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He’s got him well trained.
During the day, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t. It’s subtle but it’s there an’ most people don’t bother to look close enough, which is fine with Merle. He doesn’t need or want any busybody questions from city people, let alone from these uppity fuckers that they’ve shacked up with outside of Atlanta. His boy is his business, no one else’s.
Necessity aside, they wouldn’t normally be around all these weak suburb dwellers, but even Merle knows, there’s safety in numbers when the odds are stacked against you. He smirks when he sees them trying not to ask questions about why his little brother acts as he does. They don’t get it. They won’t get it.
He keeps him at his side during the day as they go through their motions. There’s plenty of work to go ‘round and he knows that if it weren’t for the Dixon brothers, they all woulda starved a long time ago. He figures that’s what’s keepin’ them from asking too many questions, maybe that’s why they don’t stray too close to their campsite.
But at night…when the work’s done, ‘cept for the night watch…that’s when he sees them tryin’ to keep from watching as Daryl sits at his feet, well trained and fucking obedient to the end. He rests there, as comfortable as can be, his legs tucked under him, kneeling at his side, his head resting to Merle’s knee, eyes raised no higher than the fire pit in front of them.
He makes few concessions, despite the attention his boy’s behaviours attract. Daryl still wears his collar, a pretty strap of leather that Merle picked up forever ago, a dog collar in fact. It stands out against his skin and he can hear the city women whisperin’ about that when they think Merle isn’t listening. He stills eats from Merle’s hand, still follows him about from task to task, still doesn’t talk without glancin’ at Merle, checking to see if it’s ok for him to speak.
Merle treats him well despite the looks they get. Daryl’s a good boy, a good pup an’ he’s damn proud of how he’s turned out. Takes years of trainin’ to get a boy to this level and his marks on Daryl’s skin are proof that even the most stubborn can be trained over time.
He pets the boy’s hair absently and he smirks at the tall, skinny broad that scowls at him from across the way when he hears the contented murmurs from his boy. He offers him a chunk of canned peach and his smirk widens at the look of discomfort on her face when his boy accepts the food and then licks his fingers clean, a small smile on his lips as he does so.
It must drive them all nuts, he decides, letting Daryl’s head rest on his thigh.
They just don’t get it but Hell, it’s not like he thought they would.