you forgot your lines..."
"The Governor would remind you," Glen finished grimly.
"Something like that." You watched a lone walker stumble through a field, too far away to be a threat. "Merle thrived there, at least at first. He liked having the respect. I think it made him feel safe."
"And you?"
"I was never really part of it. Not the way Merle was. I think the Governor kept me around because I was useful—I could sew, help with basic medical stuff, keep Merle in line..." You paused. "And because of that ... I wasn't a threat."
Glen glanced at you sideways. "You sure about that?"
Before you could ask what he meant, he was pulling into the parking lot of a small strip mall. Half the storefronts were boarded up, their windows spider-webbed with cracks, but a few looked promising. A pharmacy, a small grocery store, and at the far end, a liquor store with its neon sign dark but intact.
"We'll hit the grocery first," Glen said, checking his weapon again. "Then the pharmacy if it looks clear. In and out, quick and quiet."
The grocery store was a graveyard of empty shelves and scattered debris. You and Glen worked methodically, checking every aisle for anything useful. Canned goods were long gone, but you managed to find a few overlooked items: a can of green beans that had rolled under a shelf, some packets of instant oatmeal, a jar of peanut butter with just enough left to be worth taking.
"Not bad," Glen murmured as you filled your backpack. "The pharmacy might have some decent stuff too."
But as you moved through the store, your eyes kept drifting to the liquor store at the end of the strip. You thought about Merle, about the way he'd been searching through that stuff, about the barely contained desperation in his voice when he thought no one was listening.
"I want to check the liquor store," you said suddenly.
Glenn froze. "What? Why?"
"Just... I might find something useful."
"Like what? We don't need alcohol, we need—"
"Merle might benefit ... from just a little bit." The words came out sharper than you'd intended. "He's struggling, Glen. Really struggling. And I know it's not a solution, but if I can find something to help him take the edge off, shit that sounds bad"
"That's not helping him," Glen said firmly. "That's enabling him."
"Maybe. But he takes care of me, so I'm returning the favour. Besides if a little amount takes the edge off, the come down might not be so bad." You shouldered your pack. "I'm going to look. You can wait here if you want."
Glen's face cycled through several emotions—frustration, concern, resignation. "Damn it. Fine. But we're in and out, and if anything feels off, we leave. Got it?"
"Got it."
The liquor store was darker than the grocery, its windows more heavily boarded. Glen pulled out a small flashlight as you both stepped inside, the beam cutting through the dusty air. Surprisingly, the place hadn't been completely cleaned out. Bottles of wine lay scattered on the floor, and behind the counter, you could see the gleam of harder liquor.
"Three bottles," you said quietly. "That's all I need."
"Three bottles of what?"
"Whiskey, if I can find it. Something that'll burn going down." You started moving toward the back of the store, stepping carefully around broken glass.
"I still think this is a bad idea," Glen muttered, but he followed you, his flashlight beam dancing across the walls.
You'd just found what you were looking for—three bottles of Jack that had somehow survived the initial looting—when a voice from the back of the store made both of you freeze.
"Well, I'll be damned."
You spun around, Glen's flashlight beam landing on a figure emerging from what looked like a storage room. Middle-aged, graying beard. Your heart stopped.
"Tommy?" you whispered.
His face broke into a relieved grin. "Christ, girl, I thought you were dead. When you and Merle disappeared from the arena, the Governor was... well, let's just say he wasn't happy."
Glen had his gun out, but Tommy made no move for his weapon. Instead, he stepped forward, his eyes scanning you like he was checking for injuries.
"I'm fine," you said quickly. "We're both fine. Merle and I."
"Thank God for that." Tommy's relief was palpable as he stepped forward to hug you. "I've been worried sick. When the Governor sent out search parties, I volunteered for every one, hoping I'd find you before..."
"Before what?" Glen asked, his voice tight.
Tommy glanced at him, then down at you. "The Governor's got the whole town learning to use guns now. Says there's gonna be a war, and everyone needs to be ready to fight. He's... he's not the same man he was when you left. Something's broken in him."
"What do you mean?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know.
"He talks about your prison like it's some kind of fortress he needs to conquer. Keeps saying the people there took something from him, and he's gonna take it back." Tommy's voice dropped.
"He's got it in his head that if he can't have Woodbury the way it was, then nobody gets to have peace."
Glen's gun hand was steady, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. "Why are you telling us this?"
"Because I like this girl," Tommy said simply. "Always have." his voice caught slightly, "because she reminds me of what my Sarah could've grown into, if she'd lived. Don't want to see that light go out in a world where men like the Governor get to decide who lives and dies."
"Tommy," you said softly. "Come with us."
"Can't. Governor will notice. I can give you this." He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket. "It's a list of the weapons the Governor's been stockpiling. Might help your people prepare."
Glen looked at you, confusion and suspicion warring in his expression. "This could be a trap."
"I promise you its not, where not all like ... him." Tommy agreed. "Merle's girl here took care of people, and I don't forget debts like that."
"I'm not Merle's girl," you said automatically, the protest weaker than you'd intended.
Tommy's smile was sad. "Maybe not. But I've seen the way he looks at you. You be careful, you hear? The Governor's got it in for Merle especially. Says he's a traitor and a coward."
"Merle's not a coward," you said fiercely.
"No," Tommy agreed. "But he's a man who's been pushed too far, and men like that do dangerous things. You keep an eye on him."
Glen was shifting his weight, clearly eager to leave. "We need to go."
"He's right," Tommy said. "Y'all get out of here. And tell Merle... tell him Tommy says he's lucky to have someone willing to risk their neck for him."
As you and Glen hurried back to the Honda, your mind was reeling. The bottles in your backpack clinked together with each step, a reminder of why you'd come, but Tommy's words echoed louder than the glass.
"I can't believe he just let us go," Glen said as he started the engine, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped the steering wheel.
"Tommy's a good man," you said quietly. "Always was."
"But he's one of them. The Governor's people."
"Not all of them chose to be." You stared out the window as the strip mall disappeared behind you. "Some of them are just trying to survive, same as us."
Glenn was quiet for a long moment, processing. "That list he gave us... if it's real..."
"It's real. Tommy wouldn't lie about something like that."
"How can you be sure?"
You thought about Tommy, the casual way he teased you took care of the children in Woodbury. "Because some things matter more than whatever side you're on."
You found Merle in the cage, sitting on the edge of his matress, staring at his prosthetic like it held the answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.
"Hey," you said softly.
He looked up, and the relief in his eyes was almost overwhelming. "There's my lil doe. Was startin' to think you'd run off on me."
"Never," you said, and meant it. "I brought you something."
His eyes sharpened as you pulled one of the bottles from your backpack. "Well, I'll be damned. You been holdin' out on me, sugar."
"Just... be careful, okay? It's supposed to help, not make things worse."
Merle took the bottle with his good hand, turning it over like it was made of gold. "You're somethin' else, you know that? Most people see a man like me and figure he's beyond savin'."
"Maybe they're not looking hard enough."
He was quiet for a moment, then looked up at you with an expression you'd never seen before—vulnerable, almost afraid. "What if they're right? What if I am beyond savin'?"
"Then I guess we'll find out together," you said, leaning against the doorway.
Merle's smile was small but genuine. "Together, huh? I like the sound of that, lil doe."
"Wait," you said as he started to twist off the cap. "There are conditions."
Merle paused, eyebrow raised. "Conditions?"
"I'm doing my best Officer Rick impersonation here," you said, trying to keep your voice light but firm. "You drink when I drink. And when I'm finished, you're finished too. Deal?"
He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You serious, lil doe?"
"Deadly."
A slow smile spread across his face. "Well, alright" He held out the bottle. "Ladies first, then."
You took a small sip, the whiskey burning a path down your throat, then handed it back. He took a matching sip, his eyes never leaving yours.
"This is gonna be interesting," he murmured.
The evening air had turned cold, and you could feel the chill seeping through the prison walls. After sharing a small portion of the bottle—true to your word, you'd matched him drink for drink until you'd both had enough—you found yourself shivering despite the warmth the alcohol had provided.
"C'mon," Merle said, noticing your shivers. "Body heat's the best heat,"
You hesitated, suddenly aware of how intimate the small space felt. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."
"Ain't nothin' improper about it, honey. Just two people tryin' not to freeze their asses off." His voice was gentler than usual, the alcohol and exhaustion softening his usual rough edges. "Besides, you're gonna catch your death sittin' over there shakin' like a leaf."
Another shiver ran through you, and you realized he was right. Practical survival trumped whatever awkwardness you were feeling. You settled beside him, initially keeping a careful distance, but the cold was relentless.
"Come here," Merle said softly, lifting his good arm. "Ain't gonna hurt ya."
Slowly, you let yourself lean into his warmth, his arm coming around you. The heat from his body was immediate and welcome, and despite your initial reluctance, you found yourself relaxing against him.
"Better?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
"Mmm" you admitted, your shivers finally starting to subside.
Outside the cage, you could hear the sounds of the prison settling into evening—conversations in the common area, the clang of metal on metal as repairs continued, the ever-present moan of walkers beyond the fences. But inside this small space, with Merle's steady breathing and the whiskey creating a warm haze, everything felt unexpectedly peaceful.
"Thank you," you said quietly.
"For what?"
"For letting me set the rules. For not making me feel foolish about it."
