Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Alrigh’, now I really am offended. The fuck kinda brother would I be if I went an’ ratted you out? Ya callin’ me a snitch? ‘Cause I did not do three years in the pen jus’ ta be called a fuckin’ snitch. You know I was innocent, but I —“
-Merle Dixon, notorious liar, chapter 13 of thirsty

Part One: crate training

Merle sat at the table across from his lawyer—a stern, older woman by the name of Deanna—and struggled to maintain steady eye contact, as though that would earn him some kind of respect. But he knew damn well she would never respect him. He was no more than a charity case to her.

He hated that. Hated ever being seen as a charity case. It was like she pitied him.

And the pity was dreadful. Like he was some abandoned family dog at the pound. And she wasn’t even lookin’ to adopt, she was just there to feed him and try to make him presentable enough in the hopes that some sucker would take him in.

What the hell did she care, anyhow? He’d be back at the pound in less than a month once they realized he couldn’t stop pissing on the carpet and tearin’ up the couch.

But he reckoned it couldn’t be helped considering she was a public defender and he was… well, the public.

An array of folders and papers were spread out on the surface between them, and she still had the tip of her pointer finger settled on a line of print that she’d read aloud for him in order to accentuate just how dire his situation was. Her eyes were locked on his, nearly unblinking, and he couldn’t help feeling like he was a little kid again, being scolded by his mother.

Before she got lost in the drink. Before Pa beat all the spark and fire out of her.

“Unless we take this plea deal, you will be facing no less than ten years in prison,” Deanna said.

“Wha’s that mean?”

She cocked one perfectly-shaped eyebrow in question.

He reworded his question, “Y’said ‘no less.’ So… what? That means I could be facin’ more?”

Her eyebrow fell back into place and she sighed, folding her hands together atop the table. “Yes, Merle. In my honest opinion, and based on cases like this that I’ve seen before, the DA may very well go for the maximum sentence.”

His throat was suddenly tight. All the spit in his mouth dried up. He croaked out, “Twenty years?”

She nodded solemnly, lips pursed tight. “With a chance of parole after ten, if you don’t earn any disciplinary violations and they consider you to be on good behavior.”

She’d only said if once, but in Merle’s head, that was a lot of if’s.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much as a night in jail without getting into a fight. He didn’t even wanna consider how much more difficult it would be in actual prison.

Twenty years in prison. Two decades. Even ten years was… so much more than he could imagine.

Ten years was the amount of time he’d existed without a brother. And then everything had changed: his priorities had completely switched, and whatever little bit of love had ever resided in his heart had been very suddenly refocused, his brain recalibrated to put someone else first no matter what.

If Merle spent ten or even twenty years in prison, how old would Daryl be by the time he got out? Where would he be? What would he be doing? How would he get by in the time being? What if he fell in with the wrong crowd during that time? What if he knocked somebody up? Or got hooked on some kinda bad drugs—something worse than Merle had ever done or pushed on him? What if he pissed off the wrong guy and didn’t have his big brother around to look out for him, to lighten the mood with a joke or simply jump in front of the gun? He could be killed. 

Or worse… he could move on. He could make his own life and forget about Merle entirely. He could make something better of himself. Decide he was better off without his convict brother. Decide he was too good for the likes of ol’ Merle. Then what?

Then Merle would truly be alone. All alone in the big, wide world. Not a soul left to care about him.

He sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at the papers as an excuse to avoid Deanna’s piercing gaze. 

He still couldn’t meet her eyes as he muttered, “I ain’t no fuckin’ snitch. ‘F there’s one thing I can say fer myself, it’s that I ain’t never ratted anybody out t’save my own skin. Ever.”

He finally dragged his eyes up to meet hers.

“And what did that ever earn for you?” She asked, staring back at him expectantly.

“The only shred of integrity I’ve ever been able t’claim.”

She let that statement hang between them definitively for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and said, “I understand. I really do. But I cannot emphasize this enough: if you don’t take this plea deal, you won’t see the outside of a prison cell for at least the next decade. And you care about your brother—I know how much you care about him. I know how much you both need each other. And how will you look out for him if you’re locked up? All you’ll have is visitation, and that’s only if he chooses to visit you.”

Merle sucked his teeth, his whole body tense and ringing with anxiety. His voice was low and hoarse, “An’ if I’m labeled a snitch—a rat—then they’ll beat the shit outta me in there. Won’t ever find a moment of peace. How the hell would I manage good behavior if I’m fightin’ fer my life every day?”

“I will pull every string I possess in order to assure you’re placed in a separate facility from anyone else even slightly connected to this case,” she said.

The confidence with which she spoke sparked just the slightest bit of reassurance within him. But he still wasn’t sure he could trust her. It wasn’t like he was paying her. She was making the same amount she’d be making for any other idiot facing a lighter sentence.

And why would some uptight older lady like her give a shit about where some piece of shit criminal drug addict like him ended up?

“An’ why would ya do that?” He asked flatly, staring back at her with narrowed eyes. “I know you don’t give a shit ‘bout me. Ain’t gotta lie t’me, lady. I know what yer job is, an’ I appreciate ya doin’ it t’the best of yer abilities—I do, I ain’t bein’ a smartass this time. But why the hell would you give the slightest shit whether I can be around t’look out fer my brother or not?”

Deanna frowned and, for the briefest moment, it was like her stern expression softened. He’d never seen her face soften like that. They’d had many talks like this, spent many hours together deliberating and hurling insults back and forth, and he didn’t think he’d seen the wall she had up around herself lowered so genuinely.

“Remember, I know your whole history. I’ve seen all your files, you’ve told me about your upbringing, and while I don’t agree with your approach, I am still capable of empathy, and I can understand why you did a lot of the things you’ve done. People like you are the exact reason I went into this line of work. As much as you may hate to admit it, you have shown me just how much you care about your brother,” she said. Then her voice went quieter, softer, and she added, “I have two sons myself, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Merle challenged, arms tightening defensively across his chest. “What’re their names?”

Without missing a beat, she responded, “Spencer and Aiden.”

He humphed. Maybe she wasn’t lying.

“And they’re closer in age than you and Daryl,” she went on, “but all the same, I couldn’t imagine one being without the other. It breaks my heart to even think one of them might-might go away somewhere that the other couldn’t reach. They look out for each other in ways that my husband and I can’t. There’s a special bond between brothers that can’t be understood by anyone else. As much as I wish that Reg or myself could be everything both boys need, I know that can never be possible. And they’ll need each other more than ever after we’re gone.”

“So,” Merle cut in, “y’think you get it just ‘cause you know my story an’ got a couple’a boys of yer own?”

She shrugged, unaffected by his taunting. “I don’t think that at all. What I’m saying is that I know I’ll never truly get it. The way Daryl needs you… it’s like the way my Aiden needs Spencer, and vice versa. That is all I will ever know.”

Alright. Maybe she wasn’t quite the dumb cunt he’d wanted to think she was.

A long moment of silence hung in the empty, stark gray room. Merle swallowed hard, his head going a million miles a minute, his heart pounding in his ears. But Deanna didn’t try to break the silence or push him into talking. She simply sat there, watching him curiously, waiting patiently. He looked everywhere but at her. His mouth was still bone dry, but he didn’t think even a gallon of water could fix it.

Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “‘F I take this plea deal… if I… rat them boys out t’save my own ass… how much time y’think they’ll give me? Be straight with me, no sugarcoatin’.”

“Five years. Max. But I know the judge,” she said confidently, lowering her voice just slightly, “and we go way back. I could negotiate for three. If you stay on good behavior. Parole for two years. Then you’re free. You can go wherever you want. And take Daryl with you. So long as you keep on the straight and narrow—or at least don’t get busted again… you’ll be golden.”

He appreciated that she specified “don’t get busted again.” Maybe she really did know him. Maybe she really had paid attention throughout all these meetings. At the very least, she recognized that he’d been smart and sly enough to fly under the radar for several years.

Merle sucked his teeth, slowly raising his narrowed eyes to meet her gaze. “An’ what if they find out?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“That I snitched? Then what?”

She lowered her eyes to the papers on the table, but he knew she wasn’t really looking at them. Her shoulders slumped just slightly, but enough that he noticed. “I um, I can’t assure anything when it comes to that. I don’t like to make promises I can’t keep. I’d like to think we’ve become acquainted enough by now that you already know that.”

“Yeah,“ he said in a clipped tone, “I do. I believe ya.”

“But I will do my damnedest to try and prevent something like that. My reach only goes so far, though,” she admitted. She raised her eyes again and met his stare. “However, if all goes according to plan, they’ll be locked up longer. They won’t have access to you. And—in the best case scenario—no one will even know you were the one to divulge information.”

“Divulge information,” Merle repeated mockingly, barking out a humorless laugh. “Just a five-dollar term fer snitchin’.”

“We just need a decision, Merle. Either you take the deal or you don’t. My job is to try and steer you towards what’s in your best interest. But I can’t make a horse drink.”

Normally, he would’ve laughed. But not this time. Not today.

He chewed on his lower lip, biting down on a piece of dead skin until it peeled away to settle on the tip of his tongue. He thought about Daryl, stuck in Senoia with nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep, not a dime to his name. Damn boy didn’t even know how to sling drugs to get by, didn’t have the contacts or anything—he’d have to get down and dirty, do some kinda under-the-table work to make enough cash for a motel room or something. And he was just a kid, still in his 20s and as bright-eyed as a Dixon could be. No skills, no resumé, not even a high school diploma or a GED. Even more aimless and inexperienced than Merle was at that age. Would some kind soul take pity on him? Or would he be scorned and outcast everywhere he went, just like his big brother? The Dixon name didn’t do shit for them, and it surely wouldn’t do anything for Daryl. He was sweet. Always had been. But how far would bein’ sweet actually get him without Merle around to stand up for him, to advocate for him?

Well, Merle thought, he sure as hell survived without me while I was in the service and locked up after that. But just barely. He got beat so bad, it’s a miracle he survived. Those damn scars on his back… he couldn’t even fight off Pa. How’s he gonna fend for himself in a whole world full of men like Pa?

He needs me. He’s the only person who’s ever needed me.

How am I ever gonna come back after letting him down like this? How am I gonna get him to trust me again?

Goddammit, Merle. Why’d you ever leave in the first place, you stupid fuck? Pa coulda killed him. You knew it. An’ ya still left. You stupid, cocky son of a bitch. Who the hell did you think you were, goin’ off to enlist and actin’ like it’d make things any different? Why’d you have to go an’ fuck it all up for the both of ya?

Can’t you do anything right?

His eyes settled on the paperwork. That highlighted line that Deanna had been pointing to.

Three years wouldn’t be so bad. Right? It was better than five. A helluva lot better than ten, or twenty. 

Maybe I can do one thing right. For the first time in my godforsaken life.

Finally, Merle sat up and leaned forward. Uncrossed his arms and rested his elbows on the table. He met Deanna’s patient eyes. 

She was kind. A lot kinder than any other public defender he’d ever had. He really should be grateful. Should give her a genuine thanks after all this, if it worked out the way she swore it would. Hell, he’d name his firstborn after her if it really did work out the way she was promising. Reckoned that was the least he could do. He was even regretting being such a crude asshole to her the first dozen times they’d convened. 

With a deep sigh, he opened his mouth to speak. Rethought it. Closed his mouth again. Pulled the paper toward him and read back over it. He felt tears pushing up from the back of his throat. He fought them back forcefully. Cleared his throat.

“Alright,” he said plainly. “I’ll do it. I’ll take the deal.”

Deanna’s eyebrows raised up damn near to her hairline. Her mouth fell open, and she was about to speak, but he jabbed a finger at her and quickly interjected:

“But if anything happens t’Daryl while I’m locked up, or to me after I get out, it’s gonna be yer head, lady. I’ll find you and them precious li’l boys ya got.”

At that, she merely smirked. She appeared to be biting back a laugh.

“Merle, my boys are grown men.”

He scoffed. “Even better. ‘Cause ya know I don’t believe in hurtin’ kids.”

Anyone else would probably be deeply offended or put-off, maybe even a little frightened. And Merle himself would normally be pissed off by someone taking his threats so lightly. But the way she chuckled and brushed him off… for some reason, it only made him respect her more.

She was one of the very few people he’d ever met who saw through him like fuckin’ glass, who knew that he was all bark and no bite.

But boy, if his bark wasn’t loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.

Exactly two months before he was set to be released, Deanna visited Merle in prison.

He didn’t have much experience with visitors that weren’t his kin (read: Daryl), but based on what he’d seen from his fellow inmates, he was pretty sure this was a little out of the ordinary. He wasn’t gonna bitch about it, though. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna turn down the opportunity to talk to someone from the outside. 

Crazy how you started missing the general population once you were locked up with a very different kind of general population.

She’d sat across from him in the visitors’ room and smiled. Like she was proud. He already thought the whole thing was a little weird, but at the same time, it was kind of… endearing?

A part of him wondered if she was just trying to assure he wouldn’t come looking for her precious baby boys once he was released.

Regardless, she seemed proud of his progress, of his clean record, and of his ability to keep the promise he’d made to her. She actually smiled.

And she said, “I’m proud of you, Merle. Something told me that I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m glad I listened. I hope you look in the mirror every day and remember exactly what you’re capable of. And I hope when you reunite with Daryl, it reminds you of what you did all this for.”

Merle chuckled. “Did it fer me. That’s who I do everythin’ for. What the hell you talkin’ about, lady?”

Deanne smirked knowingly and nodded. “Yeah. I know. But I’m still proud of you. Something tells me you didn’t hear that nearly enough growing up. So I’d like you to know, now, that someone is proud of you. Very proud.”

He rolled his eyes, fighting back a heat that was suddenly rushing to his cheeks. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t go gettin’ all sappy on me.”

She actually laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Seriously. You’re clean—right? Off all the pills and drugs, not even drinking.”

He shrugged. “Not like there’s an abundance of ‘em in here. Didn’t have much choice.”

“Don’t play that card with me. I know how prison works. There’s always a choice. And you made it.”

He humphed. “Yeah, I made a choice t’be the fuckin’ hermit nerd spendin’ all his time in the library. I got through all them damn Harry Potter books finally—I know they’re fer kids, but I got a kick out of ‘em. Even did another readthrough of the Bible, but it was just as borin’ as the last time I read it. Then I got started on that uh, what’s it called… Ice and Fire Song series or sum’n? Heard they been doin’ a show about it an’ everybody’s goin’ crazy for it.”

Deanna stared across the table at him with a slightly expectant expression.

Merle’s shoulders slumped just a bit and he exhaled through his nose. “Reckon y’got a point. ‘Bout the choices. But I still plan on gettin’ shitfaced the first night I get outta here—nothin’ hard, just all the booze I can get my hands on.”

She rolled her eyes and he smirked.

Then he cleared his throat, diverting his gaze toward the surface of the scratched-up table between them. His voice lowered as he said, “Dunno if y’heard, but my old man kicked the bucket last year.”

“Oh?” She said, her voice slightly higher with curiosity. Then it lowered again as she offered, “I’m… sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” he quickly said, raising his eyes to meet hers. “He was a rotten piece’a shit. Died alone an’ miserable—’s what he deserved. Some kinda stroke or somethin’. Ain’t had nobody to help him. Didn’t even find his body fer almost two weeks. Figured the drink an’ the drugs woulda killed him years ago, but he jus’ kept hangin’ on. ‘Til he didn’t.”

Deanna’s eyes narrowed, her brows furrowing with concern. She seemed to be studying him. Then she said, “So what does this mean for you?”

At that, he barked out a laugh. A triumphant sound. “Means I inherited his estate. Not that he had anythin’ to his name besides a bunch’a debt an’ one property that’s worth a damn—‘s just some shitty ol’ cabin on the outskirts of Senoia, but it’s mine now. An’ everything left inside. Gonna start all the legal shit once I get out an’ move in there ASAP.”

“The cabin where you and Daryl lived after the fire?”

He nodded. “Tha’s the one, yeah.”

“Must be a lot of memories there. For both of you.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. But now, we can make new memories. Revamp the whole place, make our own li’l bachelor pad. Who knows, maybe it’ll end up gettin’ passed down t’the next generation of Dixons.”

He laughed like it was a joke, but Deanna didn’t laugh.

Maybe she didn’t have quite the sense of humor he’d thought she had.

“I like that for you, Merle,” she said, smiling softly. “I think it’s a good thing. You’ll have somewhere of your own once you get out, a home to make. Do you think you’ll stay there with Daryl?"

He hadn’t thought about it, really. Well… a little. But not too much. Didn’t like thinking too hard on good things because they usually ended up either not happening at all or being taken away before he could really enjoy them. He glanced away, thinking. Then he said, “Yeah. Reckon I will. He’s been workin’ as a farmhand on some hoity-toity family’s property in Senoia the last year or two. Makin’ his own money an’ shit, gettin’ real close with the patriarch or whatever. Think he might like havin’ a place with me again. A real place, not some motel room or shitty trailer.”

“That sounds really nice.” She offered a genuine smile from across the table. Then she said, “I really am very sorry for your loss. I know you hated your father, and for good reasons. But he was still your father. Something like this can dredge up a lot of old feelings, and grief takes many forms. I can only imagine how your brother has been handling it.”

Merle sneered at that, his defenses rising. “Nah, don’t go doin’ that—ain’t that serious. We both hated the bastard. He ain’t nobody worth mournin’.”

“I know. But, all the same…”

At that, she hesitated. Cleared her throat. Then she reached into her purse and pulled something out: a little white business card.

“So I take it you intend on staying in Senoia and around the Atlanta area for the time being?”

He shrugged. “Can’t leave Georgia fer the next two years, so yeah, might as well.” Then he diverted his gaze, feeling almost sheepish as he added, “Gotta be honest, though… the driftin’ around thing is gettin’ a little old. Hell, I’m gettin’ a little old. Maybe this cabin comin’ inta my name is some kinda sign. I’ono.”

“Maybe it is. I like that idea,” she said. “But I only ask because I’ve got some people I’d like you to get in contact with once you’re out.”

“Ugh,” he groaned. “I ain’t goin’ to therapy. Listen, I respect ya a lot more than most, but I don’t respect nobody that much.”

“No, no, no,” she quickly explained, “I’m not proposing something as drastic as therapy. Just a couple of meetings. Have you heard of NA? Narcotics Anonymous—it’s like AA, but for recovering drug addicts.”

He sighed. “‘Course I know what all that is. Ain’t stupid.”

“I never implied you were. And maybe you don’t actually need it at all, but it would mean a lot to me if you at least gave a couple of the meetings a try,” she said gently. “Just to see what it’s all about. No commitment necessary. I was just thinking it might help you keep your priorities aligned, keep your goals in sight. Remind you of what you’re doing all this for.” She pulled a pen from the pocket of her blazer and jotted something down on the business card. “And I’m going to write my number on here, just in case you ever feel like reaching out. It’s my personal cell phone.”

He grunted. “What, you gonna be my sponsor now?”

She laughed. “Lord, no. I don’t have the time or the patience for that.” At that, he couldn’t help but laugh, too. “I just… like to keep up with former clients like you. It helps remind me of what I do all this for.” She smiled as she slid the card to the center of the table, a twinkle of pride in her eye.

Merle rolled his eyes and waved her off. But he only hesitated a second before he snatched it up, looking down at it to assure she really had written her number there. It was a Georgia area code, so maybe she wasn’t full of shit. The NA meetings were in some church in Atlanta. “Still two months ‘fore I’m outta this damn pen.”

“I know. Sixty-one days, to be exact,” she said, smiling. “But I love looking toward the future, all the endless possibilities. It’s like…” she paused, tilting her head back briefly and chuckling, “you’ll laugh at me for how cheesy I’m going to sound—”

“Maybe, but y’can still say it.”

“Well, it’s like a wide open canvas just waiting for us to paint with our own colors, especially when we’re covering the old colors with brand new, brighter ones. And I, for one, would love to see what colors you choose, Merle Dixon. You know what I mean?”

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t find it cheesy at all, actually.

He was thinking of his baby brother, Daryl.

What colors could they splash across a canvas that was finally wiped clean of their father’s legacy?

Merle emerged from the big metal door of West Georgia Correctional Facility with a grin on his face and a bag in his hand. The fences around the perimeter were no longer a deterrent or a reminder of how stuck he was—nah, they were a welcome sight. ‘Cause today, he was walking right past them and back out into the wide open world.

He strode down the gravel walkway, past the COs and straight towards the truck waiting for him at the road. Daryl was leaning against the bed of the truck, leisurely smoking a cigarette. He stepped forward at the sight of Merle, giving a nod of greeting.

Merle barked out a laugh and turned his head to glance at one of the COs. “My ride’s here,” he gloated before flipping the bird and hurrying his pace to get past the gate and meet his brother.