His arm tightened slightly around you. "You ain't foolish, lil doe. You're lookin' out for me, even when I don't deserve it."
"You deserve it," you said, surprising yourself with the conviction in your voice.
"Maybe," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
As the night settled around you both, you thought about Tommy's warning, about the Governor's plans, about the storm that was coming for all of you.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, self sabotage, angst, fluff, walkers (Zombies) Canon level racism, violence, Woodbury, the Governor.
Part 18
Between Brothers - Part 19
The prison's common room was nothing like the comfortable apartment you'd shared with Merle in Woodbury. Cold concrete walls pressed in from all sides, the air thick with dampness and the lingering smell of death. Through the barred windows, you could see walker corpses scattered across the yard—remnants of the Governor's failed attack that you'd helped fight off just hours ago.
You sat on a metal bench, your arms wrapped around yourself for warmth, trying to process everything that had happened. Two days ago, you'd been living a relatively safe life behind Woodbury's walls.
Now you were in a prison, surrounded by strangers who looked at you with suspicion and barely concealed hostility.
Merle sat beside you, his prosthetic resting on his knee, metal occasionally tapping against his leg in a nervous rhythm you'd never seen from him before.
The confident, cocky man you'd known for months seemed diminished somehow, his usual bravado replaced by something more cautious.
"You alright, lil doe?" he asked quietly, his voice lacking its usual volume. "Know this ain't exactly the Ritz."
You nodded, though you weren't sure that was true. The Merle who'd stolen from that Hispanic family on the bridge, who'd said those awful things about Michonne and Glen—that wasn't the man you thought you'd been living with.
"I'm fine," you whispered, though your voice shook slightly.
Across the room, Rick's group huddled in heated discussion. Their voices carried in the echoing space, and you caught fragments of their argument.
"—can't trust him—"
"—M'brother—"
"—what about the girl—"
A baby's cry suddenly pierced the air, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. A blonde girl—Beth, you'd heard someone call her—was holding an infant, trying to soothe her back to sleep.
"There's a baby," you breathed, staring in shock.
Merle followed your gaze. "Yeah, well, life finds a way, don't it, sugar?"
But your attention was caught by something even more disturbing. A boy—he couldn't be more than ten years old—stood near the group of adults, a gun holstered at his hip like it belonged there.
"That kid has a pistol," you said, your accent thickening with distress. "He's just a little boy."
"Welcome to the new world, honey " Merle said grimly. "Kids gotta grow up fast these days."
The sight made your stomach turn. In Woodbury, children had been protected, kept away from the walls and the violence. Here, this little boy looked like he'd seen more horrors than most adults ever should.
Daryl broke away from the group, approaching with that careful, measured walk that looked so different to his brothers confident swagger. His crossbow was slung across his back, and he carried the same wariness that seemed to define everyone in this place.
"They're gonna let y'all stay," he said, crouching down to eye level. "But there's conditions."
"What kinda conditions?" Merle asked, suspicion coloring his tone.
"You ain't gettin' cells like the rest of us," Daryl explained, his words running together in that distinctive Southern drawl. "Y'all gonna be stayin' in the cage here in the common room."
He gestured to a large cell in the corner—bigger than the individual cells, but still very much a prison.
"A cage?" you asked, your voice small.
"S'better than bein' out there," Daryl said, not unkindly. "Groups, got their reasons."
"I haven't done anything wrong," you protested quietly.
"Know that," Daryl said, his blue eyes studying your face. "But you been with 'im for months. They don't know what that means."
From across the room, voices rose again. You could make out Rick's authoritative tone, Glen's angry protests, and what sounded like an older man trying to mediate.
"This is bullshit," Glen was saying, his voice carrying clearly. "After what he did to me and Maggie—"
"Glen," a gentle voice interrupted—the older man. "I understand your anger, but we need to think about this rationally."
"Rationally?" A woman's voice—sharp, angry. "He's a goddamn psychopath!"
"Language," the older man chided gently. "And Maggie, we don't know the whole story."
"I know enough!" Maggie shot back. "I know what he did to us in Woodbury!"
You felt Merle tense beside you, his jaw clenching. "They got every right to be pissed," he said quietly. "I ain't proud of what happened."
Rick approached, his face stern but not unkind.
Behind him trailed the rest of the group in a loose circle—faces you recognized from the arena rescue but had never been properly introduced to.
"I'm Rick," he said simply, extending his hand. "You got a name?"
You gave it softly, your accent making it sound foreign in this place.
"This is Hershel," Rick continued, gesturing to the older man with the gentle voice. "Maggie and Glenn you've met. That's Michonne, Carol, Beth, and Carl."
The little boy with the gun nodded at you solemnly, and the wariness in his eyes broke your heart a little more.
"And that's Judith," Rick said, his voice softening as he looked at the baby. "My daughter."
"She's beautiful," you said sincerely, though the sight of an infant in this hellish world made you want to cry.
"Here's how this is gonna work," Rick continued, his sheriff's authority evident. "You can stay, but you're not part of this group. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You'll stay in the cage, you'll pull your weight with chores and watch duty, and you'll follow our rules. Any problems, any sign that you're a threat, and you're gone."
"What about—" you started to ask.
"Same rules apply to both of you," Rick said firmly. "I don't care if you're innocent. You chose to stand by him, so you get judged by his actions too."
The unfairness of it stung, but you nodded. What choice did you have?
"One more thing," Rick added, his eyes fixed on Merle. "You so much as look at any of my people wrong, especially the women, and I'll put a bullet in your head myself."
Merle raised his hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, Officer Friendly."
As Rick's group dispersed to their various tasks, you found yourself alone with the Dixon brothers. The cage loomed in the corner, its bars catching the dim light filtering through the windows.
"M'sorry," Daryl said quietly, his words barely audible. "Ain't what you signed up for."
"I didn't sign up for any of this," you said, gesturing around the prison. "But I'm here now."
"Yeah, y'are," he said, something like approval in his voice. "Takes guts to stick by someone when things get rough."
"Does it?" you asked, genuine uncertainty in your voice. "Or does it just make me stupid?"
Daryl was quiet for a moment, considering. "M'brother... he ain't all bad, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"But what?"
"when... when things got bad. He took care of me." Daryl said simply.
You looked at Merle, who was examining the cage with professional interest, testing the lock mechanism with his good hand.
As if sensing your conversation, Merle looked up from his examination of the cage. "Well, lil doe, looks like this is home sweet home for now. Ain't the worst place I've slept."
You managed a weak smile. "I suppose it's better than being food for the biters."
"That's the spirit, sugar," Merle said, but his heart didn't seem to be in it.
Later, as you settled into the uncomfortable reality of your new living situation, you noticed Carol watching you from across the room.
She was a small woman with short gray hair and intelligent eyes that seemed to see everything.
When she approached Daryl near the window, you couldn't hear their quiet conversation.
"What's her story?" Carol asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Dunno much," Daryl admitted. "Saved him in Atlanta. Been with him ever since."
"She doesn't seem like the type to choose someone like Merle," Carol observed. "Makes me wonder what kind of hold he has over her."
"S'not like that," Daryl said, though he sounded uncertain. "She defended him, even after seein' what he did to Glen."
"Stockholm syndrome's a real thing," Carol said quietly. "Girl's been with him for months. Might not even realize she's being manipulated."
The morning sun filtered through the barred windows of the common room, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. You'd been awake for hours, listening to the sounds of the prison coming to life—footsteps in the cell block, quiet conversations, the occasional clank of metal doors.
"Rise and shine, lil doe," Merle's voice rumbled from beside you. "Time to earn our keep."
You stretched, wincing at the stiffness in your back from sleeping on the thin prison mattress. Through the bars of the cage, you could see Carol setting up for breakfast, her movements efficient and practiced.
"What's on the agenda today?" you asked, sitting up and running fingers through your hair.
"Guard duty, I reckon," Merle said, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk. "Rick wants to see if we're worth our salt."
As if summoned by his name, Rick appeared at the cage door. "You two ready to work?"
"Ready as we'll ever be," you replied, standing and smoothing down your clothes.
Rick's expression was still guarded, but some of the hostility from the yesterday had faded. "Hershel wants help in the garden. You," he pointed at you, "can work with Beth and Carol. Merle, you're on perimeter watch with Daryl."
The separation was clearly intentional—keep Merle away from the more vulnerable members of the group while testing your willingness to integrate.
"Garden duty sounds lovely," you said, managing a small smile.
"Don't get too comfortable," Rick warned. "This is still a trial period."
As you followed Carol and Beth toward the prison's makeshift garden, you caught Merle's eye. He gave you that cocky grin that had once made you feel safe.
"Don't let these fine folks corrupt you while I'm gone, sugar," he drawled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"I think I can handle myself," you shot back with your usual sass in your voice.
Several heads turned at your response, and you caught Carol hiding a small smile.
The garden work was therapeutic in a way you hadn't expected. Your hands in the soil, the simple task of nurturing life in this place of death—it felt like hope.
"You're good at this," Beth observed, watching you carefully transplant seedlings. Her voice still held wariness, but curiosity was beginning to creep in.
"I helped my grandmother with her garden when I was little," you explained, your accent softening the words. "Before all this."
"Where you from?" Carol asked, her tone neutral but interested.
You told them about your life before—the normalcy that seemed like a dream now. They listened without judgment, and slowly, tentatively, you began to feel like maybe you could belong here.