He didn’t pause to check for the CO’s reaction. He simply rushed forward until he was wrapping both arms around his baby brother, clutching him tight and breathing in his familiar scent.

Christ, he felt so relieved. So free.

Daryl hugged him back just as tight, having already dropped his cigarette. And even though it was a little gay, when they began to pull apart, Merle grabbed Daryl by the back of his head and planted a big, fat kiss on his cheek. Then he barked out a laugh while Daryl pretended to be appalled and disgusted, pulling away and shoving his hands against Merle’s chest.

“Goddamn, it feels good t’be free, Darylina!” 

“Yeah, bet it does,” Daryl grumbled, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. But the whole time, he was smiling. He took a step back and reached out to grab the bag from Merle’s hand—the belongings he’d entered with, which only consisted of his wallet, a few crinkled dollar bills, and a cheap flip phone that hadn’t been in service for three years. “Now what? Burger King? Waffle House?” He reached over and opened up the passenger side door, chucking the bag into the seat.

Merle laughed. “Waffle House—lord, I been havin’ wet dreams ‘bout those damn hashbrowns! Then the nearest bar. Of the titty variety, if we can find one.”

A moment later, he was sitting in the passenger seat of the truck while Daryl was in the driver’s seat, starting it up and shifting into Drive.

“It’s only Thursday, y’know,” Daryl said as he pressed down on the gas pedal and began driving them away from the prison.

Merle didn’t respond at first, taking the time to look back over his shoulder at the great, looming sight of the prison fading away in the distance. He rolled the window all the way down and stuck out his hand to give it one last middle finger. Then he turned to his brother. “So what? Means it’s the weekend. We can get lit fer the next… what, three or four days?”

Daryl scoffed. “Not me. I got work in the mornin’. An’ maybe on Saturday.”

Merle frowned. “Y’still workin’ on that farm? Thought you was gonna be done with that by now.”

“Nah. Hershel’s keepin’ me on,” Daryl said. “‘Least fer the harvest season, maybe inta next summer. Dunno ‘bout after. I was actually lookin’ into a spot at the tire shop in town. Guy that runs it said he thinks he could use me. Somethin’ ‘bout how I have a lotta ‘hands-on experience’ or some shit. Might take that on part-time an’ jus’ help out the Greenes when they need it.”

“Hershel… y’mean Ol’ Man Greene?”

“Yeah.”

“Ain’t he got a couple’a pretty daughters? Y’hooked up with one of ‘em yet, played out the whole ‘farmer’s daughter’ thing?”

“Christ, no. Y’think I got a deathwish or somethin’?”

Merle cackled. “That real mouthy one’s gotta be legal by now, right? You tellin’ me ya ain’t even tried?”

“Quit bein’ nasty, man.” Daryl scoffed. “I’d never go behind Hershel’s back like that just fer a piece of ass.”

Merle laughed him off, having spotted the pack of cigarettes resting in the cupholder. He grabbed it up and shook one out into his palm, placing it between his lips before bringing up the lighter to spark the end. He inhaled a long drag, his eyes fluttering shut and a moan damn near escaping.

He flicked the ash out the window and exhaled a thick cloud of nicotine and tar. His head was already buzzing. Being on good behavior while locked up had only meant missing out on all the real good shit, like toilet hooch and smuggled cigs. But hell, if he hadn’t been one of the best-behaved inmates in that damn place. 

See, Deanna? I did it. No disciplinary violations. No fights. Kept my damn nose clean the whole time. Bet’cha never thought ol’ Merle was capable of that. Bet’cha thought wrong.

There was nothing Merle loved more than proving someone wrong, after all. Even if it was Deanna.

Dumb broad hadn’t been so dumb at the end of the day, he reckoned.

Who knew what kinda colors he could start painting his brand new canvas with.

Maybe he was a dog worth adopting in the long run. If he could just find a few people who liked the color of piss yellow and didn’t mind a few holes in their couch.

Merle had five months left on parole and he was damn proud of how well he’d maintained his clean nose since being released from prison. 

He still loved getting shit-faced, loved starting fights and hustling people at the bar, and especially loved hitting on beautiful women who wouldn’t even give him the time of day. But he hadn’t touched anything harder than weed in almost five years—a feat that had seemed damn near impossible at every other point in his life before this. He’d even stayed true to his word to Deanna: he’d attended not one, not two, but three entire NA meetings. They’d been miserable occasions, full of sob stories and burnt coffee and day-old donuts in the basement of a church that was in dire need of a renovation.

When all was said and done, those meetings had only made him wanna get high a little more. The way those folks talked about the pills and the coke and the meth and the heroin and everything in between, about how their families had given up on them, how their friends had cut them off, how they’d been ostracized and made to feel subhuman for being addicts, about all the rock-bottoms they’d hit in search of their next high. So he stopped going. But when he explained as much to Deanna over a phone call shortly after, she’d been surprisingly understanding. She’d even laughed at one of his crude jokes. And she’d told him, once again, how proud she was. 

He felt real fuckin’ stupid—like a little boy looking for Mommy’s approval—but he’d swelled with his own pride after that. He’d die before he’d ever admit it aloud, though. 

He was working some odd jobs here and there, picking up real, legitimate work wherever he could. Thankfully, the areas around Senoia and Atlanta had no lack of a need for somebody like him. A jack of all trades, he liked to think of himself. That was where he and Daryl were alike. They could get by doing just about anything. So long as it didn’t take too much brains. They were good at hard labor. And he realized that the hard labor made him feel a little more fulfilled—it wore him out ‘til he didn’t much care to think about getting high, and it kept his hands busy enough to keep him out of trouble. He hadn’t even considered robbing someone in like… over a year. A new record for him.

He and Daryl were sharing the cabin, though he was admittedly behind on the property taxes. He figured he’d work something out. He’d come up with the money, somehow. He always found a way to make it work.

And Daryl was doin’ even better than him. Still working on that farm, somehow the golden boy in Ol’ Man Greene’s eyes. Merle reckoned the old man must’ve noticed just how sweet Daryl was, must’ve liked the way he used all his proper manners and worked his hands to the bone damn near six days a week on that farm. Or maybe he’d noticed the wicked scars on his back and taken pity on him. Merle had heard some gossip around town here and there that Hershel Greene once had a daddy a lot like theirs, so maybe he was just a real empathetic and charitable (and tough) son of a bitch. 

Whatever. So long as it helped them out, that’s all Merle cared.

One of the few vices Merle still held onto though, was gambling. Goddamn, he loved it. The hit he got from a good win was almost like the first, fresh hit off a brand new bag of crystal. He could walk on clouds for a whole day after winning a couple hundred bucks. And lucky for him, one of Senoia’s biggest draws was its horsetrack.

People came from all over in the summertime to compete in the races, attend them, bet on them. Merle had gotten some real good pussy these last two summers from some broads who lived clear across the country—mostly the broads who couldn’t get into bed with the jockeys and were willing to settle for whatever else was nearby. Reckoned they got some kinda thrill outta fuckin’ some dirty redneck they’d only met that day and then never had to see again. Reckoned it was about the same for him.

And now it was the height of the season. He had the day off from his current job at the scrapyard, and a fresh new paycheck to blow. He’d been keeping up on the races, all the horses and their goofy-ass names. He put damn near his whole paycheck on a long list, picking winners based not just on their records, but also on the names he thought were funniest. Hell, might as well have some fun with it.

His personal favorite was a white horse named Bet It All On Black. Merle slapped down the money and entered his bet, knowing damn well 30/1 odds were insane, but hey, what could he say? He was feelin’ lucky. (Or maybe it was just the ten beers and three shots he’s already consumed by noon.)

Daryl was working hard under the summer sun at the Greene Farm, so Merle was all alone at the horsetrack, but that was nothing unusual. He still found ways to have fun all on his own. And boy, was he having fun as he sat in the stands and watched the horses racing, watched the dust kicked up behind their hooves, yelled at the top of his throat to “GO, GO, GO, YOU PUSSY!” He hooted and hollered and laughed, even high-fived some well-behaved Black folks that were sat next to him. 

One of his horses won. He cheered. Then another. He cheered again, chugging the rest of his beer in celebration. Shortly after, yet another horse won. Holy shit, he thought, pulling out his card and keeping track, double-checking to make sure he wasn’t somehow misremembering or getting confused. Then… another win. And another. Yet another. And another after that.

Maybe it really was his lucky goddamn day.

And finally, Bet It All On Black.

That damn horse hauled ass like never before. It was neck-and-neck. Merle was gripping the railing, leaning so far forward he was about to topple head-first onto the track as he watched that pretty white stallion race like its life depended on it. 

The announcer declared over the loudspeakers, “And it’s—yes, it’s BET IT ALL ON BLACK!”

Merle damn near passed out. 

Holy shit. Holy fuck. Holy shit fuck!

He couldn’t get back to the betting window fast enough, gripping his precious tickets in his sweaty hands like they were made of gold. Shit, they basically were!

Oh, lord, he and Daryl were about to have it made in the fuckin’ sun. He was gonna pay off all those property taxes, have one helluva party to celebrate, and then… well, who knew, but he’d do something! Maybe buy himself a house? Let Daryl have the cabin? Shit, he could get a new car… no, three new cars! He was too late to pay to fix Daryl’s teeth like he’d always wanted, but he could do somethin’ else for him, surely. Then he’d call up Deanna and invite her and her whole family out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Atlanta, and he’d even leave a tip. If she was proud of him before, she was gonna be over the fuckin’ moon to see how well he’d shaped up. Shit, maybe he’d buy her a new car. He knew she didn’t get paid near enough for the job she was doing.

When he reached the window after waiting in what felt like the longest line of his life, he proudly slapped his tickets down and licked his lips as he watched the woman behind the gate count out his winnings. She counted aloud, but not too loud for others to overhear. He was damn near drooling as she reached the end. He’d never seen so much money in his goddamn life. Started gettin’ light-headed once she passed 100,000. Started thinkin’ he might have an actual heart attack when she hit 200,000. (Of course, she wasn’t giving it all to him in cash—she was calculating and drawing up paperwork and arranging for checks and a possible wire transfer, a lot of bullshit to do with the IRS and taxes that had to be paid, but all Merle could see was money, money, money, thousands and thousands of dollars, and the rest of it would be in his hands within a matter of weeks.)

Shit, he should write up a will. Should get a real lawyer and get all that sorted so everything would be sure to go to Daryl if he suddenly dropped dead from elation or—more likely—overdosing on all the pussy he was about to be getting.

Green, he thought. That’s the color that’s really gonna define me and Daryl’s new canvas. The color of cold, hard cash. The color of summer pastures. The color of the grass on the other side of that damn fence we’ve never been able to see over. An’ I’m gonna splash it across every damn corner. Ain’t nobody ever gonna look down their noses at us again. Ya see me now, Pa? Hope yer rottin’ in hell while yer boys are livin’ the life you wasn’t ever able to give us.

He was still high as hell—a high that had nothing to do with drugs, but with winning a near impossible bet against all odds—when he grabbed up the paperwork and the amount of cash he’d been allowed to physically take, preparing to turn and walk away.

Then he heard a voice call out over the hustle and bustle of everyone else at the windows and walking through the area.

“Merle Dixon!”

Well now, who the hell…?

He raised his head and turned to respond, but before he could even settle his eyes on whoever had called out, a loud bang! rang out.

Someone screamed. Then another scream. A whole goddamn chorus of screams.

Suddenly, chaos erupted.

Everything was a blur of colors. People running, ducking, hiding. 

On instinct, Merle reached for his waistband beneath his shirt to grab his own gun, but he only managed to wrap his fingers around the handle before the pain caught up. 

And just like that, it was shooting through him, incapacitating him. He felt like he’d suddenly been frozen in ice. His hands went stiff and numb, immediately followed by his feet and legs. A sharp pain bloomed in his back and spread through his entire side, up his spine, all the way to his neck until he feared his skull might burst outward.

He couldn’t even speak. All he managed was a grunt of pain and surprise before his legs gave out beneath him and he crumpled to the ground, face-first. He was still clutching his winnings to his chest.

He took in a sharp breath and was rewarded with a mouthful of dirt. He groaned, blinking, but all he could see was red and brown. 

These ain’t the colors I wanted to use at all, he thought vaguely.

The screaming was everywhere. All around him. Assaulting him from every which direction and filling his ears until he could barely hear his own gasping breaths. His heart was pounding, but he could’ve swore it was slowing.

Oh, God… was he dying?

Wait, Daryl—where’s Daryl? I gotta give him the money, the paperwork—I gotta make sure he has it so he can be okay after I’m gone.

Merle blinked rapidly, unable to feel anything but pain through his entire body. His spine felt like it had been shattered, like a fucking giant had stomped down on him with the heaviest, spikiest boot to exist. He couldn’t feel his arms or his legs. Just his back and the immense pain that pulsated and throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

Then he was looking up into several different strangers’ faces, all of them contorted in horror and concern. He heard some bits and pieces:

“...is he dead?!”

“...gotta stop the bleeding, he’s gonna die!”

“...he shot in the back? The arm? Where’s it comin’ from?!”

“Where’d he go?! Did anybody see?!”

Yet there was one face closer than all the others, and after several more blinks of his eyes, Merle realized it was a man. He had brown hair and a clean-shaven face, the brightest blue eyes he’d probably ever seen aside from his brother’s, and his hands were on Merle. He’d turned him over gently, and now he was ripping off his own button-up shirt and tying it around Merle, where the pain seemed to hurt the worst. Merle winced and cried out.

“‘S alright, yer okay, stay with me,” the man ordered, his voice somehow very authoritative yet calm and soothing at the same time. He was left wearing only a black wifebeater but already looking over at someone else, pointing at them and ordering, “Call nine-one-one! Tell ‘em Sheriff Grimes is here with a GSW and t’send an ambulance now! Tell ‘em about the shooting, get all units here! Put this whole goddamn place on lockdown!”

Oh, Jesus. A fucking cop?! And the goddamn sheriff, no less.

“Hey, hey, I’m Sheriff Rick Grimes,” the man said, looking straight into Merle’s bleary eyes now as he pressed with immense, painful force into Merle’s back. “What’s yer name?”

Merle gasped for breath, finally managing to find his voice and rasp out, “M-Merle.”

“A’right, Merle, you’ve been shot in the back. But I’m here, an’ I ain’t gonna let ya die. You just stay with me, okay? We’ve got an ambulance on the way, they’ll be here in no time. Where ya from, Merle?”

Merle groaned. “F-fuck, I—goddammit, I’m from here, man. I ain’t do nothin’, I swear it! I-I jus’ won on the horses, I’m set-set t’be off parole in f-f-five months…”

“Good, then ya got somethin’ t’live for,” Sheriff Rick Grimes said. “Y’got any family ‘round here, Merle? Y’got yer phone on ya? I can call ‘em so they meet us at the hospital.”

Merle was getting drowsy. Real drowsy. Drowsier than he’d ever been in his whole life. He glanced down and saw nothing but red. Fuck. It was his own blood. It was everywhere—seeping through his shirt, into the dirt, and staining Rick’s hands. Panic filled his veins, yet he could barely fight off the urge to close his eyes and drift away.

“M-my brother,” he managed weakly, “Daryl. Ph-phone’s in my…”

“Hey, hey! Stay with me, Merle! Where’s yer phone, man?”

“In m-my pocket.”

He felt something and realized Rick was reaching into his pocket to extract his phone. Yet at the same time, he was grabbing something else that was still half-slid out of Merle’s waistband. Then he was leaning down close to Merle’s ear and saying, much quieter, “Said yer on parole—I’mma take this gun an’ pretend you ain’t ever had it, Merle. Then I’m gonna call yer brother.”

“Th-thanks, Officer Friendly,” Merle croaked out. He blinked rapidly, struggling like hell to keep himself awake. “Think I’mma pass out, man. I—don’t let ‘em take m-my… winnings… me an’ Daryl… w-we need it, our pa, he wasn’t…”

He couldn’t even feel his hands, but he knew damn well they were still clutching his precious money and paperwork close to his chest. Shit, it was all probably soaked in his own blood.

Ha, he thought, blood money. Literally.

He huffed out a chuckle at his own private joke, but it was a mistake. Red spittle flew from his mouth and across Rick’s face. “Oh—shit. That… can’t be good.”

Rick’s eyes were wide and his face was pale, yet he still managed something that resembled a half-smile. “Jesus, man, jus’ stay awake for me, alrigh’? Nobody’s takin’ yer winnings, you an’ yer brother’ll be jus’ fine. Quit try’na talk, the ambulance is…”

His voice was sounding further and further away until it faded out completely. It sounded like he was trying to speak underwater. Yet Merle could’ve swore he heard sirens in the distance. Or was it just wishful thinking?

He didn’t know if he said it out loud or if it was just in his head, but he heard his own voice very faintly: “I don’t wanna die yet. I-I got shit t’do, people to-to prove wrong. Please d-don’t lemme die. Please…”

As he shut his eyes, he thought of the blue-and-red flashing lights. 

Better colors than red and brown, he told himself. Still not as good as green, though.

And then everything was black.

A week after Merle woke up in the hospital, Deanna came to visit.

She looked just the same as that last day she’d visited him in prison, but now he felt much more pathetic. A lot less proud. He found it difficult to meet her eyes.

Even though he felt like he should be angry at her. Should be downright fuckin’ pissed. Exactly the thing that she’d promised wouldn’t happen… had happened. 

Then again, he knew she’d only promised he wouldn’t be hurt in prison. She’d never made any promises about afterwards. Not really. Besides, what was she supposed to do? Get him a personal security detail or some shit?

Yet she entered the room and met Daryl’s gaze with an apologetic sort of look about her. Daryl glanced over at Merle, as though he were checking that it really was okay for her to be there. Merle simply gave a light nod of his head, and Daryl understood. He offered Deanna a brief grunt of acknowledgement before heading straight for the door and leaving Merle alone with her.

As soon as the door fell shut, she sat down in the chair beside his bed and folded her hands in her lap. And the look on her face was enough to open up a pit of despair within Merle’s gut—she felt guilty. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, in the deep lines of her face, in the way she struggled to meet his eyes.

They sat in silence for a very long moment. The TV mounted on the wall in the corner was on mute, still playing a rerun of The Office. The only sounds filling the room came from the steady beeps of all the machines around him, from the near-silent drip-drip-drip of the IV bag at his bedside that fed into the tube in his hand.

Once it became equally unbearable for them both, she broke the silence: “Merle, I—”

“Thanks fer comin’,” he said, stopping her from whatever dumbass apology she was about to attempt.

She raised her eyes and met his gaze with trepidation and a deep frown that accentuated all the lines around her mouth. She huffed out a breath that resembled amusement or disbelief. “I would’ve visited sooner, but I wanted to wait and make sure you were in the right state to see me.”

“Don’t matter,” he croaked out, his throat still hoarse. “Coulda showed up five years from now. It’d still mean the same.”

She smiled weakly. “I uh, I have to admit, it was a surprise when I got the call. I didn’t think you’d ever want me to see you in this state. Or at all. I suppose I thought you wanted to put all of that behind you. And I couldn’t blame you. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

He cleared his throat before reaching over for his paper cup of water, sipping it gently through the straw and wetting his lips. Then he said, “Yeah, well… y’did a lot fer me. Know I ain’t reached out in a while, an’ I know I’m an asshole, but I ain’t such an asshole that I’d deny givin’ somebody credit where credit’s due. Y’went outta yer way fer me. Fer ol’ Merle. Ain’t many people can say that. Ain’t many people wanna say that.”

She nodded. “I’m still proud. Deeply. Maybe even more so, now. Yet I can’t help feeling… a bit responsible.”

“Why’s that? ‘S it you that sent that asshole after me?” He tried to huff out a chuckle, but it only turned into a coughing fit, which sent the pain shooting through his back anew. He took a few moments to recover, and he caught the look of concern she had while watching him struggle. “Ain’t as bad as it sounds, I swear,” he assured. “Not like I’m dyin’ or nothin’.”

“No, I know,” she said. A meek smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve heard about your resilience. Your brother said something along the lines of, ‘only Merle can kill Merle.’ I’m starting to think he’s right.”

Merle scoffed. “Yeah. Officer Friendly said sum’n like that, too. But his version was ‘bout Dixons bein’ as stubborn as weeds.” 

“That’s quite a declaration of resilience. Especially from someone who’s just met you.”

“Yeah. Met me, pro’lly saved my life. God help me, reckon I’ll be owin’ that fuckin’ pig fer the rest’a my days.”

She chuckled softly. “He’s not the worst person to have on your side.”

He shrugged.

“Your brother seems nice, by the way. We spoke a bit out in the hall before he allowed me in here,” she said. “I’m glad I finally got to meet him. Though I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

“Yeah, he’s always been the sweet one. Ain’t nothin’ like me, but ‘m sure y’figured that out pretty quick.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she heaved a deep sigh and her voice grew more heavy. “Merle, I wanted to… apologize. For being unable to keep all of the promises I made. And before you try to argue, just—I honestly never thought this would happen. I never thought, for even a second, that they would send someone after you like that. If I’d had any idea, I would’ve—”

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” Merle interrupted, effectively shutting her mouth with his indifference. “Where’s all this gettin’ us?”

She furrowed her brow, staring back at him and opening her mouth like she wanted to say something.

But instead, he continued, “‘Member what you said that first meeting we had? When I tried t’lie an’ say I was innocent, tried t’backtrack an’ come up with all them ‘what if’s that woulda kept my ass outta prison or from ever gettin’ caught in the first place? Y’said it was all fuckin’ pointless, an’ I was only diggin’ up graves fer the taste of bones. Like a bad dog.”

She swallowed hard. “Yes. I remember.”

“Well, hate t’say it, but you was right. Ain’t no point in all that. Think I wanna be a good dog. ‘Sides… I done decided I ain’t much like the taste’a bones. Rather have the meat. Rather dig graves of my own or—hell, I’ono, sum’n like that. I’ve never been too good with words. ‘M not eloquent like you.”

“You’re not a dog, Merle. And I never should’ve compared you to one, even in passing. I was simply trying to connect with you, but I went about it incorrectly. I apologize for that. But it doesn’t make me feel any less… at fault. For what transpired,” she admitted. “I feel partially to blame. I convinced you to take the deal, and I never thought they would have a reach so far as to enact revenge on you in your own hometown. When you’re so close to being done with all of this, to being off parole and free of the system entirely. You’ve done all the work—the hardest work—and you’ve done it well, done it right. You’ve completely redeemed yourself, as far as I can tell. And all you got for it was… a bullet in your back.”

Merle groaned. “You tryin’ t’make me feel bad for myself? Or is this some kinda therapy bullshit yer try’na trick me into?”

She chuckled sadly. “No, nothing like that. I just… I feel like this was—”

“Jus’ stop, woman,” he interrupted, resituating in his bed and nestling the back of his head further into the stiff pillow behind him. “I been shot before, ya know. Nothin’ as bad as this, but I’m still alive. It was a li’l touch-an’-go fer a bit, sure, but oh well. Ain’t losin’ my legs or nothin’. An’ as long as my dick still works, ya won’t hear me bitchin’.”

“A man of simple pleasures,” she remarked. “I can respect that. But, um… I did hear they caught the guy. Your new sheriff friend was on his way out when I was coming in. He said something about apprehending the suspect and identifying him. How does that make you feel?”

“I’ono. Can’t say I’ve given that fucker much thought.”

She frowned, her brows knitting together. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Believe it or not… ol’ Merle’s done turned over a new leaf.” He huffed out a breath. “Reckon yer partially t’blame fer that. S’pose I owe ya some kinda nice dinner or somethin’ with my newfound wealth. Maybe a new car. I know they don’t pay ya near what yer worth fer doin’ what ya do.”

“Merle, please.” She rolled her eyes and relaxed in her seat, like she was returning to the comfortability they’d had back when she was talking to him from across scuffed gray tables. “You don’t owe me anything. All I’ve wanted for you was… better. And seeing you now, even like this… well, I think even this is an improvement from how I first met you.”

“‘Til they cut off my morphine supply an’ I get outta here to start lookin’ fer my next fix.”

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but he laughed before she could voice her shock.

“Relax, lady. I’s jus’ kiddin’. I’mma still stay clean after this. Hell, I’mma have so much money, won’t even need t’think about drugs.”

She rolled her eyes and feigned exasperation, but he noticed her visible sigh of relief. “I still remember that phone call you gave me after your NA meetings. And I have to be honest… just knowing you went told me everything I needed to know.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“Well, it told me you were committed. Really and truly. And that you are a man of your word. Not to mention, you held onto the card I gave you. You still had my phone number. So you had intention and motivation.” She pressed her mouth into a flat line, gazing at him thoughtfully. “At the end of the day, I can push and push and urge people in the right direction, but if they don’t have the motivation, the intention, it means nothing. You… you have the intention. You always have. You just needed the right push from the right people.”

“The right people bein’ you?”

“No. Your brother. The memory of your father and the thought of defying him. And, most importantly, yourself.”

Merle grunted, trying his damnedest to sound and appear indifferent. But his throat was burning with the tears he was desperately pushing back.

He couldn’t explain why, but he was suddenly missing his ma for the first time in 20 years.

If only you could see me now, he thought. What I turned out to be. May not have turned out as sweet an’ kind as yer baby Daryl, but I came out somethin’. Somethin’ worth havin’. Somethin’ that ain’t so bad. If you’d put down the bottle long enough, you mighta seen it yourself. The potential. The intention.

He’d thought he could enlist and not only get away from his demon of a father, but also make his mama proud whenever she was sober enough to feel such a thing. He’d been wrong, of course. Damn him for trying. But hell, if he hadn’t still tried.

When he was able to push back his poorly-disguised need to cry with another sip of water through a straw and compose himself, Merle met Deanna’s eyes and sucked his teeth. She seemed to stiffen at the appearance, yet she didn’t look away. 

“You ‘member what y’said that last day you came t’visit? ‘Fore I got outta the pen.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“The cheesy shit about lookin’ towards the future, ‘bout havin’ a new canvas an’ paintin’ it with whatever colors I wanted.”

A soft smile appeared on her face. “Ah. Yes, of course.”

“Well, I was…” he hesitated, his eyes darting away sheepishly, “I was thinkin’ ‘bout that. When I got shot. No bullshit, ‘s the last thing I ‘member thinkin’ ‘fore I woke up after surgery.”

When he managed to drag his eyes back up to meet hers, he found a look that bordered on astonishment etched across her face. She didn’t say it, but he could already hear the what? in her voice. Her eyes had gone a little wide.

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout Daryl. An’ the money. An’ then, all the colors,” he went on, his voice much quieter, cracked and somewhat broken as he recalled those moments he hadn’t yet spoken aloud. “‘Bout the colors I wanted me an’ Daryl t’paint our canvas with. I saw—I saw brown an’ red, ‘cause it’s all I saw when I was layin’ there, bleeding out. An’ I didn’t want that. Not at all. I wanted green, like money an’ fresh grass, an’ I wanted blue, like the sky, and-and red like our blood, but not like the blood comin’ outta me. Like the blood we share. I wanted purple. I wanted orange. I wanted yellow.”

Deanna’s mouth was open, yet no words came out. She stared at him like… hell, like he was some kinda fascinating fuckin’ creature. Like she was at the aquarium and he was the octopus behind the glass, showing her all the different colors he could turn. 

Finally, she blinked and found her voice, and she asked, “Yellow?”

Merle huffed out a breath, half a chuckle and half a scoff. “Like piss. ‘Cause what’ve I ever done but piss all over everythin’ good.”

She had tears in her eyes—there was no mistaking it. He saw them. She tried to blink them away, tried to play it real cool and casual and wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand like the sterile air of the ICU was just irritating her contacts or something. But he knew better. Especially when she sniffled.

Then she straightened up in her chair and looked him straight in the eyes, and she said, “The yellow isn’t for piss, Merle. It’s for sunlight. The dawning of a new day.”

He scoffed. “A new day dawns purple an’ orange an’ some real pretty shades of pink. Trust me, I know. I spent a lotta nights up ‘til dawn, I’ve seen the sunrise enough t’know what color it is.”

Deanna chuckled softly. “Did you stay up long enough to watch it turn yellow? Because eventually, it does. And then it gets so yellow that it’s gold.”

Well, that was certainly a different way of looking at it.

Chapter Text

Part Two: responsible breeding

Nearly a year after Merle was released from the hospital and recovered, he was still in pain.

He and Daryl had settled into the cabin rather well. Daryl kept his little job on the Greene Farm even past the time he’d thought they would need or want him. Merle worked when and where he could, though it was few and far between due to his sudden disability. He was pretty sure he was covering it up well, but there were days when Daryl looked at him sideways or offered a little extra help. It only proved to piss him off. 

He wasn’t some gimp. He didn’t need help or handouts. He could do it on his own. He could make his own way in the world, even after taking a bullet to the spine.

But then a day came when he was damn near stuck in his own bed at the cabin from the pain in his back, desperate enough for relief that he was actually considering hitting up some old connects for painkillers. 

He was smart enough, though—intentional enough—to not rely on those connects. Instead, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to Deanna’s name. Gave her a call. Told her the truth of the matter, and admitted to just how desperate he was.

It was kinda funny, actually. She’d said she wouldn’t be his sponsor, and now here she was, basically acting as his sponsor.

To his surprise, she had an answer. She gave him the contact information for a massage therapist, and even when he laughed and asked if she was serious, she reiterated that it was “legitimate medical therapy” and that it may help him more than he thought. 

He wasn’t so sure about that. Especially considering that “massage” was in the name. But hell, if he wasn’t desperate enough to at least give it a try.

He had a little money left over from his horsetrack winnings—and some steady passive income flowing in thanks to Rick and Daryl’s helpful advice as far as investing in property rather than blowing it all on meaningless shit that would be gone in a week—so he wasn’t too worried about the cost of the visit. He’d even been smart enough to find himself some real health insurance. He figured he’d give it one good try. And if there was no real improvement, he’d either move on to something crazier (like a chiropractor… ugh, was he really that desperate yet to resort to witch doctors? Hopefully not), or just give up entirely and submit to suffering through the rest of his life in debilitating pain. 

He wound up with an appointment at a clinic in Atlanta with a massage therapist. Surprisingly, his insurance was covering it, and the copay was actually somewhat reasonable. He was nervous, though.

What if his massage therapist was a dude?

Then, on an otherwise inconsequential Thursday morning, Merle was led into the office of his new massage therapist.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dixon,” she greeted as she entered the room and sat down in one of those wheely stools. 

But he barely heard a word she said. She walked in and suddenly, everything was in slow-motion.

Was there a fan in here? Because he could’ve swore her shiny, coppery-red hair blew back just slightly when she entered and shut the door behind her. And her face looked like it’d been sculpted by some kinda Greek or Roman artist, with sharp angles and softness in all the right places, the most perfect nose he’d ever seen, a pair of pink and pouty lips, and eyes he thought he could probably drown in. Didn’t hurt that she had a tight little body, too—at least, what he could see of it in her dark blue scrubs. Her tits weren’t bad to look at, either. When she turned to the side, he noticed a nice, perky ass on her. 

Damn. He was gonna have to fight off a boner in the damn massage therapist’s office.

Then he realized she was speaking again. He blinked and cleared his throat. “Sorry, wha’ was that?”

“I said, I’m Frankie, and I’ll be your massage therapist,” she repeated, tilting her head just slightly and giving him a curious look. She raised her voice and asked, “Are you hard of hearing? They should’ve noted it in your chart, I apologize if this was a mistake.”

He scoffed, fighting off embarrassment. “Oh, Christ, no, I’s just…” Well, what was the point in lying? Wasn’t like he’d ever bothered with lying to women—not in this way, anyhow. “I’s just struck dumb fer a minute there. Sorry.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion and said, “Okay, then.” Then she shook her head, and maybe he was imagining it, but was that a faint blush appearing in her cheeks? She was looking back down at the clipboard in her hands. “Well, it says here that you suffered a gunshot wound to the spine about eleven months ago, and you’ve been suffering with back and neck pain ever since. Has it spread anywhere else? Like your legs or arms? And what about headaches?”

Merle managed to focus and answer the rest of her questions, watching every little thing she did: the way she held her pen, the way her shoulders hunched slightly, the cute little scrunch of her nose when she was concentrating on both listening and writing. Whenever their eyes met, he almost got too distracted. They were the most beautiful shade of blue he reckoned he’d ever seen. Like some kinda exotic sea he could wade into and swim through. He wanted to submerge his whole damn body in those depths.

Shit, she was young, though. Probably way too young for his old, rotten ass. 

Regardless, that had never stopped him before. What did the kids like to say nowadays? “Shoot your shot” or something like that.

She moved on from introductions and paperwork to inspect his injury and basically his entire back, which required him to take his shirt off. As he slipped it up and off, he caught her eye and gave her a wink. She cocked an eyebrow and made a face like she was stifling a laugh. 

Alright, not the worst response he’d ever had. She hadn’t grimaced in disgust, so that was something.

And oh, hell, her hands were soft as fuck. Her fingers were dainty and careful, but precise and demanding when they needed to be. She felt all around his healed wound, pressed into muscles and tendons here and there.

“Are these other scars related to the injury?” She asked, pressing her fingertips into a few of the oldest scars lashed across his back. “They look healed and much older, so I’m guessing not. And of course, you don’t have to disclose that with me, but if they may be affecting your pain, I need to know.”

“Nah,” he answered casually, “them’s from my old man. Over thirty years old. Jus’ old beatin’s.”

Her voice escaped with an audible deflation and a tinge of sadness, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Don’t be. He’s dead now. Good riddance.”

She huffed out a breath that he felt blow across his shoulders. Damn near made him shiver. “Good riddance, indeed.”

Was she trying to make him fall in love?

She went on to ask a few more questions, mostly about his pain, his wound, his diet and exercise and sleeping habits, all the medical history that was relevant. All basic medical shit. 

Then it came time for her to do what she did, so she asked him to lay down flat on his stomach on the table and get as comfortable as possible. He eyeballed her hand again—no rings, but that could just be protocol for her job. And now that he had one side of his face pressed down into the table and his eyes on the light blue wall, he felt a bit more confident. Something about looking her in the eye made him feel a lot more self-conscious than he could ever remember feeling.

“You married?”

He thought he heard her chuckle softly, but he couldn’t be sure. “No, I’m not. Are you?”

“Nah. Never been much of husband material, t’be honest.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. It’s never too late to meet the right person.”

Damn. He knew what that meant… She thought he was old as dirt.

Wouldn’t deter him none, though.

“Got a boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment, no. Why d’you ask?”

“Jus’ curious. Figured yer gonna have yer hands all over me, might as well know what kinda competition I’m facin’.”

At that, she did chuckle. He was certain of it.

Something warm and brand new bloomed inside of him, rising from his stomach up to fill his entire chest. The sound was like music to his ears. Like birds singing at dawn.

She started the massage, working very carefully and meticulously, earning a low groan from the back of his throat every few moments. Sometimes, a hiss of pain, which she assured him was necessary. 

If this actually worked, he might just kiss Deanna on the mouth. 

“How’s that?” Frankie asked, moving up towards his neck and working into one of the areas that had been bothering him the most over the last few months.

He had to fight to stifle the groan of pure pleasure that nearly escaped. “Goddamn, girl—that’s heaven. Spot’s been botherin’ me every time I try ta sleep, no matter how I lay down.”

“Okay, that’s good,” she assured. “Tells me what I need to know.”

He hummed in pleasure and relief as she continued. Then he asked, “How old’re you?”

“Twenty-seven. Why d’you ask?”

“I’ono. Thought y’looked a little too young ta be all licensed fer this an’ shit.”

She huffed out a breath of amusement. “Don’t worry, I went to school, studied hard, got all my certifications and licenses. In fact, I was one of the top graduates in my class. I know what I’m doing.”

“I believe ya. But uh, what made ya wanna go inta this line’a work?”

“My mom was in a bad car accident when I was a kid. She almost died. Thankfully, she recovered, but she was in so much pain afterwards. She went to all kinds of physical therapy, but then our insurance wouldn’t cover any of that stuff anymore, so I just had to watch her suffer. There was a little stint with a painkiller addiction because that’s all they could really offer her, but thankfully, she got past it. In high school, I started looking up YouTube tutorials about massages that could help with pain from old injuries, and it helped her a lot. So that’s when I decided it was exactly what I wanted to do—help people like my mom. And I guess the rest is history, as they say.”

“Wow. That’s… real sweet of ya. Is she doin’ better now?”

“Yeah. A lot. I have a session with her every month. And she never has to worry about insurance covering it again.”

His heart swelled. He thought, if he’d been capable, he would’ve liked to help his own mom out like that. If he’d ever been capable. If it had ever been something so simple. 

“What about your mom?” She asked. “Is she still around, or has she passed, too?”

“Nah, she passed years ago,” he replied as she continued pressing into his back, massaging at his neck. “Think it’s been almost twenty-five years, give’r take.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. It was ‘er own damn fault…” He hesitated, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth for the first time in over a decade. “Well, kinda. I’ono. She had a drinkin’ problem. Fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Guess I can’t really fault ‘er fer the drinkin’ though, considerin’ what she put up with from my old man.”

“Hm. Quite the family history you’ve got there, Mr. Dixon.”

He chuckled lowly. “Yer tellin’ me, sweetheart.”

As Frankie continued her work, they kept talking. She showed him basic kindness, asking him about the circumstances of his injury, about what remained of his family, about what he did for work. He really had nothing to lose, so he let it all out: told her all about his brief stint in the military, about drifting around Georgia with his brother, about going to prison, about Deanna and how he’d gotten here, and about how the luckiest day of his life had turned into one of the worst. He asked about her too, but she revealed very little. He knew she was just trying to keep it professional, though.

“Mrs. Monroe is really nice,” she said. “I like her a lot. I haven’t worked on her, but she and her husband have come here for a few of my colleagues. Mr. Monroe is a nice guy, too. They send a fruit basket to the office every Christmas, it’s so sweet. I’m glad she recommended you.”

“Glad I listened,” Merle said. “That ol’ broad knows what she’s talkin’ ‘bout. An’ yer right… she is real nice.”

Before he knew it, their time was up. When Frankie told him to sit back up and put his shirt on, he couldn’t help feeling more than a little disappointed.

And yeah, he’d had to fight off—or just cover up—a half-chub more than once throughout the session. But surely that wasn’t anything new for her.

At least, he hoped not.

Once he’d slipped his shirt back on and she was picking up the clipboard to jot down notes, he was already making a decision.

Now or never. Besides, any day could be his last. He’d certainly learned that much over the last year.

“So, I’ve got some stretches I want you to do every day,” she was saying, glancing between him and the clipboard as she continued scribbling. “Nothing too strenuous, but they may cause some pain at first just because of the extent of your injury, and—”

“Wait.”

She paused and raised her eyes to focus on him, eyebrows rising. 

“You tellin’ me there’s no happy ending ta this massage?”

The second of silence that passed between the end of his question and her reaction seemed to drag on forever. He was already preparing for a look of disgust, for her to slam the clipboard down and tell him to kick rocks, to find another massage therapist and never step foot back in this clinic again. Ya know… the usual.

But then, her full, beautiful lips curled into a smile. A blush spread across her cheeks. And she laughed.

Holy shit. She actually laughed. 

Not a fake laugh, either. A real, genuine laugh that rang high and melodic, like music to his fuckin’ ears.

“Merle Dixon,” she said, still chuckling as she spoke, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re a downright dog.”

Merle found himself grinning. “How would ya know any better? I’ll own up. Might piss on the carpet now an’ then, but I’ll still go t’my crate when y’tell me to.”

The blush in her cheeks deepened and she looked back down at the clipboard, but he was pretty sure she was just avoiding meeting his gaze. She shook her head, still smiling. “Alright, well, you can make your next appointment with the receptionist at the desk. I recommend a month from now, but we can start with every two weeks if the pain persists to the point that your mobility is hindered.”

“An’ what about next week?”

Her eyebrows rose again and she met his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m all booked up.”

“Nah, I mean—not fer an appointment. What’cha doin’ next week? Say, Friday night?”

The red in her cheeks nearly matched the red of her hair. “I dunno. Why?”

“Wanna take ya out, girl. How ‘bout dinner? Y’like steak? Seafood? Or you one’a them vegan chicks? Can’t say that’s my type’a diet, but I could accommodate.”

She rolled her eyes, lowering the clipboard, but she didn’t tell him to fuck off. He was already doing better than expected.

“I like steak, yeah. And seafood. I like tequila, too,” she said, smirking. “If it’s a Friday night, I mean.”

“I can get down with some tequila,” Merle said, trying not to grin too eagerly. “There any place ‘round here you really like? Or should I jus’ look up the nicest steakhouse in Atlanta an’ book a reservation?”

“Guess it depends,” she teased. And he knew she was teasing ‘cause of the tone of her voice, and the sudden batting of her eyelashes. “Are you trying to treat me? Or are we splittin’ the check?”

Holy shit, did I really just successfully swoon this smokeshow? And she’s half my age! Maybe I still got it, after all.

“Nah, girl, I’ll treat the hell outta you,” he said without hesitation. “Wherever you wanna go, jus’ name it. ‘Specially after the magic you just worked on my back. Reckon I owe ya one.”