At lunch, Merle swaggered over to your table, his prosthetic gleaming in the dim light.
"How you handlin' the grunt work, sugar ?" he asked, sliding onto the bench beside you.
"Handling it just fine," you replied, not looking up from your meal.
"That's what I like to hear, honey" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to that flirtatious rumble he used when he wanted to get a rise out of you. "You know, all this hard work's got you lookin' mighty fine. Dirt suits you."
"Merle," you said with exaggerated patience, "You still need to work on your technique."
Glen, who was sitting across from you, nearly choked on his water. Even Maggie cracked a smile, though she tried to hide it.
"Ouch," Merle laughed, holding his good hand over his heart. "Cut me deep there, lil doe."
"You'll survive," you said dryly, and several people around the table chuckled.
It was then that you noticed Carol watching the interaction with intense interest, her eyes moving between you and Merle like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
"Y'ain't what I expected," Daryl said quietly.
You were on watch duty together, looking out over the prison yard as the sun set. Merle was somewhere else in the prison, probably charming his way into someone's good graces or annoying them into wanting to shoot him.
"What did you expect?" you asked, genuinely curious.
"Dunno," he said, his words running together in that distinctive way. "Someone rough like his usual, or beaten down, I guess."
"Because thats his type ?" you said quietly. "I know what he did to Glen and Maggie. I know he's said horrible things. But the man from that rooftop, he never once..." You trailed off, shaking your head.
"Never once what?"
"Never once made me feel like I owed him something."
Daryl was quiet for a long moment. Watching you from under his hair, before turing his attention back to the treeline.
Carol cornered Merle in the empty corridor outside the common room while you were helping Beth with baby Judith. Her timing was deliberate—she'd been watching, waiting for the right moment.
"We need to talk," she said, her voice low but firm.
Merle looked up from cleaning his prosthetic, that familiar smirk playing at his lips. "Well, well. The little mouse wants to have a chat. What's on your mind, sweetheart?"
"Her," Carol said simply, nodding toward where you sat with Beth, making faces at the baby to make her laugh.
"What about her?"
"She's not like the others you've probably been with."
Merle's expression hardened slightly. "You don't know nothin' about me and her."
"I know enough," Carol said, stepping closer. "I know she defends you even when she shouldn't. I know she lights up when you walk into a room and tries to hide it. I know she's alone here and probably grateful to anyone who showed her kindness in this world."
"Your point?"
"My point is that girl trusts you. Completely. And if you hurt her, if you use that trust for your own purposes, you'll answer to me."
Merle laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You threatenin' me, Carol?"
"I'm warning you. She's not a toy, Merle. She's not something you can break and throw away when you get bored."
"Think I don't know that?" Merle's voice was quieter now, more serious. "Think I don't know she's the best thing that's happened to me in this whole goddamn mess?"
Carol studied his face, looking for deception. "Then prove it. Stop putting her in positions where she has to choose between you and what's right."
"And what makes you think you know what's right?"
"Because unlike you, I've been where she is. I've been with a man who was charming when he wanted to be, who made me feel special, who I defended even when I knew better."
Merle's jaw tightened. "I ain't Ed."
"No," Carol agreed. "You're not. But you're dangerous in your own way. And she can't see it because she cares about you."
"Maybe that's enough," Merle said quietly. "Maybe bein' cared about by someone like her is enough to make a man want to be better."
"Is it?" Carol challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still the same man who tortured my friends."
Merle looked across the room at you, watching as you gently bounced Judith on your knee, your face soft with an expression he'd never seen before.
"Maybe not," he said finally. "But I'm tryin' to be."
That evening, as you settled into your matress, Merle was unusually quiet. He sat on the edge of his own matress, staring at his prosthetic.
"You're thinking awfully hard over there," you observed. "Should I worry?"
"You ever wonder what you'd be doin' if none of this had happened?" he asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. "Sometimes. Why?"
"Just thinkin' about choices, I guess. Roads not taken and all that philosophical bullshit."
"That's very deep for you," you teased gently.
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it, lil doe."
But his smile seemed forced, and you wondered what was really going on in his head.
Later, when you where asleep, he whispered into the darkness.
"You deserve better than this, sugar. Better than me."
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, self sabotage, angst, fluff, walkers (Zombies) Canon level racism, violence, Woodbury, the Governor.
Part 17
Between Brothers - Part 18
The Georgia sun beat down mercilessly as you followed the Dixon brothers deeper into the woods.
Merle paused at the edge of a small clearing, his prosthetic glinting as he wiped sweat from his brow with his good arm. He inhaled deeply, his face tilting toward the breeze.
"Smells to me like the Sawhatchee Creek," he announced with the confidence of someone who'd spent most of his life in these woods.
Daryl stopped a few paces ahead, his crossbow hanging loose in his grip as he studied the landscape. You could see the family resemblance in the way they both moved through the forest—silent, predatory, completely at home in the wilderness.
"W'didn't go west enough," Daryl countered, his drawl thick in the humid air. "There's a river down there, gotta be the Yellow Jacket."
You found yourself caught between them, literally and figuratively, as Merle turned to face his younger brother with that familiar smirk that usually meant trouble.
"You have a stroke, boy?" Merle's voice carried that mocking tone you'd heard him use a million times before. "We ain't never even come close to Yellow Jacket."
"We didn't go west," Daryl insisted, his jaw setting in that stubborn line that marked him as a Dixon. "Jus' a little south. That's what I think."
You looked between them, feeling the tension building over something as simple as which creek they'd found.
"Know what I think?" Merle's grin widened, and you recognized the look that meant he was about to push his luck. "I may have lost my hand, but you lost your sense of direction."
Daryl's response was understated. "Yeah, we'll see."
"What do you wanna bet?" Merle pressed, clearly enjoying himself despite their precarious situation.
You watched Daryl's shoulders tense, saw the moment his patience finally snapped. "Don't wanna bet nothin'," he said, words clipped short with irritation. "S'jus' a body of water. Why's everything gotta be a competition with you?"
The hurt that flashed across Merle's face was so brief you almost missed it, quickly covered by his usual bravado. "Whoa, whoa. Take it easy, little brother. Jus' tryin' to have a little fun here. No need to get your panties all in a bundle."
"Maybe we should just focus on finding somewhere safe for the night," you suggested quietly, hating the tension between them. You'd seen glimpses of their complicated relationship—the love buried under years of resentment and disappointment.
Before either brother could respond, Daryl's head snapped up, his entire body going still in that way that meant danger. "Y'hear that?"
Merle cocked his head, listening. "Yeah, wild animals gettin' wild."
But Daryl was already moving, his crossbow coming up as he strained to hear over the forest sounds. "Nah," he said, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "That's a baby."
Your blood went cold. A baby meant people, and people in the woods these days usually meant trouble of one kind or another.
Merle scoffed, but there was less conviction in his voice than usual. "Come on. Why don't you just piss in my ear and tell me it's rainin', too? That there's the sound of a couple of coons making love, sweet love. Know what I mean?"
"For Gods sake, Merle"you muttered.
What you found, when you pushed through the underbrush toward the sound, made your heart race with a different kind of fear. A bridge stretched across the creek—whichever creek it was—and on it, a small group of people were surrounded by walkers. A man, a woman, and what looked like children, trapped with nowhere to run.
From your position in the trees, you could see the desperation on their faces, hear the high-pitched wailing that was definitely, unmistakably, a baby.
"Hey!" Merle suddenly shouted, his voice carrying across the water. "Jump!"
You stared at him in horror. He was laughing, actually laughing at these people's terror.
"What?" he said when he caught your expression.
"Hey, man, I ain't wastin' my bullets on a couple of strangers that ain't never cooked me a meal or felicitated my piece. That's my policy. You'd be wise to adopt it."
Daryl was already moving, running down the embankment toward the bridge. "C'mon," he called back, not waiting to see if you'd follow.
You scrambled after him, your heart pounding as you realized you were about to face walkers again. Behind you, Merle cursed and followed, though he moved with less urgency than you or his brother.
The next few minutes were a blur of controlled chaos. Daryl moved like a force of nature, his crossbow singing as bolts found their marks in walker skulls. You did what you could to help, though you felt clumsy and slow compared to the Dixon brothers' practiced efficiency.
The family was Hispanic, their rapid Spanish lost on you as they clustered together in terror. The woman held a tiny baby against her chest in a car surrounded by walkers, and your heart clenched at the sight of something so innocent and vulnerable in this hellish world.
Daryl was everywhere at once—dragging a walker away from the car, putting down another that got too close to the children. You watched him pull a walker out of the back seat of their car, where it had been reaching for the woman and her newborn, and felt something shift in your chest at the protective fury on his face.
"S'alright," Daryl was saying to the family, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "'S'alright now."
But then Merle stepped forward, and everything went wrong.
"Slow down there beaner." Merle said, and the word he used made your stomach turn. He was pointing his pistol at them, moving toward their car with predatory intent.
"Merle, don't," you said, but your voice was lost in the family's frightened exclamations.
"That ain't no way to say thank you," Merle muttered as he reached into their car, his prosthetic gleaming as he searched through their belongings.
The woman clutched her baby tighter, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded in rapid Spanish. You didn't need to understand the words to know she was begging him to leave them alone.