She laughed, once again sending a thrill of warmth all through his body. God, he could listen to that sound on repeat until the day he died and never get sick of it.

“Listen, this is—completely unprofessional,” she admitted, blushing deeper. “But if you don’t tell anyone, I won’t, either.” Then she put down the clipboard and held out her hand.

He paused, giving her a quizzical look, and only understood once she raised her eyebrows expectantly. He reached into his pocket and extracted his phone, unlocking it and handing it over with haste. He watched as she typed in her name and number, adding it to his Contacts. She handed it back with a sly little smirk.

“Text me,” she said. “But just remember, even if you don’t, I’m gonna have to see you in a month, anyway. So it might make things a little awkward.”

Merle was still grasping his phone, warm from being in her hands, and said, “Reckon I could always request somebody else if I blow it that bad.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she picked up the clipboard and turned towards the door. Just before she opened it and slipped out, she threw back over her shoulder, “Just based off the fact that I’m giving you a chance at all… you’d have to blow it pretty bad, Merle.”

He knew he was in real trouble when he found himself at a loss for a quip back. 

But then, as he watched the door fall shut behind her and the last sight of her coppery hair disappeared, a real cheesy thought hit him. Something he’d have to tell Deanna about at some point.

Not red like blood… red like her hair. That’s the color of red I want on my canvas.

Merle told himself he’d give it a day, maybe even two or three. But he simply couldn’t resist. He felt like the dog that’d finally caught up to the car—because now what?

The first thing he did as soon as he got home from his appointment was use his phone to look up the nicest steakhouses in Atlanta. Then he opened his text messages and began composing his first message to Frankie. It was nearly 6 in the evening, so he figured she must be off work and home by now. 

He typed out about a dozen different messages, but none of them felt right. He even set his phone down, the message still open, and paced around the cabin for a bit. Opened a beer and sipped on it before chugging it all the way down and opening a second. Stepped out onto the porch and had himself a smoke. Played over every word in his head.

He could not fuck this up. This chick was so damn far out of his league, and she was actually entertaining him. Actually seemed interested! But he knew damn well that it would only take one fuck-up to scare her off for good.

If he couldn’t land this little redhead hottie, he’d be stuck fishin’ in a pool full of Senoia Sevens, single moms, and divorcées with pounds of baggage. 

Eventually, he said fuck it and composed a message, then pressed Send and watched it solidify into a real text before he could second-guess and stop himself.

Hey. This is Merle. U ever heard of a steakhouse called Higher Steaks?

In the time it took for his text to turn from Delivered to Read and a gray bubble filled with three animated dots to appear, he’d already chugged another beer for confidence. Then her response arrived, quickly followed by another:

Hi there, Merle :)
Yes, I have heard of it. It’s pretty swanky. Very expensive. They even have a dress code. Why do you ask?

Merle was grinning, his thumbs flying across the keyboard to respond—he was still tryin’ to grasp this whole smartphone thing, what with all the texting and social media, but he thought he’d done a pretty damn good job of keeping up so far, even if his typing habits were still very reminiscent of the days of T9 and flip phones. If only he could remember even one Facebook password so he didn’t have to keep creating a new account every few months…

U ever been?

Maybe once in high school with my parents to celebrate something, I can’t really remember. But not since then. Have you?

Dnt think my type is allowed in there
But mayb theyll make an exception if i dress up real nice

Lol I have a feeling you clean up very nicely. I’d love to see it for myself sometime :) 

Next Friday. Higher Steaks. 7pm. U n me
How does tht sound?

Felt like his damn heart was racing a mile a minute. He stared at the screen, gripping the phone in both hands and waiting for her to respond. He was already itching for another cigarette.

Jesus Christ. When was the last time he’d felt this nervous and giddy over a female? He honestly couldn’t remember. High school, probably?

Made him feel dumb and pathetic. But hey, what else was fuckin’ new.

That sounds nice. Maybe even fun.
Do you want to pick me up or should I get an Uber?
I will definitely be having a few strong drinks while we’re there, just fyi. Or at least a fair amount of wine :P 

Merle’s heart leapt and beat a little faster. He couldn’t type back fast enough.

No, literally—he could not type fast enough to save his fuckin’ life. Stupid goddamn tiny screens on these stupid goddamn phones. When the hell had everyone agreed to ditch the physical keyboards on these things?!

I can pick u up if u want
Ud hv 2 give me ur address tho

I know how it works lol
Are you going to be drinking? Maybe we should both Uber.

Idk if uber will come all the way out 2 my place

Oh yeah, I forgot lol
Okay, I guess you can pick me up.

Merle was grinning ear-to-fuckin’-ear throughout the rest of their text exchange, solidifying their plans and getting her address, setting a time to pick her up and promising to dress himself as proper as he could for such a fancy place.

And once they’d said goodnight, he had to chainsmoke a few cigarettes and chug a few beers just to shake off the nerves and allow himself to revel in the success of his endeavor. He immediately called the restaurant and made a reservation: 7 p.m. next Friday. Table for two. “A fancy candle right in the middle, if ya got it.”

He spent the next two hours mapping out an exact plan and schedule for leaving the house, picking Frankie up, and arriving at the restaurant. He looked up the menu online and damn near memorized it. Did the same for the dress code. He went into his closet and rifled through every bit of clothing he owned only to realize he didn’t have anything that was appropriate past some dusty old funeral attire he hadn’t used in over a decade. 

Shit. He needed to go shopping.

The next Friday finally arrived, and Merle was more than ready for it. He’d dragged Daryl along earlier in the week to help him buy a proper outfit and wound up leaving with not one, but three different options. He started getting ready at 9 a.m. by visiting the local barber and getting a much-needed haircut and shave. By noon, he was showering and spritzing on some cologne. Then he spent the next few hours changing his outfit all three times as he cycled through the options and suddenly realized none of them felt right. He had no idea what Frankie would be wearing, but he already knew he’d look like some kinda fuckin’ hobo next to her. 

“Jesus fuck, I look like a goddamn geriatric nursing home resident,” Merle lamented as he stared at himself in the mirror, absolute devastation crinkling his face. He’d gone with a dark blue button-up (his brother claimed it “brought out his eyes,” whatever that gay shit meant), sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tucked into a pair of nice, black slacks with a leather belt and a black pair of dress shoes. “She ain’t even gonna get in the fuckin’ car with me!”

Daryl rolled his eyes, scrolling through his phone as he sat on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffeetable. “Yer overthinkin’ this shit. Jus’ settle on somethin’ an’ get the hell outta here. ‘M sick’a hearin’ you whine.”

“Yer sayin’ that ‘cause ya know I’m right,” Merle admonished. He stepped out into the living room of the cabin and did a full turn, arms held out like a toddler. “Jus’ fuckin’ say it… I look like a clown. Like a goddamn jester gettin’ ready t’perform fer the king. She ain’t even gonna lemme buy her dinner once she sees me in this clown suit.”

Daryl sighed, dragging his eyes up from the screen of his phone. “If she didn’t tell you t’fuck off after you asked fer a happy ending, she ain’t gonna say no to havin’ dinner with you. No matter how fuckin’ stupid y’look. Just nut up an’ follow through.”

Merle reckoned he was probably right.

Or, at least, desperately hoped he was.

As Merle chugged a beer for a bit of liquid courage, watching the clock inch closer to 5:30—the exact time he planned to leave and head into Atlanta—Daryl remarked, “Since when d’you care so much what some broad cares ‘bout how ya look? ‘F yer takin’ her out to such a fancy place, she’s prob’ly gonna put out, anyway.”

Merle frowned, turning away so his little brother couldn’t see any expression on his face that might give him away. “I’ono. She’s jus’... different. Pretty sure I can get in her pants, but… Shit, she’s way the hell outta my league. Young, too. Think she might…”

His thought, and voice, trailed off. He was too afraid to finish it, not only aloud but most of all, in his head.

“Think she might what?” Daryl urged.

“Nothin’,” Merle said quickly. “Forget it.” It was only 5:13, but he was ready to leave. “I’m headin’ out. Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone.”

“Can’t stop me,” Daryl called after him as the front door of the cabin closed. 

The drive to Atlanta took an hour, and Merle resisted the urge to smoke the entire time. He didn’t wanna stink himself up. 

Though once he’d followed the GPS and navigated his way to Frankie’s apartment, he parked at the curb and stepped out to have himself a cigarette. He simply couldn’t face her like this, a walking bundle of nerves. Jesus, his hands were damn near trembling.

As soon as he took the last drag and snuffed the butt out beneath the toe of his brand new dress shoes, he went into the glovebox and retrieved the bottle of cologne he’d brought along. Gave himself another spritz—just enough to cover up the cigarette smell, not so much as to be overpowering. Then he texted her.

Parked @ the curb out front

When she didn’t respond within an entire minute, he sent another text:

Want me 2 come inside ?

But just as he’d pressed Send and raised his head, he saw the glass doors of the apartment complex opening. And there she was.

Holy. Fuck.

He’d read a lotta novels in his day. Heard a lotta things about being “weak in the knees” at the sight of someone. But he couldn’t say he’d ever really experienced it for himself.

Until now.

His jaw was probably on the sidewalk. His eyes were probably doing that thing like in the cartoons, bulging out of his head and forming hearts. If he were more of an animal, his tongue would definitely be rolling out of his mouth like a red carpet for her to walk upon.

He’d never seen somebody so fucking gorgeous in his entire life.

Frankie looked just as smokin’ hot as when he’d met her in the office where she worked, yet totally different at the same time. Her coppery red hair was curled at the ends, falling soft upon her shoulders and framing her face. And her face—oh, lord, he didn’t think it could get more gorgeous, but she was provin’ him wrong in every way she could. The slightest bit of makeup was only accentuating all of her naturally beautiful features. And he hadn’t even taken in the rest of her… she was wearing a form-fitting black dress that stopped just above her knees, sleeveless to show off her perfectly toned arms. Her legs seemed to go on for days. And her toes were freshly pedicured, peeking out of the black high heels that offered a slight lift to her calves and her tight little ass. The collar of her dress stopped mid-chest, so there was no cleavage on show, but her tits looked magnificent beneath the thin layer of fabric, and every inch of skin that was showing was so smooth, so delectable, that he couldn’t help thinking about tracing his tongue across every single bit of it.

He bet she tasted real good. Sweet as fuckin’ molasses.

Christ—was he drooling? He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, just in case.

She was holding a little black clutch purse in her hands, approaching him with a smile. She glanced towards the car behind him. “You’re early, Mr. Dixon.”

Merle huffed out an attempt at a laugh, yet it died in his throat and escaped as something closer to a choked whine. He quickly cleared his throat and attempted to compose himself. “Sorry. Guess I was gettin’ a li’l too excited ‘bout seein’ ya again.”

Her smile widened. “That’s okay.” Then she gave him a once-over, nodding in approval. “I was right—you do clean up nicely.”

He felt himself blush, glancing down at himself and smoothing out some wrinkles in his shirt. “Thanks. Believe it or not, I tried.”

She chuckled. “I believe it.”

“Jesus, woman,” he said, unable to keep the thought to himself. “You look like a goddamn paintin’.”

She blushed. “What’s that mean? Are you saying I look like a Jackson Pollock or somethin’?”

“Who’s that?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing and blushing. “Nevermind. I was just hopin’ you meant I look like a pretty painting and not some abstract mess.”

“The fuckin’ prettiest,” he clarified. “Dunno shit about art, but if I did, I’d compare you to the most beautiful piece known to man.”

“Good lord,” she remarked, cocking an eyebrow and looking him up and down like she didn’t quite believe him. “Don’t hold back, now.”

He barked out a laugh, half-nervous. “Didn’t plan on it.”

He’d never really done this before, but he knew the routine. He knew how to properly do it, he’d just never bothered. Never felt like he’d ever met anybody that was worth the effort. Yet with Frankie… shit. She was worth all of it.

All of it and then some. More than he’d ever had or would have.

Would she be willing to settle for the likes of him?

Christ… who even was he? He was thinking about her settling for him. Wasn’t focused solely on landing her for a night. Nah. He was focused on something longer lasting, something more meaningful.

He’d known her for all of a week and she’d already changed him.

It was both terrifying and thrilling at the same time. The kinda rush he hadn’t gotten since winning at the horsetrack.

He hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door of his beat-up little car for her—he’d bought it cheap off Craigslist not long after getting out of the hospital, just for the sake of having a practical vehicle that wasn’t his bike or Daryl’s old-ass truck, and now he was hoping she wouldn’t be disgusted or put-off. He’d cleaned it out and gotten it washed just yesterday in preparation for their date. 

She thanked him and lowered herself into the passenger seat, and he waited until her legs were inside and she was settled before shutting the door. Then he rushed to the driver’s side and got in, hesitating with the keys in the ignition as he looked over and took in the very sight of her. Sitting in his shitty car. Looking as fucking incredible as she did. 

Christ almighty, she was like an angel sent from Heaven. And how the fuck had he traversed this far from Hell to meet her?

Swore he could feel the cracks in his nails from the crawl it took to reach her. Still felt like he wasn’t anywhere close to where she was. She was downright slumming it with him. What the hell had he been thinking, asking out this gorgeous creature? 

Guess that’s just what he always did. He was always shooting his shot, usually way above his league, never expecting an actual response. Yet this time… he’d gotten it. She was giving him a chance.

Don’t fuck it up, you idiot, he told himself. Over and over and over, throughout the drive to the restaurant, while parking, while opening her door, and even while stepping into the restaurant with her and sitting with her at their table.

He was almost certain that every waiter in the place was looking at them like they were crazy. Like he was some bumfuck nobody taking out a hired escort or something. They could all see that she didn’t belong with him. That he didn’t deserve the likes of her.

Yet he also felt a swell of pride at the fact.

Yeah, look at this, motherfuckers. Ol’ Merle ain’t doin’ too bad for himself, huh? With this smokeshow at the table with me, I could do just about anything. I can take on the whole world. Just watch me.

Turns out, I ain’t nothin’ like my old man. Never have been. Never will be. 

Even a dog like me can have his day.

Dinner at Higher Steaks with Frankie went… surprisingly well, if Merle were being honest. 

He’d fully expected himself to fuck something up or ruin the whole night. Didn’t know how, just kept expecting it. Yet it never happened. Even when he didn’t know how to keep his big mouth shut.

She laughed at his stupid jokes and crude humor. Threw back some of her own—he had to stop himself from declaring his love every fifteen minutes or so considering the fact he’d never expected her to have such a similar sense of humor, let alone to be so open to his crass remarks. 

And they actually talked. Shared a lot of shit he’d never thought he would care about. She admonished him a few times, sure, but that was nothing new for him. He needed it. Kinda liked it, especially when it came from such a beautiful woman. As they sipped wine and feasted on some very high-priced steaks and lobster tails, they learned a lot about each other. And for the first time in… well, probably his entire life… Merle found himself actually giving a shit. 

Near the end of their dinner, the realization hit that he cared about everything this woman had to say. Everything she thought. Every opinion she had.

Shit. I’m in trouble.

The only instance throughout their two-hour meal that made him truly second-guess himself was when a table nearby started getting particularly loud. Not loud enough to disrupt anything, really, but just louder than the general volume of the restaurant and its patrons. Merle paused what he was saying and glanced over at them with a scowl, and he noticed it was a family of Black people.

Figures, he thought. Guess this is why I don’t come into the city much.

He groaned quietly and stabbed his fork into a bite of steak on his plate, rolling his eyes. “Usual suspects,” he muttered. 

But Frankie fell silent very suddenly.

He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, noticing the look on her face and the abrupt silence. “Wha’s wrong?”

She glanced over her shoulder towards the table where the Black family sat, then back at him. She frowned. “What’d you just say?”

He scoffed, barely thinking twice about it. “I said, usual suspects. Y’know…”

They were in public, after all. And that table was within earshot of them. He wasn’t tryin’ to cause a scene or nothing. Not tonight, of all nights.

Her brows knit together and her frown deepened. Yet her eyes stayed locked on his, even as she brought her wine glass up to her lips and took a long sip. She swallowed and smacked her lips lightly. Then she asked, “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

Merle suddenly felt self-conscious. Well—he felt a certain level of self-consciousness throughout the entire dinner, but this was different. Should he bite his tongue right now? “I’ono. Jus’... ya know.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Those types can be loud in places where it ain’t appropriate.”

Frankie’s beautiful blue eyes narrowed, as though she were trying to see through him from across her wine glass. Then she exhaled through her nose and rolled her eyes. “Um, okay… Anyway, what were you sayin’ about your brother? Something about…”

Their conversation got back on track after that and he thought nothing of it. Hoped it meant nothing. Prayed he hadn’t fucked this shit up before the check could even be dropped.

He chose his words a lot more carefully for the remainder of their meal. But he still felt like he was being scrutinized more deeply than before. 

When it came time for the check and their final glasses of wine, Frankie’s cheeks were pink with a natural blush that shone through her makeup. And Merle had been resituating in his seat every few minutes, struggling to conceal the half-chub that kept popping up every time she laughed or made eye contact.

Christ. If she didn’t let him between her legs tonight, he would definitely be going home and jerking off violently. 

The waiter came by and dropped off a fancy black book. Merle grabbed it up before Frankie could even set her wine glass down, opening it to glance at the check. His eyes widened instinctively, but he played it off. Wasn’t like he hadn’t been well aware of the prices beforehand. Wasn’t like he hadn’t already planned to pay for the entire menu, if that’s what she decided she wanted.

Then, as he reached into his pocket for his wallet, he caught a glimpse of her opening up her little clutch purse and reaching in.

“The hell you doin’?” He asked.

She furrowed her brow. “Nothin’. I mean—you did offer to treat me to dinner. But I figured I could at least pay for all the wine I drank.” She smiled bashfully. “I can be kind of a lush sometimes. And that one cocktail I got was like, forty bucks.”

“Put that shit down, woman,” he demanded, though gently. “You try’na embarrass me in this fancy ass restaurant, like I can’t afford t’pay fer you an’ yer drinkin’ habits?”

“Can I at least cover the tip?”

“Hell no.”

“Do you promise to tip at least twenty percent?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I will.”

Frankie rolled her eyes, though it was playful. She closed her clutch and set it back down in her lap. “Fine then. If you insist, Mr. Dixon.”

“Well, I do insist, Miss…” he hesitated, his face scrunching up in question. “Shit, I jus’ realized I ain’t even got yer last name yet.”

She laughed. “Meyers.”

Merle chuckled. “No shit? Like Michael?”

“No relation,” she quipped.

“You got a particular fondness fer Halloween?”

“Not usually. But I could… if you manage to get on my bad side.”

She smirked devilishly and he had to, once again, resituate in his chair at the sight. 

Jesus. This broad was gonna be haunting all his thoughts for weeks to come. He could already tell. 

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

As they drove away from the restaurant and back towards Frankie’s apartment, Merle was fighting to sit still in the driver’s seat.

She made small talk here and there, and he tried to keep up, but admittedly, he was fuckin’ drowning. He just kept glancing over at her bare legs that peeked out from beneath her dress. Actually thought about sniffing the seat once she’d gotten out, just to have something he could really jack off to. 

Once he parked beside the curb and hurried out, rushing over to open her door and let her out, he was having one hell of a time fighting to conceal the boner in his pants. 

Frankie stepped out of the car, little black clutch in hand, and thanked him. Then she stepped up onto the curb and toward the front entrance of her apartment complex. Merle wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to do at this point, so he just followed after her like a well-trained dog.

When they reached the door, they both stopped, facing one another. He reached out and grabbed hold of the handle, ready to pull it open and hold the door for her.

Yet she stood in place, looking at him with expectancy.

Or… no? Was it…

Hope?

Her legs were squeezed together, her little black clutch gripped in both hands like a lifeline. Her whole face was pink, like she was blushing all over.

Was that—?

“Thank you for dinner. I had a real nice time, Merle,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper on the wind.

He grunted, unsure of how to respond. “Hell, girl, I should be the one thankin’ you fer even givin’ me the time of day.”

His voice was too hoarse, too rough, too loud. The total opposite of her. She was real pretty, real nice, real fragile under the tough exterior. He was all sharp edges. She was all soft corners. 

He was all dirt and trailer park and the scrape of coins. She was all grass and white picket fences and the brush of dollar bills.

What the hell kinda business did he have thinkin’ he could fool around with her…?

Then, before he could so much as close his eyes, she was leaning forward and pressing her lips to his. 

Oh, shit. 

And who the fuck was he to say no to a beautiful girl like this throwin’ herself at him?

Boy, was he glad he’d popped that complimentary after-dinner mint at the restaurant.

He kissed her back, long and sensual. The softest he reckoned he’d ever kissed somebody in his whole life. Released his grasp from the handle of the door to bring both hands up and gently grasp the sides of her head, bringing her closer. He felt one of her hands drift up to cup his jaw. He pushed his tongue forward, breaking past the barrier of her lips to enter her warm, wet, wine-sweet mouth. 

She tasted like Heaven.

As if he’d ever know. But he could imagine.

Their bodies drew closer, like magnets, until he was suddenly holding her against him without realizing he’d done so. And she was moaning softly against his mouth, kissing him harder, more passionately. He was tracing his tongue along the backs of her teeth. God, she tasted good.

When they finally broke apart for air, he sucked in a deep breath and opened his eyes to find the immense blue depths of her gaze staring into his fuckin’ soul. “Are you gonna come inside?”

He blinked rapidly, fighting back an impulse reaction. Cleared his throat. Licked his lips—found traces of her taste and swallowed them down. Then he huffed out a breath and asked, “Say again?”

She chuckled. “You pervert. I mean, my apartment.”

“Oh.” Right. Right, right, right, of course. “‘F y’want me to.”

“Well,” she said, batting her eyelashes. Then he felt her hand wrapping around his, interlacing their fingers. “I want you to.”

He walked like he was navigating a dream, half-conscious and practically floating. Followed her like a good dog. She led him through the doors, the lobby, up the stairs, and into her apartment. As he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, he gazed around in awe. It was a real swanky place. No holes in the walls, no scuffs on the floor or frays in the carpet. All the furniture looked either new or gently used, not a stain in sight. And it was clean as hell. Smelled like the fresh bouquet of flowers that were sitting in a vase in the center of her dining room table.

Shit. Flowers! He should’ve fuckin’ bought her flowers! He’d shown up empty-handed like a goddamn idiot.

She was slipping the heels off her feet when he said, “Shit, I knew I forgot somethin’.”

Frankie turned to give him a questioning look.

“Flowers,” he huffed out, deflating. “I shoulda brought ya a damn bouquet.”

To his surprise, she rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Did you at least bring a condom?”

Merle blinked, stunned silent. His dick twitched in his pants. Then he croaked out, “I—yeah.”

She bit her lip and gave him a slow up-and-down with real sultry eyes. “Then we’ll call it even. Now get those shoes off before you walk through my house.”

He exhaled a half-choked breath, immediately slipping his shoes off. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Pants, too,” she called over her shoulder, already turning a corner into a short hallway that led to her bedroom and bathroom.

Didn’t have to tell him twice. He knew how to sit, stay, and fetch.

Her bedroom was just as nice as the rest of her apartment. The bed was real soft, the sheets and comforter and pillows all clean and smellin’ like dryer sheets. He didn’t get much of a chance to look around though, because she was grabbing him and pulling him close no sooner than he’d passed the threshold, kissing him with a kind of hunger he’d never really encountered with any of the women he’d swindled into sleeping with him. His heart raced and his cock grew hard within seconds, throbbing and jutting out from beneath his boxers. 

She let him unzip the back of her dress before she slid it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, pooling around her feet before she stepped out of it. He stole what glances he could of her body before she was back on his mouth—the matching set of panties and bra, all her porcelain skin so firm and taut, every curve just beggin’ to be touched. She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor behind him as their lips crashed back together. 

Fuckin’ shit, he was harder than he’d ever been in his life.

He unsnapped her bra and finally freed her perfect, perky tits, groaning at the feel of her peaked nipples brushing against his chest. He oughta be careful, he might just blow his load before he could even get his undies off.

Then they were collapsing into her bed, all tangled up together and making out like a couple of horned-up teenagers. He reached down to run his fingers between her legs, already able to feel how wet she was through the thin cotton of her panties. Christ, he needed to taste her, be inside her, fuckin’ worship her however she wanted him to. However she would allow him to. 

That was the first moment he should’ve known just how fucked he was… he’d never, ever thought about worshiping a woman. Not even once. But that’s all he wanted to do for Frankie. Whatever it took to keep her pretty little hand wrapped around his leash.

Instinctively and like a well-worn bad habit, his hand grasped her hip and he moved to flip her over, but she stopped him. Broke their kiss and whispered out, “What’re you doing?”

He opened his eyes, staring down at her blown pupils through a drunken kinda haze he wasn’t familiar with. “Turnin’ ya over…?”

“Maybe later,” she murmured, smirking. She dug her nails into his back, hooked her ankles behind his knees, and urged him in closer. “I wanna be able to look at you.”

He couldn’t help being genuinely fuckin’ confused. “Huh? Me? You sure y’wanna keep the lights on an’ everythin’?” He’d been expecting her to reach over and switch off her bedside lamp at any moment, but she’d made no move toward it yet.

She huffed out a half-laugh, her saccharine breath hot against his upper lip and tingling in his nose. “Yes, Merle. Believe it or not, I’m very attracted to you. And very horny.”

Okay, on second thought, maybe there were some kinda anti-psychotic meds she hadn’t been taking.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she only pressed hers against it to shut him up, effectively silencing anything he might’ve been about to say. Especially once his cock was rubbing against her wet center, earning a friction that made him groan from the very back of his throat and rock his hips toward her, desperate for more.

“Now fuck me, Dixon,” she whispered against his lips. “Before I change my mind.”

It wasn’t like he was gonna tell her no. Ever.

But oh, boy… he was in deep, deep trouble. Because even while he was so hard that he could barely think, so engulfed by her body and ready to drown in the blue of her eyes, one singular thought kept repeating inside his head.

I think I’m in love with this woman.

Chapter Text

Part Three: positive reinforcement vs. aversize correction

Merle slept over that first night. Willingly cuddled all the way ‘til morning. Didn’t even think about trying to slip out before she woke up, or trying to slip out at all. In fact, he wasn’t sure he wanted their time together to end. 

Yeah, he was a goner for this chick. Completely and utterly fucked.

Over the next two months, they went on several more dates. Wound up at her apartment and spent the night together every time. They’d even started hooking up in the car before their actual plans, whether it be a restaurant or a movie or a bar. Couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. And she was a crazy kinda gal. He liked that. She’d drag him into the bar bathroom randomly to fuck him in a stall, or discreetly jerk him off in the very back row of a movie that no one else was seeing. And he’d eaten her out on damn near every surface in her apartment. He’d never much cared for going down on ladies, but with her… Christ, he could have her for every damn meal. He was certain he’d never tasted somebody so damn sweet. He was desperate just to make her come, to hear her moan in pleasure, to see the way her chest heaved, to feel her thighs tremble in his hands, to earn her praise. 

And praise him, she did. She gave him all the blowjobs he ever could’ve wished for, complimented him, made him feel actually fuckin’ desirable and wanted for the first time in… probably his whole life. Hell, she told him how handsome and sexy he was all the time. It didn’t feel shallow, either. It felt like she really and truly meant it. Felt like he’d genuinely earned that shit. Which only made him wanna keep earning it. Keep making her happy, whatever it took.

Her birthday was on an otherwise uneventful Thursday during their second month of seeing each other, and he made sure not to fuck it up: he sent the most expensive bouquet he could order to her workplace, and afterwards, he took her out to her favorite restaurant. Made sure to get a very special slice of her favorite cheesecake brought out for dessert, with a candle and a heart drawn in strawberry syrup on the plate. He’d spent weeks picking out an expensive pair of earrings to gift her, which she seemed to love. And then they’d gone back to her place and fucked for hours. He’d been sure to pay her special attention, giving her a full-body massage and going down on her for twice as long as usual. And after all that, what had she said?

“I didn’t need all that, ya know. Just spending the evening with me was enough. We could’ve just cuddled on the couch and watched my favorite movie. It’s all the same to me.”

Well, shit. Of course she told him that after the fact.

He didn’t regret not one part of it, though. He was intent on earning every bit of praise she was willing to give him.

Then one day, she asked to come out to his shitty little cabin and see it for herself, to meet his brother and maybe spend the night at his place for once. He tried to make an excuse—not because he didn’t want her there, but because he was embarrassed of the place. It was so run-down, and he was a slob. He hadn’t done shit to maintain the cabin since he and Daryl had moved in, and he barely cleaned. Daryl did all the cleaning, really. Nagged him to pick up after himself, which he tried. For like, a week at a time before getting lazy again. The place needed a lot of repairs. Daryl had attempted some, but Merle had simply not cared. 

“Lemme guess, you’re a slob living in a shack that’s practically fallin’ apart,” Frankie said, smirking because she knew damn well she’d clocked him. She had him pinned to a T and she knew it, every damn time.

Merle sighed, though he did so with a crooked smile. “‘Course I am, darlin’. Guess old habits die hard. Already told ya I wasn’t raised right.”

“Or hardly at all,” she joked, in a way that only she was allowed to joke. (He didn’t get butthurt when she said shit like that, because he knew she meant it in the same way he meant most things he said. They just… understood each other in that way. It was nice. Being understood like that. It was new and it was strange, but damn, it was mostly nice.) “So you can spend all that money on those properties you bought and rented out, but you can’t spare a little to fix up the place you and your brother actually live in?”

“I’ono. Jus’ don’t seem much worth it.”

“And why is that?”

He paused. Hesitated. Then he admitted, “‘Cause it feels like I won’t be stayin’ there much longer.”

Her brows knit together, her eyes studying his face for a moment. “You’re… planning on leaving?”

“Maybe. There’s this real pretty gal I been hookin’ up with. Been thinkin’ ‘bout askin’ her t’consider movin’ into a place with me. Somewhere new that we can have all to ourselves. Make it our own an’ whatnot.”

She blinked, her lips parting but no sound coming out. She went a little pale. 

His heart fell. Shit, he knew it was too soon. What the fuck was he thinking? He was a damn fool, convincing himself she’d ever be willing to actually live with a piece of trash like him, but he’d kinda been starting to think—

“Merle, is this your way of asking me to be your girlfriend?”

He sputtered. “What—hol’ on, I thought you already was. The hell we been doin’ this whole time if you ain’t been my woman? I been tellin’ everybody who’ll listen that I got myself a hot li’l twenty-eight-year-old redhead fer a girlfriend.”

Frankie burst out laughing, her whole face turning pink. And to his great relief, she leaned in and kissed him, long and slow, still chuckling against his mouth. 

When she pulled away, she batted her eyelashes at him and said, “I’m just fuckin’ with you. Of course, I’m your girlfriend. I didn’t think it really needed to be said.” Her smile faded a bit, and she went on, “But as far as moving in together… I really like the idea. Don’t get me wrong. But I think, maybe we should give it a little more time. Like a few months. We can keep talking about it.”

“What’s there t’talk about?” He asked.

She shrugged. “I dunno. A lot. We’ve only been seein’ each other for a couple months. I don’t wanna go jumping into anything too fast. I worked hard to get where I am, to have my own place, to be proud of what I have.”

“A’right, I get that. I just…” He hesitated, then forced himself to say it before he could convince himself otherwise, “I wanna wake up to you every mornin’. Wanna come home to ya. Wanna shower together an’ have all our meals at the same table. Wanna… I’ono, see our shoes sittin’ next t’each other by the door every night. All that gay, lovey-dovey shit. I want that with you, girl.”

Frankie’s eyes widened, her lips parting in an unspoken “oh” of realization.

“Merle…”

Well, if this wasn’t his chance, he didn’t know when else it would be. 

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought.

So he said it. Pushed it out his throat and past his lips.

“I love you, Frankie.”

The last time he’d said those words to anyone besides Daryl was the day he’d left over 20 years ago. The last time he’d seen his ma.

She stared back at him in stunned silence, and then her eyes were gettin’ all watery and she started trying to blink them away. A tear broke free and slipped down her cheek. He quickly reached out and swiped it away with his thumb.

“Damn, girl, I ain’t mean t’make ya sad,” he murmured. “‘M sorry, I know y’prob’ly didn’t want some shithead like me ever sayin’ sum’n like that to ya, but I—”

“Merle, you stupid asshole.”

Before he could respond, she was leaning forward, grabbing the back of his head and kissing him hard. He felt her smiling against his lips. It made him smile in return.

When she pulled away, he opened his eyes to find her beautiful baby blues gazing at him like he was some kinda dream. Which was crazy, ‘cause if anything, he’d never been nothin’ more than a nightmare for everyone he’d ever met.

“I love you, too,” she said.

His heart skipped. Jumped. Leapt up to his throat. He felt like he could fight the whole goddamn world right now.

“But,” she went on, “I really do wanna give it a little more time before we make a commitment like moving in together. I mean—just the logistics alone. Would you move to the city? Or d’you want me to move to Senoia? I dunno if my car can handle that commute to work five days a week, it’s kinda on its last legs as it is. And where would your brother live?”

Merle scoffed. “I already thought about all’a this. I was gonna ask ya t’settle down in Senoia with me. It’s quieter, safer, the folks’re boring an’ nosey as hell, but they’re real nice otherwise. An’ I got the money t’buy ya a new car, if yer willin’ t’make a little longer commute to work. If not, jus’ switch t’part time. I’ll get a better job t’make up fer the income. I’ll leave the cabin ta Daryl, sign the papers over an’ everything. He can finally have somethin’ of his own, an’ if he wants t’sell it and find somethin’ else, so be it. Ain’t none’a my concern. Or, I guess if ya really want me t’live in the city, I could do that. But I was sorta thinkin’ we’d get a house—a real house, not just an apartment. Somethin’ with a mortgage, a few bedrooms, an extra room you can use fer whatever ya want, a yard, a nice li’l neighborhood where our kids—well, I-I mean—”

“Our kids?” She repeated, blinking rapidly and staring at him with wide eyes. 

“I didn’t—shit, it jus’ slipped out, I ain’t mean—”

Fuck, fuck, that part was supposed to stay inside. Goddammit, Merle, you stupid fuckin’ redneck, you weren’t supposed to start talking about shit like that already. Gonna scare the poor girl off. Him and his big fuckin’ mouth. Shit.

But to his pleasant surprise, she laughed. “Oh my god, you really are in love with me.”

He waved her off, leaning back and avoiding her eyes. “Whatever.”

She laughed again, reaching out and brushing her fingertips across his cheek all soft and lovingly. “Don’t go backtrackin’ now. You said it. That’s alright.”

There was an awkward silence hanging between them, and he struggled to make eye contact again. But thankfully, she spoke first.

Her voice was softer as she said, “I’ve… been thinkin’ about that stuff, too. A little bit.”

He dragged his eyes up and finally gazed into the terrifying blue depths of her stare, trying not to drown. She smirked.

“So,” he rasped out, “maybe we jus’... think about it.”

Her smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Yeah. Let’s just think about it. Get used to this boyfriend-girlfriend thing first. Then we’ll see about those next… big steps. I mean, you haven’t even met my parents yet.”

Shit.

He’d been so caught up thinking about all the other stuff, he’d kinda forgotten about all the steps that were supposed to be taken first. ‘Cause Frankie was a proper sort of woman, and she deserved a proper sort of relationship.

Merle may be an old dog, but he could still learn new tricks. He just needed some of that proper training.

First things first, Merle reckoned it was time to bite the bullet and let Frankie see where he lived. And meet Daryl, he guessed.

The real draw was inviting her to take a long, leisurely ride on his motorcycle through some country roads.

On a particularly nice Saturday, the air crisp with autumn and the sun high and bright but not overly hot, they met for breakfast in the city, went back to her place for a quick hookup, and then drove out to his cabin.

As they drove through Senoia, she remarked on how nice it actually was, quaint and quiet. She looked all around, smiling softly as she took in the sight.

Merle glanced over to admire her now and then, wondering if maybe she was thinkin’ about what it’d be like to raise a family in this “quaint and quiet” little town. He’d always thought of it as more of a shithole, but since prison, since the bullet, since making friends with Rick and a few others and, most of all, meeting Frankie, he’d started seeing it in a whole new light. A couple of little Dixon hellions could be raised up right in this town, he dared to think. If somebody actually tried.

And he was thinking he’d like to try.

Wasn’t like he could do any worse than his old man.

When they reached the last stretch of dirt road that led to the cabin, Frankie’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, Merle, it’s beautiful out here,” she marveled. 

“Yeah, ‘salright,” he agreed. “Woods’re nice fer a little huntin’. Few good ponds nearby. Decent lake ‘bout half an hour away. But the best part is no damn neighbors.”

He parked in his usual spot next to Daryl’s truck, getting out of the car and hurrying around to open the passenger side for her. She’d dressed in preparation for a bike ride—skinny blue jeans, a long-sleeve green tee, and a pair of black Chucks. Yet as she stepped through the yard (freshly mowed, thanks to his and Daryl’s hard work the day before), she still looked starkly out of place. 

She was too damn good for him. Too good for the likes of the inherited old Dixon shack. He wasn’t gonna say anything anytime soon, but he’d been combing through all the listed properties for sale in Senoia, focusing on the houses with 3 or more bedrooms and large backyards. He’d even started adding more than usual to a savings account in preparation, and picking up extra shifts at the scrapyard.

“So this is it, huh?” Frankie said, smiling as she stood in the middle of the yard and looked at the cabin.

“Yup, in all ‘er glory.”

“It’s cute. Real cozy.”

He chuckled. “‘F you say so.” Then he walked over to his sleek black motorcycle parked near the porch, running a hand along the back. “An’ here she is. My black beauty.”

Frankie stepped closer, her eyes widening just slightly. “Wow. It actually is kinda beautiful. Hope you got an extra helmet.”

“Yeah, ‘s in the house. C’mon.”

Just as Merle stepped up onto the porch with Frankie following close behind, the door swung open and Daryl emerged. “Oh, shit—thought I heard yer car. I’s just headin’ out.”

“Where to?” Merle asked.

“Back t’the farm. I just came home fer lunch.” Then his eyes drifted to Frankie. “Hey.”

Frankie put up a hand in greeting. “Hi there. I’m Frankie.”

“Figured,” he said.

Merle reached out and slapped Daryl upside the head. “Mind yer damn manners, boy! Introduce yerself t’the lady.”

Daryl scowled, swatting at Merle’s hand, but nonetheless, he stepped forward and reached out for a handshake. Frankie took it gently. “I’m Daryl, nice t’meet ya.”

She beamed, retracting her hand. “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Daryl’s eyes darted over to Merle, who smirked. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I wanna know. Uh, there’s some chicken alfredo left in the fridge if y’all are hungry. I gotta go.”

As he hurried off down the porch and to his truck, Merle scoffed and shook his head. Frankie laughed. “Damn boy’s awkward as all get out. Still can’t figure out why everybody’s so charmed by ‘im.”

She shrugged. “He seems sweet.”

“Don’t go gettin’ no ideas ‘bout leavin’ me fer him,” Merle teased. “Might be prettier, but he ain’t smarter. An’ I’d bet money that he can’t fuck ya near as good as I can.”

She laughed again as he held open the door for her to step in.

Thankfully, he and Daryl had spent time on more than just the yard—they’d made the inside of the cabin downright presentable. It was cleaner than it had been in years, and smelled a hell of a lot nicer, too. But as he watched Frankie gaze around curiously, he was still extremely aware of all the scuffs on the floor, the holes in the walls, the worn-down furniture and just the general appearance of poverty that was impossible to disguise. There was no amount of paint or deep cleaning that could get rid of the stench of white trash.

“Well,” he finally said, walking over to the fridge to fetch them a couple of beers and pop open the tops. “It ain’t much, but it’s a lot nicer’an when my old man owned it. Believe it or not.”

She accepted the proffered beer with a kind smile, taking a swig as she walked around and took in the sight of the place. “I think it’s nice. Just as cozy on the inside as it looks outside.” Then she stepped toward the bedroom, glancing inside. She quirked a brow and pointed to the big Confederate flag hanging on the wall above his bed. “Just so you know, if we do end up moving in together, that stays here.”

Merle chuckled, hoping it didn’t sound nervous. “Nah, that’s Daryl’s,” he lied.

She gave him a side-eye and a playful smile, and he had a feeling she didn’t believe him. But she didn’t prod any further. 

After a full tour of the cabin, they sat down and ate some of the reheated chicken alfredo from the fridge, spent about half an hour sitting on the porch together and sipping beer while enjoying the nice weather and cracking jokes, and then decided it was time to head out for their bike ride.

Once outside and standing next to the bike, Frankie was already pushing her hair back off her face and preparing to slip on Daryl’s helmet when she suddenly stopped.

“Wait—what the fuck is that?”

Merle had his own helmet halfway down his head and halted abruptly, slipping it back off to hear her clearly. “What’s what?”

She was standing on the other side of the bike—the side she hadn’t yet looked at closely—ready to climb on, but now the helmet was grasped in one hand while her other pointed to a decal on the side of the fuel tank: two lightning bolts in the shapes of SS.

“Jus’ an old decal,” he answered honestly. “Put it on there not long after I got it.”

“So you put that decal there?”

“Yeah… why? Wha’s the big deal?”