"Let 'em go," Daryl's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Least they can do is give us somethin'," Merle replied, his voice taking a dangerous edge. "Easy does it, Señorita." he said to the woman, his tone mockingly gentle.
You watched in horror as he continued to terrorize this family—people who had done nothing but have the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This wasn't the Merle who made sure you where warm.
This was the monster other people saw, the one you'd tried convincing yourself didn't really exist.
"Merle, for fuck sake." you whispered, but he wasn't listening.
That's when Daryl did something that changed everything. He raised his crossbow, pointing it directly at his older brother.
"Get outta the car," he said, his voice sharp.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
"I know you ain't talkin' to me, brother," Merle said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.
Daryl's aim never wavered. His face was hard, resolved, and you realized with a shock that he would actually shoot Merle if he had to. To protect these strangers. To do what was right.
"Get in your car," Daryl told the Hispanic man. "Get outta here."
"Daryl," you started, but you didn't know what to say. Part of you was horrified by Merle's behavior, but another part was terrified of what would happen if this confrontation escalated.
Merle slowly climbed out of where he'd been leaning into the car, his hands raised in mock surrender. But his eyes were hot with rage and something that looked like betrayal.
The family didn't need to be told twice. They piled into their car with desperate haste, the engine turning over with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the tense silence.
"Well, well," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Ain't this somethin'. My own baby brother pointin' a weapon at me over a bunch of—"
"Don't," Daryl warned, his crossbow still trained on Merle. "Jus' don't."
You found your voice finally, though it came out smaller than you intended. "I can't believe you were going to rob them. They have a baby, Merle. A newborn."
Merle's attention snapped to you, and for the first time since you'd known him, there was something cold in his eyes when he looked at you. "Well, ain't you just the little humanitarian. Maybe you'd prefer to be out here starvin' with them instead of eatin' the food I provide."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You'd always known Merle could be cruel, but he'd never directed that cruelty at you. Not until now.
"Food you provide?" you said, your voice shaking with a mixture of hurt and anger. "I thought we were supposed to be taking care of each other."
"We are, sugar," Merle said, but his tone had lost its usual warmth. "I take care of us. That's what I do. Sometimes that means takin' from folks who got more than they need."
"They didn't have more than they needed," you shot back, surprised by your own boldness. "They had a baby and barely anything else. You would have left them with nothing."
"Yeah, well, welcome to the real world, sugar-tits," Merle sneered. "Ain't no room for bleeding hearts when you're tryin' to survive ... You have no idea the kinda shit I did makin' sure you were warm ?"
Daryl finally lowered his crossbow, but his face remained hard. "Survival don't mean becomin' a monster."
For the first time since you met him, you had no words, no comeback.
The words hung in the air between them, loaded with years of history you didn't fully understand. Merle's face cycled through several expressions—anger, hurt, something that might have been shame—before settling on his usual cocky mask.
"Monster?" he repeated, his voice soft and dangerous. "Well, baby brother, reckon you ain't seen nothin' yet."
As the three of you stood there in the aftermath of violence and moral confrontation, you realized that this moment had changed something fundamental between you all. The easy camaraderie was gone, replaced by fractures that might never fully heal. For the first time since that rooftop in Atlanta, you weren't sure you could trust him to protect you—or if you even wanted him to, if this was what protection looked like.
Now, as you trudged through the underbrush between them, the silence was deafening.
"The shit you doin', pointin' that thing at me?" Merle finally exploded, whirling around to face Daryl. His prosthetic caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees.
"They w'scared, man," Daryl replied, his voice low and gruff, words compressed in that way you were learning to recognize.
You winced at the memory—the terror in the woman's eyes, the way she'd clutched her newborn. "Merle," you said softly, "they had a baby with them."
But Merle wasn't listening to you, his attention fixed entirely on his younger brother. "They was rude is what they was. Rude and they owed us a token of gratitude."
"They didn't owe us nothin'," Daryl shot back, adjusting his crossbow strap with agitated movements.
Merle's laugh was bitter and sharp. "You helpin' people outta the goodness of your heart? Even though you might die doin' it? Is that somethin' your Sheriff Rick taught you?"
You could see Daryl's jaw clench, his hands flexing at his sides. The mention of Rick clearly struck a nerve, and you found yourself contemplating stepping between them, your heart racing.
"There was a baby!" Daryl's voice cracked with emotion, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him.
"Oh, otherwise you woulda just left 'em to the biters, then?" Merle's voice rose to match his brother's intensity.
The pain in both their voices made your chest tight. You'd heard Merle talk about Daryl for months, heard the longing beneath his crude stories, but seeing them together was breaking your heart. They were destroying each other with every word.
"Man, I went back for ya," Daryl's voice broke completely now, years of hurt spilling out. "Y'wasn't there. I didn't cut off your hand, neither. Y'did that. Way before they locked you up on that roof. Y'asked for it."
You felt like an intruder witnessing something too private, too raw. Merle's face went through a series of expressions—hurt, anger, something that might have been shame.
"You know—you know what's funny to me?" Merle held up his good hand, fingers crossed. "You an' Sheriff Rick are like this now. Right?"
The venom in his voice when he said Rick's name made you flinch. This was jealousy, pure and simple, and it was ugly.
Merle stepped closer to Daryl, his voice dropping to a whisper that he clearly thought you couldn't hear. "I bet you a penny an' a fiddle of gold that you never told him that we was plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."
Your blood was ice. Robbing what camp? The one with the graves ? You looked between the brothers, trying to understand, but Daryl's face had gone pale.
"It didn't happen," Daryl said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Yeah, it didn't 'cause I wasn't there to help ya," Merle pressed, sensing weakness.
"What, like when we was kids, huh?" Daryl's voice was getting higher, more emotional. "Who left who then?"
The pain in those words hit you like a physical blow. You'd pieced together enough about their childhood from Merle's stories to know it hadn't been pretty, but hearing it laid bare between them was devastating.
"What? Huh? Is that why I lost my hand?" Merle was shouting now, years of resentment pouring out.
"Y'lost your hand 'cause you're a simpleminded piece of shit!" Daryl screamed back.
That's when Merle snapped. He lunged forward, grabbing Daryl's shirt with his good hand. The fabric tore as they struggled, and suddenly Daryl's back was exposed.
You gasped, your hand flying to cover your mouth. Daryl's back was a roadmap of scars—old, white, crisscrossing lines that told a story of systematic abuse. Some looked like they'd been made with a belt, others with something worse.
"Yeah? You don't know! I didn't know he was—" Merle stopped mid-sentence, his face crumbling as he took in the extent of the damage.
Daryl scrambled to pull his pack up, trying desperately to cover himself, his face flushed with shame. "Yeah, he did. He did the same to you. That's why y'left first."
The pieces clicked into place with horrible clarity. Their father. The man who'd raised them had done this to both of them, and when Merle had left Daryl had to face it alone.
"I had to, man," Merle's voice was barely a whisper now, all the fight gone out of him. "I woulda killed him otherwise." He looked lost, younger somehow. "Where ya goin'?"
Daryl was already shouldering his pack, his movements sharp and angry. "Back where I belong."
"I can't go with ya," Merle said desperately. "I tried to kill that black bitch. Damn near killed the Chinese kid."
"He's Korean," Daryl corrected automatically, his voice sharp.
"Whatever. Doesn't matter, man. I just can't go with ya."
You watched Daryl's face, saw the moment he made his decision. When he spoke, his voice was quieter but carried the weight of a lifetime of disappointment.
"You know, I may be the one walkin' away... but you're the one that's leavin'—again."
The words hung in the air like a the stench of death that permeanted the world now. Merle stood frozen, his face cycling through emotions too fast to follow. You could see him warring with himself, pride battling against the desperate need to keep his brother close.
Daryl turned and started walking away, his crossbow bouncing against his back with each step. He moved with that distinctive hunter's gait—quiet, purposeful, shoulders hunched slightly forward. His hands hung loose at his sides, but you could see the tension in the way his fingers twitched, the way he kept glancing back over his shoulder before forcing himself to look ahead.
The silence stretched as his figure grew smaller through the trees, and still Merle stood frozen, staring after his brother like he was watching his whole world walk away.
"Merle" you murmured.
The sound snapping Merle out of his paralysis. You flinched, as his head jerked, turning to look at you.
"We should ..." you said simply, nodding in the direction Daryl had gone. "We should follow him."
"Lil doe, I can't—" Merle's voice was rough, broken in a way you'd never heard before.
"Yes, you can." Your voice gentle, hesitant. "You've been looking for him for months, Merle. You found him. Don't let him walk away."
Merle's face cycled through a dozen emotions—fear, pride, desperation. His prosthetic caught on a low branch as he gestured helplessly. "He don't want me there. You heard what he said."
"I heard what you both said." You reached out, but stopped yourself, thinking better of it. "heard the hurt underneath it. He's your brother, Merle. That has to mean something."
Through the trees ahead, you could just make out Daryl's form. He'd stopped, though he hadn't turned around. His head was cocked slightly to the side—listening.
Waiting, maybe, though he'd never admit it.
"They don't want me?" Merle's voice was barely a whisper. "What if I just make everything worse?"
"Won't know if we don't at least try" you said simply.
Something in your voice seemed to reach him. Merle straightened, some of his usual swagger returning. "Alright, sugar. But if this goes sideways—"
"It won't," you said with more confidence than you felt.