“Merle, that’s an SS symbol.”

“So?”

She gave him a look of bewilderment bordering on indignation. “As in Nazis…?”

“‘S just a symbol, girl, calm yer tits.”

Her expression quickly shifted to complete indignation. “You told me your grandfather died in World War Two… fighting Nazis at Omaha Beach.”

Merle shrugged awkwardly, at a loss for words. He could feel his face going pale.

Yet she kept looking at him like she was waiting for an explanation. Or at the very least, an excuse.

“So was that a lie?” She asked. “Did you just make it up so you’d have a family story to tell?”

“No!” He insisted. “Why the fuck would I make that up? He’s still buried over there!”

“Then why the fuck would you have a Nazi symbol on your bike? That’s like, the definition of hypocrisy. Or—I dunno, completely disrespecting his memory, at the very least.”

“I never even met the guy! All we had was stories an’ pictures. ‘S all my old man ever had, either.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, taking a step back as the helmet hung loosely from her hand. “I’m not getting on that thing and ridin’ around with that disgusting decal on there for the whole world to see.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Merle argued. “It’s just a fuckin’ sticker. Ain’t nobody even gonna see us, we’re drivin’ through all backroads an’ shit.”

“I don’t care,” she said firmly. “It’s the principle of the matter. It’s…”

She paused, and suddenly, he could feel the way she was looking at him differently. 

For the first time since they’d met, she was looking at him as lesser than.

Maybe not lesser than her, but sure as fuck lesser than who she’d thought he was. And something about that actually kinda broke his damn heart. Made his stomach knot up painfully, all the blood draining from his face.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel the need to get defensive or accuse her of thinking she was better than him. He wasn’t even offended. He knew she was better than him, and he also knew that she didn’t actually think she was better. 

Hell… she believed he was better than this.

She locked eyes with him and said, very plainly, “I don’t fuck, date, or love Nazis. Or Nazi sympathizers.”

He made a choked sound, unable to speak, let alone argue.

“I can’t believe I even have to say that out loud,” she went on, “but I guess this is what it’s come to. I know you spent time in prison, I know you were raised by an awful, hateful man, but I also know you’re better than all of that. So it might seem like ‘not a big deal’ to you, but it is to me. And if you actually care about me and what I think, you’ll understand why this is a hard line for me. I’m not getting on that bike until you get rid of that nasty shit.”

Merle swallowed hard, heart pounding. And for the first time in quite possibly his entire life, he thought, What’s the point in arguing?

She’s right.

So he nodded in understanding. Held out his hand for her helmet. She gave him a quizzical look, frowning deeply, but handed the helmet over anyway. 

Then he said, “Go have a seat. Grab another beer an’ make yerself comfortable. ‘S gonna take me a minute, a’right?”

The hint of a smile ticked at the corner of her mouth.

Thankfully for him, Daryl was organized enough to keep a well-stocked toolbox in the shed. He was also metrosexual enough to keep a hair dryer in the bathroom. Merle spent the next hour disassembling the plate of the fuel tank, laying it down on the porch, and using the hair dryer, a bottle of Goo Gone, and an Exacto-knife to carefully peel the SS decal off. It came off very slowly in several pieces, but it didn’t fuck up the paint. 

Hell, maybe the whole damn bike was due for a new paint job anyway. 

As he gathered the flakes of the decal and disposed of them in the trash, he thought about his canvas again. 

Just another part to paint over with newer, fresher, brighter colors. The kinda colors my shitty old man never could’ve even been able to picture in that puny li’l fuckin’ brain of his.

All the hassle wound up being well worth it. Merle and Frankie enjoyed a long bike ride through the country roads outside of Senoia, basking in the crisp autumn air and admiring all the colors of the changing leaves.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed herself up against his back the whole time, warm and reassuring. And when he really opened it up on a wide stretch of road, she squealed high and loud, laughing gleefully. Music to his ears. 

He showed her some of the ponds, rode around the lake, showed her several acres of the Greenes’ property where Daryl was currently working. They even managed to catch a glimpse of Daryl out in one of the fields—he looked up from what he was doing at the sound of the bike, as did the little blonde teenager that was standing nearby (one of Hershel’s daughters, no doubt), and Merle and Frankie both waved as they sped past. Merle swore he could see the envy on his brother’s face, even from a distance.

One day, he reckoned he’d like his baby brother to find a good woman like Frankie to settle down with. Though that would be a feat in itself. A problem for another day, far off in the future.

As the sun was setting, Merle stopped and parked the bike next to a real picturesque pond. And he and Frankie started making out, which quickly led to a lot more.

Afterwards, they watched the sun disappear behind the horizon while they sat in the grass of the banks and dipped their feet in the pond, laughing at the fish that came up to nibble at their toes. When Frankie leaned over and kissed him, real long and slow, he couldn’t stop admiring the way her coppery red hair contrasted with the velvety purple-orange of the sunset. 

Yeah. These colors would do just fine for ol’ Merle Dixon.

A few weeks later, Frankie arranged for her parents to finally sit down and meet her new boyfriend over dinner at a nice restaurant.

And somehow, Merle didn’t completely fuck it all up. Somehow, against all odds, he played the part of “dutiful boyfriend” and “mature, respectful gentleman” just well enough that they deemed him worthy. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d done. Couldn’t quite figure where he’d placed the pieces correctly, or what he’d said to endear them. But they were satisfied enough to give Frankie their blessing, and even to give Merle a hug before they left (well, her mom did, but he figured a firm handshake from her dad was about as affectionate as the grumpy old fucker would ever get).

She and Merle had been rigid and high-strung for the entirety of the dinner. They’d treated her parents to an expensive meal at a swanky restaurant in Atlanta, sharing a table and sitting across from them the whole time, facing questions like it was an interrogation. Frankie’s dad had scowled more than a dozen times. Her mom had sighed and pursed her lips even more than that. But all in all, it ended successfully. 

And Merle only knew because, once her parents were making their exit, she flashed him a smile and leaned in close to whisper, “They actually like you.”

He shrugged. “Who wouldn’t? I’m likeable as fuck. Jus’ wait ‘til they meet Daryl. Gonna be downright enraptured. What with his baby face an’ all.”

She laughed, rising from the booth and reaching out her hand for his. He scooted over across the seat before reaching and grasping onto her hand, allowing her to help him out of the booth. As much as he hated to admit it, he still suffered from some pain in his back, and every now and then, he required a little help when it came to standing up from a fully sitting position. They were working on it, though. A lot of those massages were helping.

He wasn’t that old. Not yet. He could still keep up with his much-younger girlfriend.

Then they were making their way towards the front door, Frankie holding loosely onto Merle’s hand as she led him forward. Another group was entering while they were trying to exit—they were all Black, two men and three women. He and Frankie were slipping through just fine, but then one of the men bumped shoulders with Frankie. 

She hissed out with surprise, reeling back and putting out a hand. “Oh—I’m sorry—”

“Watch it,” one of the men said, his voice sharp.

The other man immediately intervened and said, “Sorry, miss, ‘scuse us.”

But Merle’s blood was boiling. His vision was already narrowing on the one who’d spoken so rudely to Frankie.

Spoken outta turn and forgot his place, was what he did.

“Hey, how ‘bout you watch it, boy?” He pushed forward, purposely shoulder-checking the guy who’d made the snide remark.

The guy met his shoulder-check with a stiff form and narrowed his eyes at Merle, scowling. “‘Scuse me, motherfucker? Got sum’n t’say?”

“Yeah, maybe I do,” Merle quipped back, squaring his shoulders and glaring at him. “How ‘bout this, Mr. Yo—show some goddamn respect when a lady’s try’na make her way past ya.”

The guy laughed sardonically. “Mr. Yo? Get’cho corny ass outta here ‘fore I break yer hip, ol’ man.”

“I’d like ta see you try,” Merle challenged without a second thought. “Let’s find a tree, boy, see how tough y’wanna act then, huh? How well can you hang?”

And then the tension rose nearly to the roof within seconds. The entire group turned and focused on Merle, both men squaring up and setting their sights on him, threatening him verbally and pushing forward, ready for a fight, while the women loudly berated him. He put out his hands, shoving back against their chests. It all became a blur rather quickly until the restaurant staff intervened and separated them, pushing Merle and Frankie outside.

Within the blur, Merle hadn’t even noticed the mortified look on Frankie’s face. He was still riled up, hands clenched into fists, muscles all tensed up. He was cursing under his breath, spitting every racial slur he knew and itching for a fight.

Then they were outside on the sidewalk, no one to face but one another.

“What the fuck was that?!” Frankie demanded.

Merle blinked. Went still. Met her red face, her fiery eyes, and found himself at a loss. 

“The fuck y’mean? They disrespected you!” He claimed. “Oughta clean their fuckin’ clocks, the way they acted like no-class fuckin’ nig—”

“STOP!”

His lips slammed shut.

He was a good dog.

But the anger was still boiling and rising beneath his skin. He was still pacing where he stood. He was still antsy for a fight.

“Merle,” Frankie demanded, her voice clear and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

He huffed out a breath through his nostrils, like some kinda misbehaved pitbull. Then he stopped and said, “Dunno what’cha mean.”

She sneered. “You know damn well what I mean. You made a scene—you humiliated me. And the things you said… Jesus Christ, Merle. What the actual fuck?”

All he could do was shrug.

“Oh. Okay,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a large step back. Now she was glaring at him like some kind of… monster. Like he was an exhibit at a zoo, and she was observing in disgust.

He was not the octopus showing its colors. Not this time. He was the chimp throwing his own shit.

And she was not impressed.

“So this is who you really are,” she went on. “Just a racist piece of shit. Exactly how your daddy raised you.”

Without a single thought, he snapped back, “Fuck you!”

His hand itched to raise, to lash out—no, no, no. He was not his father. She was wrong. He’d never, ever lay his hands on a woman. Least of all, this woman. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms until he was sure they were drawing blood.

Her eyes widened, her brows rising. “Fuck me? Fuck you! You ignorant fuckin’ asshole. You really think that was the appropriate way to react to that situation?!”

“He disrespected you! The fuck else was I s’posed ta do, jus’ stand by like some castrated pussy-boy an’ apologize?!” He slashed his arm through the air, desperate to hit something but resisting the urge to even threaten such.

“He was rude, and his friend apologized! People are rude all the time! It doesn’t give you the right to start calling them slurs and-and threatening to lynch them! Are you out of your fucking mind?! And talking shit like that in this city? Are you trying to get shot again?!”

“Whadd’you want from me, girl? Want me ta say sorry fer stickin’ up for you? Huh? Want me to jus’-jus’ change every fuckin’ thing ‘bout who I am so you ain’t embarrassed t’be seen with me out in public? ‘S that it?!”

She pressed her lips together, arms tightening across her chest, and looked him up and down. Her gaze made him uneasy, squirming in his own skin. Like she was seeing right through him. Narrowing him down to a very specific archetype and deciding there was no development to be had, no improvements possible. Just a lost cause. A waste of damn time.

He knew it. He’d known it all along. He was nothin’ more than a lost fuckin’ cause. It was only a matter of time before she realized it, cut her losses, and ran. 

Only a matter of time before she realized he wouldn’t stop tearin’ up the couch and snapping his jaw at the neighbors, and she’d have no choice but to send him back to the pound.

He couldn’t even really blame her.

“See, this isn’t about me,” she said, her voice dangerously low and calm. “It’s not about my parents, or those strangers, or even your dad. It’s about you.”

He couldn’t help but scowl. “The fuck’s that s’posed t’mean?”

“You’ve got a complex, Merle. You’re so convinced that everyone else in the world looks down on you, that you’ve got something to prove… and all it does is hold you back. I have never, not even for a moment, thought I was better than you, or too good for you. I’ve never thought you were lesser than anyone else. But you do. You are the only person standing in your way. You are your own. Worst. Enemy.”

“Bullshit,” he spat.

I’m a good dog. Well-trained. I ain’t pissin’ on the carpet no more. Just put me in the crate, I’ll calm down. I might bark, but I ain’t bit nobody in years. 

Frankie barked out a laugh, cold and humorless. She took another step back, distancing herself from him. Shook her head. “You’re unbelievable. This whole time, I’ve believed in you. Really and truly believed in you. I’ve…” She hesitated, and suddenly, her eyes were gettin’ all watery, her lower lip quivering. She swallowed hard, composing herself, and continued, “I’ve actually let myself imagine a future with you. That house you talked about, maybe a kid or two. I like that little place you call a shithole. And I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt time and time again. I’ve told myself you just don’t know any better, that you’ve just been—been through so much shit, tryin’ to survive, trying to make your own place in the world after growing up convinced it didn’t have a place for you, growing up being told it didn’t have a place for you, and you just needed a reason to be better. I thought I was that reason, or that I could be with enough time and work and-and patience. Maybe with enough kindness, some understanding and grace. Honestly, I really did.”

A knot formed in Merle’s throat. He fought back the tears, ignored the painful twisting in his guts. His voice escaped raspy and desperate, “Y-ya are, Frankie. Yer the reason—I don’t—I can’t—I never wanted ta—”

She put up a hand to stop him and his lips snapped shut. “Don’t. Just… don’t. It hurts enough already. There’s nothing I hate more than being reminded of just how fucking stupid I am.”

Without thinking, he responded, “Well that makes two of us.”

Her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. One slipped free and slid down her cheek. Even from a few feet apart, he desperately wanted to reach out and wipe it away. Wanted to cradle her face in his hands and kiss her, real long and slow. Wanted to erase the last ten minutes entirely, start over from scratch. Hell, he wasn’t above gettin’ down on hands and knees and downright begging.

But he could see it in her body language, in the expression on her face, in the look of her eyes… the last thing she wanted was for him to touch her, let alone be near enough to even catch his stench.

The stink of hatred was all over him. It had permeated his soul long ago, he reckoned. Like rotting meat. 

Did his daddy put it there? Or was he just born this way? Maybe the rot was ingrained in his genes. 

“I guess,” she said, sniffling and swiping the back of her hand across her cheek, “I’m just glad we can both agree on something.”

And then she was turning her back on him and walking away.

Merle just stood there, dumb and useless as ever. Filled with hatred and longing, and a violence that was born from somewhere deep down—a place he could no longer locate or name. 

He wanted to call out to her, but what was the point?

He could only get sent back to the pound so many times.

He could only hurt so many people before they finally put him down.

Chapter Text

Part Four: housebreaking

The next three weeks were a blur of anger, alcohol, violence, sadness, drugs, and mysterious bruises. 

At one point, Merle woke up hungover as fuck to discover a black eye, and all he had to explain it was a very vague memory of Hershel Greene’s oldest daughter giving him one hell of a right hook. He thought he recalled something about the little blonde Greene girl being there, but he couldn’t remember. Could barely even picture the girl’s face in his head. All he could really picture was the pissed-off brunette rearing back with a clenched fist before he could even prepare himself, and the impact of her hit.

He’d been a nuisance all over Senoia and some parts of Atlanta, gettin’ himself kicked out of establishments left and right, gettin’ high with strangers, drinking until he could barely walk. How he managed to end up back home most nights was a miracle, and the fact that his bike hadn’t been wrecked was another feat in itself. He’d been blowing off his shifts at the scrapyard, showing up maybe two or three times a week. Not that he gave a fuck. Somehow, they didn’t seem to give much of a fuck, either. Only proved to make him feel more unnecessary than ever. More unwanted. The only times he was really needed was when the people who were renting his properties reached out, which was few and far between, and even those were normally quick and easy fixes that didn’t require him to be fully sober.

One morning, Daryl came outside to leave for work and found Merle passed out on the steps of the porch. He kicked him in the ribs and cursed at him, told him to get his shit together and “just call ‘er, dumbass, an’ fuckin’ apologize fer whatever stupid shit ya did.” Merle swatted him away, tried to mumble, “Ain’t that easy, y’don’t get it,” but he was pretty sure it escaped as gibberish because Daryl scoffed and went on about his day, leaving him there to rot in his own self-pity.

He’d tried stalking her on social media. But she didn’t post much. She’d already deleted the few photos of them together that had been posted. Made his heart break a little more at the realization. 

At one point, he’d sent a couple of texts during the afternoon on a random Wednesday. 

Can we talk ?
Cnt stop thinkn bout u
Miss u girl
I wld do anything 4 u
I love u

Hours later, he checked and found that she’d left him on Read.

She hadn’t blocked him. But what the hell did that matter? She still wasn’t texting him back. Wasn’t calling him. Wasn’t in his bed.

She’d loosed him from his leash, yet all he yearned for was the comforting feel of that collar around his neck once again. All he wanted was the light tug of her hand tightening on the other end of the leash.

One night, he went out to the bars and blacked out. Came to and found himself between some strange broad’s legs in a bathroom stall, fucking her up against the rattling divider. When he blinked and saw her face—realized she wasn’t Frankie, wasn’t even close—he went limp immediately. He groaned in disgust and pulled out, yanking his pants back up and berating her. She slapped him across the face, shoved him away, and stormed out. And he couldn’t even say he gave a shit.

He pulled out the baggie from his pocket and snorted another line. Then another. After that, he left the bathroom and returned to the bar for another drink. And about halfway through said drink, he was blacked out again.

The next morning, he woke up in his own bed at the cabin and checked his phone. He had 3 new text messages—his heart skipped with hope.

But they were only from Rick. Dammit.

Should’ve arrested you but I know you’re goin through something. Took you home instead.
Talked to Daryl. Maybe you should go to another NA meeting? Worried bout you. I know you’re better than this. Plenty of fish in the sea.
Call if you need anything. Can’t promise I won’t arrest you next time. I’m serious.

Through the haze of his hangover and bleary eyes, his throat parched and desperate for water, he texted back in quick succession, spilling his thoughts:

Thx officer friendly
Owe u 1 fr
Dnt need no help tho
Cnt teach an old dog new tricks
Bk 2 the pound 4 me b4 long

He got up, stretched, yelped out from the sudden shooting of pain in his back, groaning long and loud as he bent over his bed and bit back tears. But once he’d endured the pain until it was bearable, he made his way to the bathroom and hopped in the shower.

When he got out, his back still aching somethin’ fierce, he got dressed and looked around for his baggie of coke. Found it crumpled up in the pocket of his jeans from the night before—empty. Goddammit. There was dust left within it, which he emptied onto the bathroom counter in desperation and snorted, licking the tip of one finger and trying to dab up any remnants to put on his tongue. He groaned with the need.

He still hadn’t gotten back in touch with his old contacts for pills, but he was planning on it soon. Maybe tonight. He could do with a few benzos. Or a few dozen.

His phone vibrated and he snatched it up. Somehow, every damn time, he was still hoping it would be Frankie. Even though it had been nearly a month without a word from her. 

Just another couple of texts from Officer Friendly, Mr. Save-Your-Life-and-Keep-Worrying.

Fuckin’ do-gooder, Merle thought scathingly. 

God, what he wouldn’t do to be more like Rick. Raised right, raised good. Trained up to be a good dog, bred from good stock. Not the rotten seed that the Dixons had birthed.

Understood
It’s Friday, wanna hang out tonight?

Merle furrowed his brow in confusion, but then he figured maybe Rick was loosenin’ up a little. Or maybe he thought he could keep ol’ Merle a little restrained if he was around to supervise.

Whatever. He was gonna be goin’ out anyway.

Sure where?

Wagon Wheel, 7pm
Think you can make it?

Dnt c y not
Wagon Wheels a lil fancy tho idk if theyll let me in

Don’t worry about that, I’m a member

When 7 p.m. rolled around, Merle made his way down to The Wagon Wheel on Main Street. Parked his bike outside and noticed the array of cars parked in the spots along the curb. He recognized Rick’s car, as well as Daryl’s beat-up old truck. 

He tensed, hesitating at the door. Was this some kinda fuckin’ intervention? If he walked in and saw more than Rick and Daryl, he was gonna turn right back around and leave. He was not in the mood for that shit.

But once he entered, he found the place bustling with Senoia locals. It was decorated for Christmas, the walls strung with colorful lights and a Christmas tree lit up in a far corner. Country music was playing from the jukebox. Nearly all the tables were full, as well as the bar. He recognized several faces, though they weren’t people who’d fondly recognize him. He slipped through the crowd, spotting Rick and Daryl sitting together at a table near the back, beyond the pool tables and dartboards. 

He plopped himself down in a seat, glancing over his shoulder towards the bar and already thirsty for a drink. He’d done a couple of shots and chugged a few Natty Lights before leaving the house, but they were about worn off by now. 

“Already got a drink for ya,” Rick assured, sliding a full glass of beer across the table.

Merle’s eyes lit up. “Well, don’t mind if I do.” He took a long swig, swallowing and smacking his lips. “Thanks, Officer Friendly.” Grinning, he glanced between Rick and Daryl. “What’re we celebratin’, fellas?”

Daryl shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

Suspicious.

Then Rick smiled sheepishly, taking a sip of his own beer. “Jus’ thought we’d catch up, Merle.”

Alright. Now it was real suspicious.

Merle’s hand tightened around the beer mug. His eyes narrowed and darted over to his brother, who refused to meet his gaze. Then back to Rick, who looked way too fuckin’ pleased with himself.

“The fuck is this?” He demanded. “Some kinda intervention or sum’n’?” He shoved his chair back, ready to stand up and head straight for the door. “‘Cause I ain’t stickin’ ‘round fer this fuckin’ bullshit, I ain’t need no—”

And then Deanna walked up, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Or maybe she’d been there the whole time and he hadn’t even noticed. He was walking through life in such a blur, a hazy film over his vision that made him practically blind to anything around him that wasn’t gonna provide some kind of immediate euphoria. 

“Hi, Merle,” she greeted, a pint of beer in her hand and a soft smile on her face. 

“Aw, fuck no.” He stood from the table, turning to leave, but then a hand was on his arm—he whipped around, ready to yell in Deanna’s face and tell her to mind her own goddamn business.

But it wasn’t Deanna’s hand. It was Daryl’s.

His baby brother stared back at him with the most pitiful blue eyes he’d ever seen in his damn life. Pitiful enough to throw him back to that day before he left. Before everything changed for the worse.

“Please don’t leave, Merle. Please. Pa’s gonna be so mad, an’ Ma—she ain’t gonna be okay without you here.”

“‘S alright, you’ll be fine. I done said goodbye ta Ma, told her I loved ‘er an’ everything. You’ll make it work. Jus’ don’t fight back ‘til yer bigger, okay? If that don’t work, hide ‘til he wears himself out. An’ take care of ‘er. I’ll be home ‘fore ya know it, then we can get outta here. Ain’t ever gonna have t’deal with his stupid ass again.”

“Y’swear it?”

“I swear it, baby brother.”

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. He’d been so small back then. Sometimes, Merle looked at him and had to fight not to see Daryl as the dirt-covered little blond boy he’d left behind.

Daryl was speaking in his current voice, all deep and gravelly, but Merle could only hear the pre-pubescent voice of the little brother he’d deserted as he softly pleaded, “Jus’ sit down, Merle. Please. Talk to ‘er. Ain’t gotta listen, just gotta hear her out. Then you can fuck off an’ kill yerself however ya like. I won’t even try t’stop ya…”

Merle blinked. His mouth went dry. “Y’swear it, baby brother?”

Daryl nodded. “Swear it.”

Merle cleared his throat, put his hard defenses back up. “Fine. Give us some fuckin’ space, then. An’ get me a shot or somethin’.”

Daryl shot Rick a look, and then they were both rising from their seats, stepping away and heading toward the bar. Meanwhile, Deanna tentatively approached the table and sat herself down across from Merle. She wrapped her aged hands around the glass of beer she’d barely drank. 

There was a long moment of silence between them. They stared at one another—Merle gazing into her eyes like he thought he’d break something. Her staring back like she thought she’d make something. Daryl approached with a shotglass full of whiskey, placing it on the table before disappearing again and fucking off somewhere with Officer Friendly.

Merle grabbed up the shot and threw it back without so much as a wince. Chased it with a swig of beer. Narrowed his eyes at Deanna like she owed him something.

Knowing full damn well she didn’t. She never had. If anything, he should be thanking her for all she’d done for him. 

But a lot had changed between now and the ICU. 

Frankie’s words were ringing through his head—“You’re so convinced that everyone else in the world looks down on you, that you’ve got something to prove… and all it does is hold you back.”—and he’d been trying so hard to drown them out, to drink them away, to snort enough lines to mute them. If only he could get fucked up enough, he could silence her voice completely. If only he could be enough of the piece of shit that everyone expected him to be, then he wouldn’t have to contend with the idea that she’d ever thought he could be different.

“So, Merle,” Deanna started, long and slow, her voice a bit more raised to compensate for the music playing around them and the general buzz of the bar, “I hear you’ve been having a tough time.”

Merle shrugged, taking a swig of his beer and smacking his lips. “No tougher’an usual. Dunno what those assholes told ya, but I’m doin’ just fine.”

“Oh, alright,” she said. So indifferent, so unaffected. It almost drove him crazy. Almost. “Well, I just wanted to catch up, anyway. I don’t think I’ve heard from you since… what was it, summertime?”

“Yeah, since ya recommended me that massage therapist.”

“I remember. Did it help?”

He grinded his teeth together. “A lot. Reckon it was better’an resortin’ to a chiropractor.”

She laughed. “Well, just about anything’s better than that. Do you know the origins of chiropractic medicine? Or what they like to claim is medicine, anyway?”

“Yeah—ghosts in the bones an’ some other whackadoodle bullshit. ‘S why I never gave ‘em a chance. Pro’lly would’a fucked me up worse than I already was.”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “You’re a smart man.”

He scoffed. “You try’na suck me off or somethin’? What’re you here for? Whadd’you want?”

“I don’t want anything, Merle,” she said calmly. She took a long, leisurely drink of her beer. Smacked her lips as though she were mimicking him and exhaled. “I just haven’t heard from you in a while. And the last we spoke, you were doing exceptionally well. I um, I like to brag about you sometimes.”

He frowned, disbelieving. “The hell for?”

“Really? Why wouldn’t I? You’re one of my most successful clients. You are exactly what every public defender hopes for—the prison system is meant for rehabilitation, but you and I both know it rarely actually rehabilitates anyone. And that is mostly to do with how the entire system is designed, but that doesn’t change its intended purpose, at the end of the day, nor the hopes for those of us who still somewhat believe in it. I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I was this proud of someone I represented. Especially someone I actually kept in touch with. You have truly been rehabilitated.”

“Hah. ‘Til now.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Until now? What’s changed?”

He shrugged. “A lot. Everything. Nothin’ at all. I’m jus’ the same ol’ dog diggin’ up graves fer the taste of bones, I guess.”

She frowned, but not in disappointment. He couldn’t quite figure out how she managed to frown without conveying disappointment. “Well, that doesn’t sound right at all. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve made a point of actually avoiding digging up graves. You’ve dug holes, sure. But they were your own. And you weren’t after the taste of bones. If I recall correctly—and I know I do, because I might be getting old, as you love to remind me, but my memory stays sharp—you were all about the taste of meat. And maybe I’m remiss in thinking this, but what good is the taste of meat if it isn’t fresh?”

Merle swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He tipped back his beer, nearly draining it. His eyes darted around, searching out Rick or Daryl. But all he found were Senoia citizens. Just a bunch of strangers who didn’t give a fuck whether he lived or died. 

God, he missed her so bad.

“Y’really brag about me?” He asked quietly, averting his gaze to the tabletop between them.

“Yes, I really do,” Deanna confirmed. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re a success story for the ages. You were a textbook recidivist. All the statistics say you should be back in prison by now… or dead.”

He humphed. Nearly laughed. “Damn near close, now,” he muttered.

“Close to what?”

He dragged his eyes up from the table to meet hers. Narrowed them. “Either or.”

Her mouth worked in a way he couldn’t interpret, thoughts forming behind her eyes that he couldn’t quite decipher. She took another conservative sip of her beer. Flicked her eyes down to where his hands had folded atop the table, then back up to his face. “Yet, here you are. Neither in prison nor dead. Defying every bullshit statistic that was ever made when it came to people like you.”

Without thought, he spat back, “People like me?”

And without offense, she spat right back, “Yes. People like you.”

He deflated. Found it difficult to meet her eyes without an overbearing weight of shame suddenly settling upon his shoulders and within his chest. So he took a long sip of beer instead. His glass was over half-empty. He’d need a refill soon.

As he set the glass down, hands wrapped tightly around it, he sighed. “Gotta be honest with ya, I’m just… a dog. Never been more’an that. You was right that first time we talked, comparin’ me to one. Ain’t never gonna be more’an a dog that pisses on the carpet. Reckon I jus’ been lookin’ fer somebody t’take me in, train me right. But now…” He gulped down another swig of beer. Licked his lips and winced like the words were painful as they escaped, “I’ono that there’s anybody willin’ t’put up with how bad I tear all their shit up. I’m too fucked up. My-my pa did a number on me. I don’t wanna bite, but I think it’s all I know. The hate, the anger—jus’ wanna fight. Wanna hurt people… an’ even when I don’t want to, somehow I manage it.”

Deanna simply looked back at him. Her brows knit together, but not detrimentally. It was like she was studying him. Trying to understand him.

“And what makes you think that?”

He sighed, frustrated. Brought the beer up to his lips and tilted his head back, draining it down his throat. Then he slammed the glass down and burped obnoxiously like it might discourage her. She didn’t even wince. 

“I ain’t no good,” he said definitively. “Never have been. Never will be. ‘S all I was raised fer. ‘S just like Frankie said—”

“Ah, there it is,” she interjected, smiling knowingly. 

He wanted to reach across the table and wring her wrinkly neck.

But at the same time, he wanted to break down into tears right before her.

She cleared her throat pointedly and asked, “What exactly was it that Frankie said?”

Are you fucking kidding me? He wanted to say. Wanted to yell. Wanted to scream. Wanted to trash this entire goddamn bar, throw glass against the wall, pull down that fucking Christmas tree, and demand the answer. What did she NOT fucking say?!

Instead, he pressed his lips tight together, swallowing past a thick knot in his throat. Desperately wished his mug would magically refill with beer. Or whiskey. He couldn’t even meet Deanna’s eyes, his gaze focused instead on the foam left at the bottom of his mug as he recounted, “Said some-some fuckin’ bullshit ‘bout how I’m just the way my ol’ man raised me, how I get in my own way—thinks I’m my own worst enemy ‘cause I got some kinda… I’ono, she called it a complex. Claims I think everybody else looks down on me, an’ I let it hold me back ‘cause I’m always actin’ like I got somethin’ t’prove.” He chuckled mirthlessly and added, “Dumb broad thought she could fix me or somethin’. Like I’m some beat-up car or an old house with good bones.” Then he shook his head, like that would shake her words from his memory.

Nothing could shake her words from his memory. Not even all the drinks and drugs in the world.

When he finally lifted his gaze and met Deanna’s scrutinizing eyes, he saw a look of contemplation on her face. She took a long, slow drink of beer. Seemed to be ruminating on what he’d said. 

Then she said, “That’s very interesting. I think—and forgive me for saying this, because I don’t intend any offense—that she makes a very good point. In fact, I think she might love you so much that she got to know the real you within a span of just a few months.”

Merle scowled. “How the fuck’m I not supposed t’take offense to that?”

Deanna shrugged. “I never said you wouldn’t take offense, I just said I didn’t intend any. The truth hurts, Merle. And it hurts the most when someone you love holds up a mirror to show you your own reflection.”

He almost laughed, but all he could manage was a smirk. “Yer such a fuckin’ bitch sometimes.”

She smiled. “I have to be. Otherwise, I would’ve been eaten alive years ago by men much worse than you.”

He blinked, reflecting on what she’d said. “I never told ya she loved me.”

“You didn’t have to. No one says those kinds of things to another person unless they truly love them.”

“Funny. ‘F she loved me so much, why’d she leave my ass?”

“Well, she sounds like a very smart and emotionally mature woman, so my guess is that she loves herself, too. And when you love yourself and know your own worth, you learn when to step away from a situation that is causing you too much pain.”

“I ain’t never treated her wrong,” he quickly argued. “Never so much as thought about layin’ a hand on her, never called ‘er names, nothin’ like that. I treated her like a goddamn queen. Worshiped the ground she fuckin’ walked on.”

“Merle,” Deanna said, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward, staring into his eyes so intensely that he couldn’t look away, “the relationship your father had with your mother is not the sole blueprint for how not to treat the woman you love. Don’t get me wrong, it was absolutely nothing even close to resembling love or commitment; it was two very lost, very broken people who were convinced that they were stuck with one another. But at the end of the day, simply doing the opposite of what you were raised with is not enough. Not for someone who truly loves you. It takes a lot more than simply not abusing someone to create a healthy, meaningful, and loving relationship.”

He grinded his teeth together, staring back at her and, for once, at a loss for words. He had no quips, no smartass remarks, not even an insult to hurl in her direction.

He knew she was right. But… fuck. Had he not been doing enough? What more did Frankie fucking expect from him? What more did Deanna expect from him?

“I’m really curious about something in particular,” Deanna said after a long moment of reflective silence. “May I ask?”

Merle shrugged. “Can I tell ya t’go fuck yerself if I don’t wanna answer?”

She chuckled. “As if you’ve never said that to me before?”

He smirked. “Reckon y’got a point.”

Then she cleared her throat and asked, “What was it that caused this big fight? What made her say all of those things to you and leave?”

His smirk disappeared. He looked down shamefully and tried to dodge the question by muttering, “I’ono, pro’lly just a culmination of everythin’. I mean, she put up with my stupid ass fer a few months, maybe she jus’ got sick of it. Found her breakin’ point and decided she’d had her fill, that the good shit wasn’t worth puttin’ up with the not-so-good shit no more.”

Deanna hummed thoughtfully. “Right. And what was the breaking point? Or at the very least, what do you think was the breaking point?”

He heaved a sigh of both annoyance and exasperation. But also dread. 

He’d been so adamant about standing beside what he’d said, how he’d acted. So intent on making excuses. Convincing himself that Frankie was wrong for not putting up with it, or that she was just sick of him in general.

But when he looked in the mirror, he saw his old man. Even worse, sometimes when he spoke, it was like Will Dixon was speaking through him. And despite all he’d done to make himself different, he couldn’t just… swallow his pride and break one more awful habit when it really mattered? Just this once? For the woman he claimed to love?

Maybe he was an even bigger pussy than he’d thought. More ignorant and unworthy than everyone who’d ever met him had already assumed.

“Got into a fight,” he finally said, his voice low and tinged with shame. He couldn’t meet Deanna’s eyes, staring instead down at his own hands, picking at his cuticles until they bloomed spots of blood.

“A physical fight?”

“Nah. I mean—almost. Coulda been a helluva lot worse, really. We was leavin’ a restaurant. Just had dinner with her parents. It was my firs’ time meetin’ ‘em, and-and they actually kinda liked me. ‘Least, they approved of me bein’ with their daughter. On our way out, this group’a nig—”

He stopped himself very abruptly, eyes darting up to search for a reaction on Deanna’s face. She seemed unfazed, gazing across the table at him and listening intently. The word was still on the tip of his tongue, so he shut his mouth and ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. 

Then he tried again, “This group’a Black folks were comin’ in as we were tryn’a leave, an’ one of ‘em bumped into Frankie. He was real rude about it. His uh, his friend apologized, but I jus’... I’ono. I got pissed. Saw red. Called ‘im somethin’ stupid, then he threatened me, so I threatened him back, and—”

She interrupted him softly, “What did you threaten him with?”

Merle cleared his throat, his eyes drifting back down to his bloody cuticles. “Threatened t’hang him from a tree.”

He paused but could not bear to look at her face, afraid of the disappointment—or worse, disgust—he might find. She made no sound that implied any sort of judgment, simply asking, “And then what happened?”

“Then it got real heated. They was all yellin’ at me, callin’ me names, threatenin’ t’beat my ass. Usual shit. I called ‘em a few more names ‘fore the employees pushed us out the doors an’ got us all separated. It-it wasn’t nothin’, really. Just a spat. But Frankie was… well, she was fuckin’ embarrassed. Of me. Told me as much. Asked if I was tryn’a get myself shot again talkin’ like that in Atlanta, of all places. I-I was jus’ standin’ up for ‘er. I was jus’ defendin’ her honor… But she ain’t see it that way.”

There was silence. After several seconds, Merle had no choice other than to drag his eyes up and meet Deanna’s gaze. But her expression was unreadable. Then she pursed her lips, nodded in understanding, and took a long drink of beer.

When she set the mug back down, she slid it slowly across the table in offering. Merle wrapped his hand around it and took a grateful swig. His mouth was so dry all of a sudden, his throat tight and constricting. He took another swig before setting it back down and sliding it over to her once more. She put up a hand to indicate that he could keep it. He pushed his empty mug aside and wrapped his hands around the cold, half-full one like a security blanket, clutching it before him.

Finally, Deanna spoke: “So that’s why she said you’re just the way your father raised you.”

He sighed. “He was a real hateful son-of-a-bitch. Hated everybody, even the mother of his children, even the fruit of his own loins. But everybody that was different, even in small ways… he hated them most of all.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But you do realize, after all this time, who he actually hated more than anyone else? More than your mother, or you and your brother, or even anyone with a different skin color or religion or what-have-you?”

“His fuckin’ self.”

“Exactly.”

He’d heard it time and time again. Had come to terms with it a long time ago. Yet it didn’t take away the sting of all those beatings. Didn’t make the scars on his or Daryl’s backs disappear. Didn’t bring their mama back to life. Didn’t change how they grew up or how they were raised to see the world, raised to treat people. 

Didn’t change the fact that Merle had grown to hate himself just as deeply.

“When we feel so deeply unsatisfied with ourselves, so very small in the grand scheme of things, so ignored and overlooked and powerless, neglected, downright abandoned,” Deanna said, “it’s in our nature to lash out. To make others feel the same. Some people turn it inward in the form of self-harm—whether that’s by abusing our bodies with drugs and alcohol and dangerous activities, or outright self-harming with cuts and burns. Some people explode with it, hurling vitriol at strangers or deeming entire groups less worthy in an attempt to feel exceptional, to not only feel, but also be seen as significant. Humans are fragile by nature, soft and kind and loving, desperate to receive in equal what we offer. So when we are fed only hate and neglect and poison…”

“‘S all we got t’feed back,” Merle finished for her.

“You get it,” she said. “Like I said, you’re a smart man. And not just smart as in you’re well-read and rich with experience, but emotionally intelligent, too.”

He scoffed. “Try tellin’—” he wanted to say Frankie, but stopped himself. Instead, he said, “—anybody else that. Won’t believe ya. Hell, even I don’t believe it. I’m just some ignorant, redneck trash piece’a shit. Ain’t know no better’an what my old man taught me.”

“And what if you did? Do you think it could override that upbringing? Do you think, maybe, you could be twice the man your father ever dreamt of being?”

Without hesitation, Merle replied, “Know I could. I could-I could be a better daddy, already been a better brother, could be a thousand times better the husband or-or boyfriend, whatever. Far as I’m concerned, I’m fuckin’ fifty times the man that miserable ol’ bastard ever thought he was.”

At that, Deanna smiled. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes crinkled up in the unflattering light of the bar. The Christmas lights around them twinkled and cast a red-and-green glow over her aging face. She looked downright pleased.

“So you don’t hate yourself,” she said. “Not really. You just hate the thought that everyone you meet might think the worst of you. Because you’re rough around the edges, crass and foul-mouthed, with a criminal record that might prove them right in their assumptions.”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Took a swig of beer. “‘Cause they don’t know me like you. Or Daryl. Or Rick. Or…”

His voice trailed off, and he found himself afraid to speak her name.

So Deanna spoke it for him: “Or Frankie?”

He merely nodded.

“Let me ask you one more thing,” she said, “and then I’ll get out of your hair—or what’s left of it.”

He huffed out a breath of amusement. “Fuckin’ bitch.”

Her smile widened to a grin just briefly, then she grew very serious and asked, “If you could’ve wished to hear one thing from your father—one thing he never, ever said… what would it have been?”

Merle furrowed his brow in contemplation, a million words running through his head all at once, colliding with one another while side-swiping about a dozen different memories. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring down at the mug still clutched between his hands. 

When he didn’t respond for nearly a full minute, Deanna asked, “Maybe ‘I’m proud of you’? Or ‘I love you’?”

“Nah,” he quickly answered, raising his eyes to meet hers. “‘I’m sorry.’”

Her eyebrows rose. “You wanted an apology?”

“Not fer me, exactly,” he clarified. “But fer… Daryl. Fer Ma. Fer any’a the shit he did. Just once. Just one real, genuine ‘I’m sorry.’ Even if he was drunk or high. Jus’ the fact he’d even thought to say it…”

“What would that have changed for you? Or what do you think it could have changed for you?”

“Not fer me. Fer my brother. Fer our mom.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He exhaled through his nose with a tinge of frustration. “Jus’ fer me?”

“Yes. Just for you.”

“Then—hell, I’ono… just… woulda made me think of him a li’l different. Woulda made me think he was takin’ some responsibility. Like maybe he felt bad. Even if it was just the tiniest bit. Woulda made me think… maybe he wasn’t totally rotten to the core. Maybe I wasn’t rotten to the core, ‘cause if he could feel guilty ‘bout somethin’, maybe he knew it was wrong, maybe he regretted some of it—any of it. Maybe he… maybe he jus’ didn’t know any better.”