You started walking in Daryl's direction, and after a moment's hesitation, Merle followed. His longer stride quickly caught up to yours, and you could see some of the tension ease from his shoulders as the distance between him and his brother began to shrink.
Ahead, Daryl had started moving again, but slower now. Every few steps, he'd pause to check something—a broken branch, tracks in the soft earth—classic tracker behavior that you assumed meant he was buying time, thinking.
"Daryl," Merle called out when they were close enough. His brother's shoulders tensed, but he didn't stop walking.
"What?" Daryl's voice was flat, emotionless.
"We're comin' with ya."
That made Daryl stop. He turned slowly, his eyes finding Merle first, then flicking to you. His face was carefully blank, but you caught the brief flash of something—relief?—before he shuttered it away.
"That right?" Daryl's voice was carefully neutral. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit you were beginning to recognize.
"Rick don't gotta like it," Merle said, some of his old defiance creeping back. "Just gotta tolerate it."
"Yeah, well." Daryl bit his thumbnail, another nervous gesture. "Tolerance ain't exactly y'strong suit neither."
"I can try," Merle said, and the simple admission seemed to surprise you both.
Daryl studied his brother for a long moment, then nodded once. "Alright. But you step outta line—"
"I know," Merle interrupted. "I know."
You started walking again, the three of you forming an uneasy triangle through the Georgia woods. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either—just heavy with unspoken things.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, self sabotage, angst, fluff, walkers (Zombies) Canon level racism, violence, fishing, preparing fish for cooking, Woodbury, the Governor.
Part 16
Between Brothers - Part 17
The Georgia sun filtered through the canopy above as you trudged through the underbrush, your legs aching from hours of walking. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and the humidity made every breath feel thick. Merle moved ahead with surprising grace, while Daryl brought up the rear, his crossbow at the ready.
"Ain't nothin' out here but 'squitoes and ants," Daryl muttered, slapping at something on his arm. His words thick with frustration.
You winced as another mosquito found exposed skin on your neck. The bugs were relentless, and you'd lost count of how many bites covered your arms and legs.
Merle chuckled, stopping beside a large oak tree. "Patience, little brother. Sooner or later, a squirrel's bound to scurry across your path." He began unbuttoning his pants with his good hand.
"Really, Merle?" you sighed, turning away to give him privacy while staying close enough to remain part of the conversation.
"What, sugar? Nature calls," he said with that trademark smirk in his voice. "And I intend to answer."
"Even so, that ain't much food," Daryl continued, ignoring or not noticing his brother's crude display as he scanned the trees above.
"More than nothin'," Merle replied, the sound of liquid hitting bark accompanying his words.
You found yourself staring at a patch of wildflowers, trying to push away the image of Glenn's battered face that kept flashing through your mind.
The bruises, the swollen eye, the way his voice had cracked when he'd accused Merle of trying to kill him.
It didn't match the man who'd called you 'lil doe' like it was something precious.
"M'have better luck goin' through one of them houses we passed back on the turnoff," Daryl suggested, his voice carrying his usual mumble.
Merle finished his business and turned back to face you, buttoning up. "Is that what your new friends taught you? Hmm? How to loot for booty?"
"Merle," you said quietly, finally turning back around. "Maybe Daryl has a point. We haven't found anything out here."
"Aw, don't you worry your pretty little head, honey'. Ol' Merle knows what he's doin'." He winked at you before addressing his brother again. "We been at it for hours, I know. But trust the process, baby brother."
"Why don't w'find a stream," Daryl pressed, adjusting his crossbow strap. "Try for some fish?"
You perked up at that. "That sounds like a better plan. At least we'd have water too."
Merle's eyes narrowed as he studied his brother's face. "I think you're just tryin' to lead us back to the road, man. Get us over to that prison."
"Prison?" you asked, looking between the brothers.
"That's where his new family's holed up," Merle explained, his tone mocking. "Real cozy setup they got themselves."
Daryl's jaw tightened. "They got shelter. Food. A pot to piss in. Might not be a bad idea."
"For you, maybe," Merle said, his voice hardening. "Ain't gonna be no damn party for me. Not after what went down."
You thought about Rick's face when he'd knocked Merle unconscious, the barely controlled anger in the sheriff's eyes. "What exactly did happen? I mean, before the arena?"
"Let's just say I made some bad choices, before you saved my ass" Merle said, his grin wolfish "Though I gotta say, Officer Friendly didn't seem too fond of you either."
"He was just worried because I was with you," you said softly. "I could see it in his face. He doesn't know me, doesn't know if I'm..." You trailed off, not sure how to finish.
"If you're what, sugar?"
"If I'm like you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.
Merle's expression shifted, something almost hurt flickering across his features before his usual mask slid back into place.
"Everyone'll get used to each other," Daryl said quietly, though he didn't sound convinced.
"Yeah, right," Merle scoffed. "They're all dead anyway. Makes no difference."
"How can y'be so sure?" Daryl's words were clipped with concern.
"'Cause I know the Governor, baby brother. Right about now, he's probably hostin' a housewarming party, decidin' where he's gonna bury what's left of your pals."
The casual way Merle spoke about death made your stomach turn. You'd seen him kill walkers without blinking, had watched him navigate Woodbury's politics with ruthless efficiency, but this felt different. Colder.
"Surely not," you said, though your voice lacked conviction.
"Oh, sugar," Merle's voice was almost pitying. "You still got some of that innocence left, don't ya? It's sweet, really."
Daryl was studying the ground, his shoulders tense. "Let's hook some fish. C'mon."
"Now you're talkin' sense, baby brother." Merle's mood shifted again, that manic energy returning. "And I can teach princess here how it's done."
As they made their way toward the sound of running water, you found yourself walking between the two brothers. The family resemblance was stronger now that you'd observed them together – the same stubborn set to their jaws, the same way they moved through the woods like they belonged there.
The stream was shallow but clear, maybe twenty feet wide with a gentle current. Daryl immediately began searching the banks for suitable fishing spots while Merle started gathering materials.
"First things first, lil doe," Merle said, settling down on a fallen log and patting the spot beside him. "Gotta find yourself a good stick."
You sat down, acutely aware of how his thigh pressed against yours. Even after months together, his proximity still occasionally made you nervous in ways you didn't fully understand.
"Like this?" you asked, holding up a straight branch you'd found.
"Perfect, sugar. Now watch." He pulled out his knife and began sharpening one end to a point, his prosthetic steadying the wood while his good hand worked the blade. The casual competence was mesmerizing.
"You done this 'fore?" Daryl asked, crouching by the water's edge.
"'Course she ain't, baby brother. Our lil-doe here's probably never had to work for a meal in her life, have ya, sugar?"
"I'm not some helpless damsel." You quipped.
"Never said you were, honey. Just pampered. Ain't your fault." His voice gentled slightly as he handed you the sharpened stick. "Now, the trick is patience. Fish are skittish little bastards."
The next two hours passed in surprising tranquility, broken only by Merle's patient instruction and the occasional splash of a fish, you'd both waded into the water until it was mid-shin, shoes kicked off on the bank.
You found yourself relaxing against his side, his arm a steady presence around your waist as he guided your movements.
"Easy there, lil doe," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he adjusted your grip on the makeshift spear. "You're thinkin' too hard. Just feel the water, feel where the fish are gonna be."
"Feel the water, Feel the fish." You mimicked in a mock version of Merle’s voice. "Are we gonna massage dinner into existence ?"
Daryl bit back a scoff on the river bank.
"You'll scare the fish, sugar" Merle whispered with a warning squeeze to your waist before moving his arm away.
His prosthetic rested on his knee while his good hand moved to cover yours on the spear handle, steadying your aim. The metal was warm from the sun, and you'd grown so accustomed to it that you barely noticed it anymore.
"Like this?" you whispered.
"Perfect, honey. Now just wait for the right moment." His voice was low, gentle in a way that never failed to surprise you. This was the Merle that only you seemed to see – patient, protective, almost tender.
A fish swam lazily into range, and you held your breath, waiting. Merle's thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of encouragement.
"Now," he breathed.
You struck, and this time your aim was true. The fish writhed on the end of your spear, and you let out a quiet squeal of delight.
"That's my girl," Merle said proudly, his arm tightening around you. "Look at that beauty."
"I actually did it," you marveled, holding up your catch.
"'Course you did. Told ya you were a natural." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, the gesture so casual and affectionate that you almost didnt register it. "My lil doe's got steady hands."
You leaned back against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his shirt. Despite everything – the violence, the uncertainty, the moral complications you couldn't quite reconcile – moments like this felt right.
Safe.
"Merle?" you said softly.
"Yeah, lil-doe?"
"Thank you... For the teaching, I mean."
His arm tightened around you again, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher than usual. "Don't need to thank me for that, sugar. It's what you do for people you..." He trailed off, clearing his throat. "It's what you do."
The words he didn't say hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge.
"There," Merle said suddenly, pointing to another shadow moving beneath the surface. "You see him?"
You nodded, raising your spear again. This time, you didn't need his hand over yours to guide you. You could feel the rhythm of the water, the movement of the fish, the perfect moment to strike.
When you caught your third fish, Daryl smiled – just that slight upturn of his lips.
"Damn," he said, genuine admiration in his voice. "You're better at this than I was my first time."
"She's got good teachers," Merle said with obvious pride. "And she pays attention. That's more than I can say for some people."
The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, dappling the water with gold, and for a moment, you could almost pretend the world hadn't ended. That you were just three people fishing by a stream, enjoying each other's company.
"Merle," you said quietly, the fish still wriggling on your makeshift spear. "Did you really hurt that boy? Glen?"
His arm tensed around you. "Why you askin', sugar?"
"His face was..." You swallowed hard. "It was really bad."
"Sometimes a man's gotta do things he don't wanna do," Merle said carefully. "Especially when someone he cares about might get hurt if he don't."
"Were you protecting me?"
"Always am, lil doe."
"From Glen ?" You skepticism showed in your voice.
"Worse, Sugar." Merle's voice was colder.
The simple conversation sent a shiver down your spine. You'd known Merle was dangerous – had seen hints of it long before Woodbury – but you'd never been afraid of him. Not really. Maybe you should have been.
"Tell ya what, baby brother," Merle said, his voice taking on that familiar crude tone as he looked over at Daryl changing the subject. "Our lil doe here could teach you a thing or two about patience. She's got more of it than both of us combined."
"Don't drag me into this," you said, though there was no real irritation in your voice.
"What? It's true, sugar. You been puttin' up with my sorry ass for months now. That takes real character." His arm tightened around your waist briefly. "Hell, most girlie's would've run screamin' by now, but not my lil doe. She's tougher than she looks."
"Oh, please," you cut him off with a dismissive wave.
Merle laughed, the sound rich and amused. "You give me plenty of grief when I deserve it."
Daryl glanced over, you found yourself studying Daryl's profile, noting the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his face. He was handsome in a rough, unpolished way – so different from his brother's aggressive charisma.
"Can we just focus on fishing?" you said quietly.
"Whatever you say, lil doe." Merle's arm tightened around you briefly before he released you to check his own makeshift spear. "But we're gonna need more than a couple minnows if we're gonna survive out here."
As the afternoon wore on, you found yourself caught between the two brothers – literally and figuratively. Merle's casual affection and crude humor, Daryl's quiet competence and surprising gentleness. The dynamic between them was complex, built on years of shared history and unspoken hurts.
"Not bad for a beginner, sugar," Merle said, examining your catch as night rolled in. "Course, now comes the real work."
Real work my ass. Girl's been workin' harder than most men I know, but she don't need to be guttin' fish. That's what me and Daryl are for. Merle thought.
Merle began laying out the fish on a flat rock. "Now, lil doe, you just sit yourself down over there and let the men handle this part. You just sit pretty."
You rolled your eyes, a gesture that had become second nature around Merle. "I should learn this shit. What if I'm alone sometime?"
"You ain't gonna be alone," Merle said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Not while I'm breathin'."
You looked over at Daryl, who was already working on his fish with efficient, practiced movements. "Daryl? Would you mind showing me?"
Merle shook his head with a chuckle. "Stubborn little thing, ain't ya? Fine. But don't come cryin' to me when you're all squeamish." Stubborn as hell. Reminds me of... nah, Jesus don't go there again.
Daryl moved closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he demonstrated on his own fish. "First thing, ya gotta make a cut right here, behind the gills. Go deep, but not too deep."
His hands mimicked the motion in the air, showing you how to hold the knife properly.
"Now ya pull out the guts," Daryl continued, his voice patient despite the grimace on his face as he watched you work. "Just... try not to think about it too much."
"Easier said than done," you muttered, trying not to gag as you followed his lead.
Merle watched from his spot, his expression unreadable. "Doin' good, sugar. Most people lose their breakfast first time." Look at her, all determined and disgusted at the same time. Cute as hell. And my baby brother's bein' real gentle with her, ain't he? Good. She deserves gentle.
By the time you'd finished cleaning your fish, your hands were covered in blood and scales, but you felt oddly proud of yourself.
"S'not bad," Daryl said, examining your work. "Little rough around the edges, but s'better than most."
"Thanks," you said, wiping your hands on the grass. "I think."
The fire crackled as you prepared to cook your catch. You'd fashioned skewers from straight branches, threading the fish carefully onto the wood. As you lifted the first skewer, you paused, looking down at the fishes face.
"I'm sorry," you whispered to it. "Thank you for... you know."
Daryl stared at you like you'd grown a second head."S'dead" Daryl said flatly. "Don't care much 'bout manners anymore."
"Still," you said stubbornly, placing the skewer over the fire.
Merle let out a bark of laughter. "Damn, lil doe. You apologize to every animal you eat?"
"Only when there still looking at me," you admitted turning the stick so the fish was looking up instead of at you.
"Well, ain't you just a ray of sunshine," Merle said, but his tone was fond rather than mocking.
The fish cooked quickly over the open flame, the smell making your stomach growl. You ate in comfortable silence, the day's work making even the simple meal taste better than anything you'd had in Woodbury.
"Good catch today," Daryl said eventually, cleaning his knife on his pants. "Should do this more often."
"Long as our lil doe here don't start namin' the fish," Merle said with a grin.
By the time night was inky blackness, you found yourself growing drowsy. The day had been long, and the combination of physical work and fresh air was making your eyelids heavy.
You flipped Merle off without looking up.
"M'gonna sleep" Daryl said, banking the fire. "Long day tomorrow."
You nodded, settling down on the thin blanket that served as your bedroll. The temperature was dropping fast, and you pulled your thin jacket tighter around yourself.
Daryl stretched out on his own makeshift bed, his crossbow within easy reach. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into the rhythm of sleep.
"I'll take first watch," Merle said quietly, settling against a tree with his pistol on his knee. The fire cast dancing shadows across his face.
She's gonna freeze her ass off tonight. These Georgia nights get cold, and that little jacket ain't gonna do shit. You tried to get comfortable, but the cold was seeping through your thin clothes. Every time you started to drift off, a shiver would jolt you awake. After about an hour of this, you heard Merle's voice, low and amused.
"Lil doe, you're shakin' like a leaf in a tornado over there."
"I'm fine," you whispered back, not wanting to wake Daryl.
"Bullshit. Get over here."
You hesitated, looking at him across the small campfire. "I'm okay, really."
"Don't make me come drag you over here, sugar. You're gonna catch your death." Stubborn little thing. But I can hear her teeth chatterin' from here.
Reluctantly, you gathered your jacket and thin blanket then crept over to where Merle sat. He patted the ground beside him, his back against the tree trunk.
"Sit," he commanded gently.
You settled beside him, still maintaining some distance. The warmth from his body was immediately noticeable, but you weren't quite ready to get too close.
"Come on, lil doe. I ain't gonna bite." He shifted, opening his arm in invitation. "Unless you want me to."
You shot him a look. "Merle."
"What? Just offerin' a little warmth. Though I gotta say, if we're gonna be pressed up together all night, might as well make it interesting."
"Cut it out," you muttered, but you shifted closer, letting him pull you against his side.
"There we go," he said, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. "Much better."
The position was awkward at first—you sitting stiffly beside him, his arm around you like you were watching TV on a couch instead of trying to survive in the woods. But gradually, you began to relax.
"This is better," you admitted quietly.
"'Course it is. Ol' Merle knows how to keep a girlie warm." Jesus, she fits right here. Like she was made for this spot right against my side.
You let your head rest against his shoulder, and he could feel some of the tension leave your body. The fire crackled softly in front of you, and for a moment, the world seemed almost peaceful.
"Merle?" you said after a while, your voice drowsy.
"Yeah, sugar?"
"I'm not... I mean, you're not..." your voice was soft and he could have sworn you sounded uncertain.
"Not what, lil-doe ?"
"This doesn't mean anything, right? We're just... keeping warm."
"'Course not, sugar. Just two people stayin' alive in a shitty world."
But even as he said it, his arm tightened around you protectively. And when you finally did drift off to sleep, your head heavy against his shoulder, he found himself pressing a soft kiss to your hair.
Liar, he thought as he watched the firelight play across your features. Doesn't mean anything? Girlie, this means everything. But you ain't gonna want to hear that.
The night stretched on, and Merle kept watch, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of danger.
But mostly, he found himself looking down at you, sleeping peacefully against his side.
Could stay like this forever, he thought. Just me and her and nothin' else to worry about.
Merle found himself reluctant to move. You'd curled into him completely now, your hand resting on his chest, your breathing slow and even.
"Sleep tight, lil doe," he murmured against your hair.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, self sabotage, angst, fluff, walkers (Zombies) Canon level racism, violence, Woodbury, the Governor.
A/N: Oh shit there's two of them. ❤️
Part 15
Between Brothers - Part 16
The silence in the woods was deafening after Rick's group disappeared into the darkness, their footsteps fading until only the distant sound of walkers groaning somewhere in the distance remained.
You stood frozen between the Dixon brothers, your heart still racing from everything that had happened—the arena, the escape, the confrontation, and now this.
"Well, ain't this just peachy," Merle drawled, flexing his hand as he surveyed the empty clearing.
"Looks like it's just us chickens now."
Daryl was scanning the treeline, his crossbow ready, every muscle tense. "We need to move. Sound carries out here."
"Relax, baby brother. Them dead fuckers are probably still chewin' on whatever's left of the good folk." Merle's crude grin was back, though you could see the strain around his eyes.
"Besides, I got my two favorite people right here."
You finally found your voice, though it came out smaller than you intended. "I don't understand what just happened back there. With that guy ... Glen, I mean."
You looked between the brothers, your accent thick with confusion and exhaustion. "The things you said about Michonne... that's not... you're not like that... are you?"
Merle's expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes before that familiar cocky smirk returned. "Sugar, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Ol' Merle's got many faces, and you just seen one of 'em."
"That's not an answer," you snapped, surprising yourself with the sharpness in your voice. "Shit ... you really did hurt him, didn't you?"
"Now hold on there, lil doe—"
"Don't." You stepped back, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Don't call me that right now. Not after what I just heard you say to those people."
Daryl was watching this exchange with growing interest, his eyes darting between you and his brother like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Merle held up his good hand in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Maybe I got a little carried away. But that boy needed to learn some manners, and that sword-swingin' bitch needed to know her place."
"Her place?" Your voice rose despite your attempt to stay quiet. "What century do you think this is?"
"The one where we do what we gotta do to survive, sugar."
"Stop callin' her that," Daryl muttered, his words barely audible but carrying clear warning.
Merle's eyebrows shot up. "Well, well. Baby brother's nutting up now is he?."
"Just... cut it out." Daryl shifted uncomfortably, not looking at either of you directly. "She's scared enough."
"I'm not scared of nothing," you shot back, the words coming out with more heat than you intended.
It was something you'd picked up in your time with Merle, usually when you where trying to convince yourself as much as him.
Daryl's head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at you. Something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe even a hint of pain. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, then closed again.
"Well, I'll be damned," Merle chuckled, apparently oblivious to his brother's reaction. "Lil doe's got some fire in her too."
You were scared. Scared and confused and completely out of your depth. The Merle you'd been with for months had been crude, yes, and sometimes inappropriate, but he'd never been cruel.
Not around you.
You'd protected each other, taken care of each other, made sure there was food and a safe place to sleep. But the man who'd stood in that clearing, saying those awful things...
"I don't know what to believe anymore," you whispered.
Merle's expression softened slightly. "Believe this, honey—I ain't never gonna let nothin' happen to you. That much ain't changed."
"But you'd hurt other people."
"If I had to. Yeah."
"Innocent people?"
He looked almost ashamed. "Yeah."
The honesty in his voice was somehow worse than if he'd tried to lie. You looked at Daryl, who was studiously avoiding eye contact, his jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say.
There was something in his posture that reminded you of Merle when he was trying not to show emotion—that same rigid control, but he was curled in like he wanted no part in the realizations happening around him.
"Daryl," you said quietly, and he glanced up, surprised to hear his name from your lips. "What was he like? Before?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His eyes flicked to Merle, then back to you, and for a moment you thought he wouldn't answer.
"Prick," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Real mean prick when he wanted to be."
"Aw, come on now," Merle protested, but there was no real heat in it. "I wasn't that bad."
Daryl's look could have cut glass. "Yeah, ya were."
The weight of that simple statement settled over the clearing like a blanket. You found yourself studying Merle's face, looking for signs of the man Daryl knew, trying to reconcile it with the person who'd spent months making sure you were safe.
"People change," you said softly, though you weren't sure if you were trying to convince them or yourself.
"We should keep movin'," Daryl said finally. "Find somewhere to hole up for the night."
"Always the practical one," Merle chuckled, but he shouldered his pack. "Lead the way, little brother."
As they started walking, you fell into step behind them, your mind reeling. You'd followed Merle out of Woodbury because you'd spent almost a year together, you didn't know what else to do, but now you were questioning everything.
The brothers moved through the woods with the easy familiarity of people who'd spent their lives in these forests, while you stumbled over roots and branches.
"So," Merle said after they'd walked in silence for a while, "Gonna tell me how baby brother here got so tough? Was it your new friends, your Sheriff Rick ?."
"Shuddup, Merle," Daryl's voice was tight.
"Aw, come on. Don't be like that. I'm just proud of ya, is all. My little brother, leadin' us through the woods."
Merle glanced back at you with a wink. "Course, he's still got that stick up his ass."
"I said Shuddup."
You watched this exchange with fascination. The dynamic between them was so different from what you'd expected. Merle had always talked about Daryl like he was this helpless kid, but the man walking ahead of you was clearly anything but helpless.
"You know," you said quietly, "he isn't excalty a 'little' brother."
Merle laughed, a genuine sound that echoed through the trees. "That he ain't, sugar. That he ain't."
When they finally stopped to make camp in a small clearing protected by thick undergrowth, the awkwardness of the situation really hit you.
Three people, two of whom barely knew each other, stuck together in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a single pack of supplies.
Daryl efficiently set up a small fire while Merle settled against a tree, wincing slightly as he adjusted his position. You noticed he favored his left side—probably still feeling the effects of Rick's pistol butt to his skull.
"You okay?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Merle touched the side of his head gingerly. "Takes more than a knock to keep ol' Merle down, lil-doe. Though I gotta admit, your sheriff friend's got a hell of a swing."
"He's not my sheriff friend," you said quietly. "I don't even know him."
"That's right," Merle said, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "You don't know any of 'em, do ya? Just little ol' me."
The realization hit you like a physical blow. Everyone you'd met tonight—Rick, Glenn, Maggie, Michonne, even Daryl—they all had history with each other.
They were a group, a family of sorts.
And you? You were just the stranger Merle had dragged along, your where grateful, but you'd made friends in Woodbury.
"Hey," Merle said, apparently reading the expression on your face. "Don't go gettin' all melancholy on me now, honey. We're gonna be just fine, you and me. Always are."
But even as he said it, you could see Daryl watching the interaction through his hair with that same puzzled expression he'd been wearing all evening.
"So," Merle said, his voice taking on that familiar teasing tone, "reckon we should get better acquainted, don't you think, baby brother?"
"Don't see why," Daryl scoffed, not looking up from arranging kindling.
"'Cause this here's my lil doe, and you're gonna be seein' a lot of her, I suspect."
You bristled at the possessive way he said it. "I'm not anybody's anything."
"Course not, sugar. You're your own girl. I respect that." But his grin suggested otherwise.
The conversation died after that, each of you lost in your own thoughts as the fire crackled quietly. The temperature was dropping, and you found yourself shivering despite being close to the flames. Your jacket wasn't nearly warm enough for a Georgia night in the woods.
You tried to ignore the cold, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself, but Merle noticed everything.
"You're shakin' like a leaf, sugar," he observed, already shrugging out of his own jacket.
"I'm fine," you protested, but your teeth were starting to chatter.
"Like hell you are." He stood up, moving around the fire with surprising grace for a man with one hand. "Here."
He draped his jacket over your shoulders, the worn leather still warm from his body. It smelled like cigarettes and motor oil and something distinctly Merle that you'd grown accustomed to over the last twelve months.
"You'll be cold," you said, but you pulled the jacket tighter around yourself anyway.
"I'll live. Besides, got my own built-in heater." He flexed his good arm, showing off his muscles.
You couldn't help yourself a small twitch of your lips. "Your impossible Merle."
Daryl watched the exchange through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees, he looked as though he was trying to reconcile the Merle he remembered from Atlanta with the man sitting across from him.
Eventually, exhaustion won out over anxiety, and you curled up on your side, using your jacket as a pillow while Merle's served as a blanket. The voices of the brothers continued in low murmurs, but you were too tired to focus on what they were saying.
The woods were different at night—full of sounds you couldn't identify and shadows that seemed to move on their own. Every snap of a twig made you tense, every rustle of leaves had you wondering if it was wind or something more dangerous. But somehow, with the Dixon brothers keeping watch, you felt safer than you had since leaving Woodbury.
Just as you were drifting off, you heard Merle's voice, louder and more crude than before.
"I'm tellin' ya, baby brother, you ain't never seen a piece of ass like that. Sweet as honey and twice as—"
"You wish, you havent seen shit Merle" you mumbled without opening your eyes, too tired to put much heat behind the words.
Merle's laughter boomed through the clearing. "Did you hear that? My Girl's got spirit."
Your breathing evened out as you drifted off, lull into sleep by the warmth of Merle's jacket and the flickering of the fire.
"Keep it down," Daryl hissed. "You wanna bring every walker in a mile radius down on us?"
"Relax. They're too busy feastin' to worry about us."
There was a pause, then Daryl's voice, quieter now but still audible in the still night air.
"How long's she been with ya?"
"Since Atlanta. Found me on that rooftop, scared as a rabbit and twice as pretty." Merle's voice carried a note of genuine fondness beneath the crudeness. "Been keepin' an eye on each other ever since."
"She don't seem like your usual type."
"That's 'cause she ain't. This one's special, Daryl. Real special."
There was something in Merle's voice—something almost tender.
"Special how?" Daryl's voice was skeptical.
"Well, for starters, she ain't tried to steal my stash or slit my throat in my sleep. That's a step up from most of the girlie's I known."
"That ain't sayin' much."
"She's got brains too. And she don't take none of my shit, case you didn't notice. Been puttin' me in my place for months now."
"Could've fooled me, way you been talkin'."
There was a longer pause, and when Merle spoke again, his voice was more serious.
"Look, I know what you're thinkin'. And yeah, I done some things... said some things tonight that weren't right. But that girl there?" He gestured toward where you where curled up. "She don't deserve none of that ugliness. Never has."
"Then why you treatn' her like—"
"Like what? Like I care about her? 'Cause I do, baby brother. More than I probably should."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implications.
"She know that?" Daryl asked finally, chewing on his bottom lip.
"Hell no. And you ain't gonna tell her nothing neither. Girl's got enough problems without dealin' with an old bastard like me gettin' all sentimental."
"Ain't that old," Daryl said quietly.
"Old enough. Besides, she's gonna figure out what kind of man I really am soon enough. They always do."
"Y'ain't as bad as you think."
Merle's laughter was bitter this time. "You always were the optimist in the family."
"And y'always were the pessimist."
"One of us has to be realistic."
Their voices faded to whispers after that, the sound of the crackling fire and the distant calls of night birds drowning them out.
When you woke briefly in the middle of the night, you found someone had covered you with a blanket—an actual blanket, not just Merle's jacket. You blinked in confusion, trying to remember if you'd seen anyone carrying extra supplies.
In the dying firelight, you could see both brothers still awake, keeping watch. Merle was sitting against his tree, his pistol on his knee, while Daryl had moved to the opposite side of the clearing, his crossbow at his side. They were positioned so they could see all approaches to your small camp.
The blanket was soft and warm, clearly something salvaged from better times. When you shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, Merle caught your eye and touched a finger to his lips.
"Sleep, lil doe," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "I got ya."
You wanted to ask where the blanket had come from, wanted to thank whoever had thought to cover you, but exhaustion was pulling you back under. As your eyes drifted closed, you caught a glimpse of Daryl watching you with an unreadable expression, his face half-hidden in shadow.
The growling started low, like a distant rumble of thunder, but it was the smell that woke you—that sickly sweet stench of rotting flesh that had become distant during your time in woodbury.
Your eyes snapped open to see shambling figures emerging from the treeline, their milky eyes reflecting the dying embers of the fire.
"Shit," Merle's voice cut through the night as he scrambled to his feet, his prosthetic glinting as he reached for his knife. "Daryl!"
"I see 'em," came Daryl's reply from somewhere to your left, followed by the distinctive thwack of a crossbow.
You rolled away from the nearest walker just as its rotted fingers grasped at where your head had been. Panic surged through you as you realized you had nothing—no knife, no gun, nothing but your bare hands against the undead.
"Knife!" you screamed, dodging another walker that stumbled toward you. "I need a knife!"
A walker lunged at you from the side, and you caught it by the shoulders, its snapping jaws inches from your face. The strength in its decay was surprising, and you struggled to keep it at bay as its black blood dripped onto your arms.
"Here!" Merle's voice was strained as he fought off two walkers with another knife. A hunting knife landed in the dirt beside you, thrown with surprising accuracy despite his missing hand.
You grabbed the knife and drove it upward into the walker's skull, the blade sliding through rotted bone with a wet crunch. The body went limp, and you shoved it away, already turning to face the next threat.
Muscle memory took over—months of survival in Woodbury had made you softer, but not naive. You took down two more walkers in quick succession, as you moved with desperate efficiency.
"Goddamn, lil doe!" Merle's voice boomed across the clearing as he watched you dispatch another walker with a clean strike to the temple. "Look at you go!"
The clearing fell silent except for your ragged breathing and the distant moans of more walkers somewhere in the woods. You stood among the bodies, knife dripping with black blood, your hands shaking from adrenaline.
"Not bad for a pretty little thing, you still got it" Merle continued, his voice taking on that familiar crude tone. "Course, I been teachin' her how to handle herself real good. Ain't that right, sugar? Know how to work with your hands now."
You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could.
"Merle," Daryl's voice carried a warning as he retrieved his crossbow bolts.
"What? I'm just sayin' the girl's got skills. Lots of 'em, if you know what I mean." Merle's grin was visible even in the dim light.
"Cut it out." Daryl's drawl was thick with irritation. "Show some respect."
"I'm showin' plenty of respect. Hell, I'm downright impressed." Merle moved closer to you, his good hand reaching out to touch your shoulder. "You did real good, honey. Real good."
You nodded, still catching your breath. When you moved away to wipe the knife clean on one of the walker's clothes, you caught the tail end of what Merle said to his brother in a low voice.
"— Flexible little thing like that—"
"Good Lord, Merle!" Daryl's voice cracked like a whip. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"What? I'm just—"
"Just what? Bein' a pig? She's standin' right there, and y'talkin' about her like she's something you picked up at a truck stop."
"Now hold on—"
"No, you hold on." Daryl stepped closer to his brother, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I don't know what kinda game you're playin', but knock it off."
Merle's expression shifted, something like shame flickering across his features before his defensive mask slipped back into place. "Since when you become such a gentleman?"
"Since I got some sense knocked into me. Maybe you should try it sometime."
"It's ok, all that hot air's gotta escape somehow since his brain sure isn't using it." You quipped, rolling your eyes as you tried to wipe walker blood from your hands.
Merle's jaw worked for a moment before he let out a chuckle.
"We gotta move," Daryl said, while the corner of his mouth twitched in what was almost a smirk. "Sun's comin' up."
"Right you are, baby brother." Merle replied his cocky demeanor somewhat subdued. "Know anywhere we can get cleaned up? Lil doe's got walker guts all over her."
Daryl nodded toward the east. "Creek 'bout a mile that way. Should be safe enough."
The walk to the creek was quiet, each of you lost in your own thoughts. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving you feeling shaky and drained. By the time you reached the small stream, the sun was beginning to filter through the trees, casting everything in a golden glow that seemed almost peaceful after the violence of the night.
"Water's probably cold," Daryl said, testing the temperature with his hand. "But it's clean."
You nodded, suddenly aware of how much walker blood had splattered on your clothes and skin. "I'll be quick."
"Take your time, sugar," Merle said, settling against a tree with his back to the water. "I'll keep watch. Make sure nobody comes along to bother you."
Daryl gathered up the empty water bottles. "Gonna head back to camp, get our stuff together. We'll move out when you're done."
"'Kay," you murmured, already kneeling by the water's edge.
After Daryl disappeared into the trees, you stripped off your blood-soaked shirt and began washing the walker gore from your skin. The water was indeed cold, but it felt good against your heated skin.
"You know," Merle said conversationally, still facing away from you, "you looked real pretty out there, all fierce and deadly. Gets a man's blood pumpin', if you know what I mean."
"Merle." Your voice was tired, lacking its usual warning tone.
"What? Just makin' conversation. Can't a man appreciate a pretty little angel who knows how to handle herself?"
You didn't answer, too focused on scrubbing the black blood from under your fingernails. It wasn't until you tried to clean your back that you realized you couldn't reach all the spots where the walker's blood had splattered.
"Problem, sugar?"
"Can't reach my back," you admitted reluctantly.
Without being asked, Merle moved to kneel beside you, his good hand gentle as he helped wash the gore from your shoulders and back. His touch was surprisingly tender, nothing like the crude comments he'd been making.
"There you go, lil doe," he murmured, his voice softer than usual. "All clean."
-------------------------------
It was then that the reality of what had just happened hit you all at once. The walkers, the fighting, the blood—it all crashed over you like a wave. You'd been relatively safe in Woodbury, protected by walls and guards. You hadn't had to kill anything since those first terrible months after Atlanta fell.
Your hands started shaking, and before you could stop yourself, a sob escaped your throat.
"I forgot," you whispered, tears streaming down your face. "I forgot how awful it is. How they smell, how they feel when you... when you put the knife in..."
"Aw, shit." Merle's arm came around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest. "It's alright. You did what you had to do."
"Their faces," you continued, your voice breaking. "They used to be people, and now they're just... monsters. And I killed them."
"You survived," Merle corrected firmly. "That's what matters. Them things ain't people anymore, lil doe. They're just... Shadows of what they used to be."
You cried into his shoulder, your tears soaking through his shirt. He held you with his good arm, his prosthetic resting on your back.
"I know it's hard," he said quietly. "But you're alive. That's what counts. You're alive, and you're safe, and I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you."
"Promise?" Your voice was small, childlike.
"Promise," he said without hesitation. "Merle Dixon's word is his bond, especially when it comes to you."
You pulled back to look at him, noting the way his eyes had softened, the gentle way he brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
"Besides sugar, after what I just saw? You're more than a survivor. You're a fighter." His thumb traced along your cheekbone. "My fighter."
The possessiveness in his voice should have bothered you, but instead, it made something warm unfurl in your chest. Despite everything—his crudeness, his cruelty to others, his rough edges—Merle had been the one constant in your life since the world ended. You'd saved him, he'd protected you, you'd taken care of each other.
"We should go," you said finally, pulling away to put your somewhat clean shirt back on. "Daryl's probably wondering what's taking so long."
"Probably thinks I'm tryin' to seduce you," Merle said with a grin, but there was something almost wistful in his tone.
"Are you?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Merle's grin faltered, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. "Would it work if I was?"
The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren't sure you were ready to explore. Instead of answering, you stood.
"We should really go."
"Right," Merle said, his mask slipping back into place. "Course we should."
But as you walked back toward camp, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you. Something that couldn't be undone, no matter how hard you tried to pretend otherwise.
When you reached the camp, Daryl was waiting with everything packed and ready to go. His eyes flicked between you and Merle, taking in your red-rimmed eyes and Merle's unusually subdued demeanor.
"Y'ready?" he asked, his drawl thick with unspoken questions.
"Ready as we'll ever be," Merle replied, but his usual bravado was missing.
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