She hummed like she knew something he didn’t. It irritated him at first, then he saw the look of satisfaction on her face. The smallest smile playing across her lips. Pissed him off at first, made him regret answering so honestly. 

But then she said, “Maybe he knew better, and he just never admitted it. Maybe his pride got in the way. Maybe his ego was so large that it inhibited him from any sort of actual growth he could’ve potentially been capable of. But you?”

Merle frowned, narrowing his eyes. “What about me?”

“You know better. You already said yourself, you’re fifty times the man he ever thought he was.”

“So what’s yer fuckin’ point?”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap and gazing across the table at him like there was some joke she was waiting for him to catch onto. Normally, he would’ve been irritated. Would’ve gotten impatient and told her to go fuck herself, to take her stupid little bullshit psychoanalytical riddles and walk on. But, as much as he hated to admit it (even to himself), he respected her too much.

“You know, one of the big realizations you make as you get older,” she said, “is that sometimes, the simplest solution really is the solution.”

He kept his mouth shut, waiting for her to continue.

She leaned forward, raising her eyebrows, and asked, “Have you tried telling Frankie that you’re sorry?”

He blinked. Looked down. Tightened his grasp around the mug until the pads of his fingers were pressed flat against the glass, the condensation soaking into his skin. 

And… shit. He actually had to think about it.

Had he said he was sorry? Even once? Had he tried apologizing? 

He ran back through their entire fight outside the restaurant—no, he hadn’t said he was sorry. Hadn’t even attempted to make a promise to be better, or different, or anything at all besides his old, shitty self, really. Then he thought about the texts he’d sent, the voicemails he’d left… never once had he said sorry, let alone begged for her forgiveness. All he’d begged for was another chance, more of her time, more of the grace and understanding that she’d already expended upon him until the well had run dry.

Jesus Christ. Maybe his dumbass brother had been right that morning he’d kicked him in the ribs on the porch stairs—”fuckin’ apologize fer whatever stupid shit ya did.” Merle had been so quick to wave it away, to say it wasn’t that easy. But what if both Daryl and Deanna were right? What if it really was that easy?

Well, it wouldn’t be that easy. He had a lot of changes to make. A whole new mindset to take on, an entire legacy of rot and hatred to defy. But what if the first step to that big change was just… taking responsibility?

What if it was as simple as doing the one thing his old man had never so much as attempted?

He blew out a long breath, the realization settling in like a cold and sobering rush of water. He met Deanna’s eyes and felt his own tearing up, despite how hard he was fighting it back.

His voice escaped raspy and half-choked, “What would I even say?”

She smiled. This time, it was with warmth, and the kind of knowing only a mother could possess. 

Then she said, “Well, I don’t know Frankie—or the relationship you two have developed. So I think there are a lot of things you could say, and only you know what they might be. But I’m certain that ‘I’m sorry’ would be a very good way to start.”

Lord, what he would’ve given to have had this old broad as his mama instead of the one he’d been landed with.

Maybe he would’ve turned out alright a lot sooner.

Instead of hitting up his old connects for benzos, Merle hopped on his bike and drove straight home. 

Instead of finding more coke, he cooked himself a meal and ate until he was full, then he washed the dishes and tidied up the cabin before Daryl came home.

Instead of drinking himself to sleep, he laid down and watched one of his favorite movies until he drifted off.

Instead of letting the bright afternoon sun startle him awake with the rising heat on his face, he set an alarm for the early morning and woke up to it. 

Instead of sniffing himself and his clothes and deciding whether it was worth showering and washing, he definitively got up and took a shower, shaved his week’s worth of stubble, and scrubbed every inch of his skin until it was nearly raw and he felt—and smelled—like a brand new man. 

Instead of digging through a crusty pile of clothes in the corner of his bedroom, he threw everything into the washer, then the dryer, and pulled them out all fresh and smellin’ like fabric softener, carefully picking out an outfit that made him look more presentable than usual. 

Instead of skipping breakfast in favor of a few lines of coke, two shots of whiskey, and three beers, he cooked himself an omelette and made fresh coffee and sat on the porch with a cigarette to watch the morning songbirds flutter around.

Instead of riding his bike into town in search of the next place to haunt or the next person to harass, he rode it straight into Atlanta and to the nearest flowershop. 

Then, just before noon, he was standing outside of Frankie’s apartment door, knocking gently with one hand while a full bouquet of daisies and tulips—her two favorite flowers—was clutched in his other hand.

He waited patiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as his heart raced wildly inside his chest. Everything Deanna had said the night before was still echoing at the back of his mind. 

“There’s only one more important thing to remember, Merle.”

“Yeah? Wha’s that?”

“You need to be sure that your apology is for her… not for you.”

“What if… what if it’s for both of us?”

“How do you mean?”

“What if it’s a promise to try an’ be better… not jus’ fer her, but for me, too? You think I deserve that kinda thing after all the shit I’ve done, all the people I’ve hurt? Try’na be better jus’ fer the sake of feelin’ like I deserve somethin’ good?”

“Actually, Merle… I think you’ve given me a new perspective. Do it for both of you. She deserves the best version of you, as does everyone who cares about you. And yes, you deserve that, too. You always have, you just weren’t willing to accept it until someone came along and finally changed your mind.”

He understood. And despite everything so deeply ingrained within his bones that wanted to scream at him otherwise, he knew damn well that he wanted to apologize not only for Frankie, not only for himself, but also for everyone who’d ever put up with him, and everyone else who might decide to in the future.

But he still couldn’t help wondering if Deanna was right. Could it really be so simple as doing something his old man had never even attempted? What if that wasn’t enough for a woman like Frankie? He wouldn’t be surprised, honestly. She was a goddess amongst humans. And like Deanna had recognized (without ever even having met Frankie herself), she loved herself and knew her worth.

She deserved the fucking world, and what did he have to offer her besides a $50 bouquet and a heartfelt apology? After nearly a month of radio silence, all his texts left on Read and all his voicemails ignored, he reckoned he should’ve just taken the hint.

But what if she was The One? Because he felt like she was.

The One.

He’d never even entertained such a stupid fuckin’ thought. One person meant for him, one woman he could commit to and devote his entire life to. What a stupid goddamn idea. Yet, with her… it didn’t seem so stupid at all. She was the one who’d finally changed his mind, after all.

If she wasn’t it, then he figured there was no one else. He’d just die alone. Figured that’s what was meant for him, anyway. 

If she wouldn’t have him, that is.

He waited at least two minutes. Then he raised his hand, knocked again a little harder. Waited another minute.

He was about to heave a sigh of defeat and turn around to leave, ready to set the flowers on her doorstep and hope she knew who they’d come from. But then there was a rustling sound from the other side of the door. The deadbolt clicked. The knob turned. And the door opened to reveal Frankie, clad in sweatpants and a baggy black tee that read Be a good human. (ironic, he thought) with her beautiful red hair thrown up into a messy bun, and not a speck of makeup on her perfect face.

He knew that she’d already known it was him at her door—she had a peephole. She didn’t have to open the door. Didn’t even have to acknowledge he was there at all. 

All the same, she immediately crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. She looked him up and down, her eyes settling on the bouquet in his hands just a split-second longer. Then she met his eyes and cocked an eyebrow, frowning and giving him an expectant look.

“Whadd’you want, Merle?” She asked, her voice heavy with exhaustion and frustration. 

Maybe he was imagining it—maybe he was a little delusional—but he could’ve swore there was a slight hint of pain in her voice, too. A hint of want, of expectation. Low expectations, sure. But expectations all the same.

He didn’t try to fake anything. Didn’t try to put on any kind of show that was disingenuous. Therefore, he didn’t force a smile. He simply cleared his throat, clutched the flowers in his hands and held them out in a gentle offering, and said, “I’m sorry, Frankie.”

Her frown remained, and she didn’t move to accept the flowers. She didn’t move to push them away, either. She met his eyes and blinked, brows knitting together. “For what?”

He’d already prepared for this. Rehearsed it a thousand different ways in his head. Stewed and ruminated on everything Deanna had told him the night before. Looked harder into the mirror of his own character than he’d ever dared look before—and he hadn’t even shied away when the reflection proved to be ugly. 

“For… everything,” he said, his voice wavering momentarily before he straightened his very sore back and attempted to own up. To take responsibility in a way his old man was never strong enough to manage. “Fer bein’ an ignorant asshole. Fer bein’ my own worst enemy. Fer embarrassin’ you the way I did. Or at all, ever. I’m sorry. The last thing I ever wanted was fer you t’feel ashamed of me, or-or bein’ seen with me. I made a fuckin’ fool’a myself. I was ignorant. Still am, I guess. Gonna take some time t’change that. But I want to. Wanna better myself. Ain’t nothin’ I want more in this world than t’be the man you think I can be.

“My daddy was a hateful, awful, rotten son-of-a-bitch. Told myself I’d never be like him, but somehow, I wound up bein’ everythin’ he taught me to be. I don’t want that. You… who I am when I’m with you, when I’m try’na make you happy, when I’m try’na feel like I deserve t’be with you—that’s who I wanna be. Always. Fer the rest of my life, or as long as you’ll have me, whichever comes first.”

His throat was tight, his heart beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings. He watched her face for any sort of reaction, trying to gauge her body language.

And all she did was tighten her arms over her chest, looking him up and down with a very unimpressed expression on her face as she leaned against the doorframe.

But—was her expression softening? Or was he just seeing what he desperately needed to see? He couldn’t be sure.

The silence hung between them like a noose ready to tighten around his neck.

Finally, she said, “You’re a racist asshole. And besides that, you’re a little misogynistic, and very homophobic.”

He hadn’t prepared for this. He replied without thinking, “Damn, girl, one thing at a time.”

To his immense surprise, her mouth spread into a full grin. And she laughed. 

He took this opportunity to try and explain, “Listen, I’m an old dog, but I can still learn some new tricks. I’ll do my fuckin’ best, alrigh’? Fer you. I ain’t—I never, ever felt the way ‘bout any woman as I do ‘bout you. Wanna worship the ground you fuckin’ walk on. Wanna give you everythin’ you ever wanted an’ then some. I’ll change. Fer the better. I swear it. An’ if y’get sick of me, so be it. But I’mma spend whatever’s left’a my life try’na make you happy. Even if it kills me… Shit, especially if it kills me.”

She raised her eyebrows, her smile turned to a cocky smirk as she gazed at him. “Oh, yeah? You mean that, huh?”

He added, almost breathlessly, “‘Course I mean it. Yer worth it, darlin’. I’s ready t’either kill myself or go back to prison without ya in my life. Hell, Rick an’ Daryl had t’stage some kinda fucked-up intervention jus’ to snap me back into reality. It just…” He paused, hesitating as his hand tightened around the bouquet and he met her demanding—no, expectant, because she expected him to be better—eyes. “It ain’t the same without you. Y’done gave me somethin’ worth livin’ for. Somethin’ worth bein’ better for. I don’t wanna be the racist, mean, hateful an’ hurtin’ motherfucker I always been. All them texts I sent, all the voicemails I left, an’ the way we left things that night… took my stupid ass too long t’realize I never even tried t’say I was sorry. ‘Cause I wasn’t. I was too stubborn fer my own good. But I am sorry. If I could apologize t’every person I ever hurt, I would. But yer the only one willin’ t’hear me out.”

She was chewing on her lower lip, staring at him like she was actually contemplating the idea. Then she muttered, “There’s a lot to change, Merle. A lot you’ve got to work on. A lot to learn. It’s not as easy as peeling off a decal. You’d have to change your mindset, open yourself to different perspectives, stop looking down on other people, and mostly… stop looking down on yourself so much. Or putting yourself on some kinda pedestal.” She paused, sighing. “I still haven’t been able to figure out which one is your problem.”

He huffed out a breath with a mixture of relief and agreement. “You an’ me both, baby. But I mean it when I say I’m willin’ t’do all that. Ain’t gonna happen overnight. ‘S gonna take time, an’ a lotta patience… mostly from you, but a lot from me, too. All I’m askin’ for is the chance to try. Figure there ain’t nobody that could train me right ‘cept you.”

She shrugged. “I never wanted you to change who you are. Not completely. Believe it or not, I like you for most of what you already are. I like your dirty mind and foul mouth, I like that you’ve got a sick sense of humor. I especially like that you call shit the way you see it, and that you don’t give a fuck about pleasing people. You never placate anyone, and there’s something I respect about that. I even like your overly-inflated ego most of the time. I just… want you to be less ignorant. I want you to be more open with that big heart you’ve got—the one you try so hard to hide for no good reason. I want you to be a little better. For yourself. For your brother. For the people who care about you.”

He raised his eyebrows, his chest blooming with hope. “For you?”

She hesitated, chewing on her lip again. Then she replied, “Yeah. For me, too.”

He heaved a long sigh, like he was really taking in oxygen and breathing for the first time since slowly drowning in a shallow puddle of his own making over the last month.

“But not just for me,” she clarified, insistent. “For the sake of being a better person. You have to want to be a better person.”

“‘Course. An’ I do.” He paused, hesitating before he asked, “‘F you like this big heart I got so much… Can I tell ya somethin’?”

Frankie smiled softly. God, she was beautiful. She nodded. “Sure.”

“When I was gettin’ outta prison, my uh, my public defender, Deanna… she said some cheesy shit ‘bout havin’ a whole new canvas to paint on with my new life. Since my old man died an’ I was gettin’ out, gettin’ another chance,” he explained, his voice wavering momentarily. He felt like he was cracking open his ribcage and baring himself wide for Frankie to see, merely hoping she wouldn’t reach in and rip out that oversized heart he hadn’t realized was in there until now. “She-she said she was excited t’see what colors I’d choose. And uh, I guess that really resonated with me. ‘Cause I’ve been thinkin’ about it ever since. Thought about it when I won all that money at the horsetrack, thought about it when I got shot, thought about it when I woke up in the ICU. I think about it damn near every day. So I’ve been paintin’ my canvas. Been collectin’ all the colors I want.”

To his surprise, Frankie’s expression softened. Her eyes even got watery, like she was fighting not to cry. Her voice came out quiet and curious, “And what colors are those, Dixon?”

“Haven’t found ‘em all yet,” he admitted. “But, fer a while, I thought the red I wanted was the same shade as blood. Fer the blood between me an’ Daryl… And then I met you.”

She blinked rapidly, yet a tear reluctantly escaped and slipped down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand and chuckled, shaking her head. “Shut up. You’re talking about my hair, aren’t you?”

Merle couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah. That’s the red I want on my messy-ass canvas. No blood. Just that damn hair.”

She rolled her eyes, but only to disguise how touched she was. He knew. He’d learned to read her well enough by now. Could still remember every little thing about her like his favorite book. 

“I think I might actually throw up. Other than telling me that you love me and wanna have a house and kids with me, that’s gotta be the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I know. Pretty gay, too. Y’can make fun of me, if ya want. I won’t take it personal.”

She exhaled loudly through her nostrils, her eyes flicking between his face and the bouquet still clutched in his hands. Then she reached out and snatched it from him, holding the flowers up to her nose and taking a big whiff, her cheeks turning pink.

With the bouquet held close to her chest, she said, “You realize I’m not giving you any more chances, right? If you ever do something like what you did that night at the restaurant again—if you ever speak to, or even about other people like that again—I’m done. I’m not a rehab for ignorant old men. It’s not my job to teach you right from wrong. It’s your job to figure it out on your own and learn when to differentiate the voice in your head from the voice of your father.”

Merle nodded dutifully. “I know. I do. I swear it. All I’m askin’ for is a li’l grace now an’ then. Sometimes, I’m just as stupid as I look. But you can beat me now an’ then, if need be. Put me in the corner. Rub my nose in it. Yank my leash. I wanna learn. Yer worth it, girl.”

She still seemed a bit stiff and guarded. But then, after what felt like an eternity of a moment during which she silently contemplated it, her shoulders relaxed. 

Finally, she stepped aside and pushed the door wide open. “Get your ignorant old ass in here before I change my mind.”

He grinned as he stepped forward across the threshold. “Yes, ma’am.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He was a good dog. Just needed a short leash and a little more training.

And maybe a muzzle now and then.

Chapter Text

notthatdixon: He says a lot of offensive shit
notthatdixon: Idk if you really wanna be around him.
greene.with.envy: Lmao I’ve talked to him before, ya know. I think I can handle it :P
notthatdixon: Ok
notthatdixon: But you can’t say I didn’t warn you about Merle… 
greene.with.envy: Lmao I really don’t think he’s as bad as you say
greene.with.envy: But I guess I’ll find out for myself ;P

-lost in the sauce, chapter 3

Part Five: finding a forever home

6 months later…

“A’right, Darylina, here’s yer stop,” Merle declared, slamming on the brake just for the hell of it.

Daryl jerked forward in the passenger seat, reaching out a hand and bracing himself on the dash. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

Merle cackled.

“Thanks fer droppin’ me off, I guess,” Daryl muttered, rolling his eyes as he opened the door and stepped out onto the front lawn of the Greenes’ property. 

“Thanks fer helpin’ me move! I’ll bring this piece’a shit back after I get done droppin’ off the last load so y’can drive yerself home,” Merle called out, his words nearly drowned out by the slam of the passenger side door. “Couldn’ta done it without ya, my sweet, kind, and generous baby brother! Give Ol’ Man Greene a big fat kiss for me!”

Daryl flipped him the bird without a backwards glance, trudging up towards the big white farmhouse.

They’d spent all morning packing up and hauling the last of Merle’s belongings in the bed of Daryl’s truck. Merle was still beaming, his chest full of hope and anticipation. He couldn’t wait to unpack and really settle into the house he and Frankie had just bought. She was waiting for him at the new place right now, having made her final trip with the last of her own belongings the day before. 

Today, though… today was the day it really and truly started. They were gonna unpack as much as they could, arrange furniture, designate rooms for specific purposes. And then they’d probably take a shower together. Order a pizza and split a bottle of wine. Fuck until they collapsed into a sweaty heap atop the king-sized bed that was now their bed. 

God, he couldn’t wait to wake up next to her every day from here on out.

He backed out of the long driveway that led up to the Greenes’ farmhouse and began driving down the road, slow at first before he could reach the highway and really pick up speed. He was already reaching over to switch on the radio when he spotted a curious sight at the edge of the large front yard, near the road: a girl.

Oh, shit—a Greene girl. Not the older, bitchy one. The baby. All blonde hair and suntanned skin, sitting with her back against a tree and her knees pulled up to her chest, dressed in shorts and a tanktop. And was she… crying?

Merle slowed the truck and pulled up close, stopping to roll down his window all the way. He placed his arm on the edge of the window and craned his head out.

“Hey, blondie!”

She sniffled, raising her puffy, red-rimmed eyes to look at him. 

“Y’alright?”

She hurriedly wiped at her face, embarrassed. Then she nodded. “Y-yeah. I’m fine.”

She probably expected him to keep driving—and he expected it, too—but there was somethin’ pitiful about the way she looked that made him stop and linger. She was still babyfaced, skinny as all get out, and he couldn’t really tell whether she was 14 or 24. He reckoned it was closer to the former since he knew her older sister had just barely become legal within the last five years or so. How far apart in age were they, anyway?

Oh, hell. Not like it mattered. She was jailbait regardless, as far as he was concerned.

He shifted into Park and switched off the engine so he could talk to her properly without all the noise.

“What’cha cryin’ fer?” He asked, leaning out the window and squinting his eyes against the sun.

She shrugged. “Stupid boys.”

He barked out a laugh. “Don’t tell me a pretty li’l thing like you’s worried ‘bout some shitty country boy from this place.”

She frowned, wiping roughly at her cheeks to dry them. “What d’you care?”

“I’ono. Guess I don’t. Jus’ bein’ nosey.”

It was the honest truth. Wasn’t nothin’ more Merle loved than bein’ nosey, gettin’ into other people’s business, hearing gossip and spreading it to anybody who was willing to listen. Frankie kept telling him to mind his own business, but how could he resist? It was one of the only things to do in a small town like Senoia.

“D’you even know my name?”

“Nope.”

“It’s Beth.”

“Cool. I’m Merle—Daryl’s brother.”

“I know.”

Guess she’d heard about him, then. He could only imagine what she’d heard. Whatever. Why would he give a fuck.

“Oh. Okay. So what shithead broke yer heart? Want me t’sic my brother on ‘em?” He laughed again, amused at the thought of Daryl going after some high school kid for breaking the heart of Ol’ Man Greene’s baby girl.

At that, she smirked and looked away quickly, down at her shoes. Her tears seemed to dry up pretty fast, and—was she blushing? “I wouldn’t be against it,” she muttered sheepishly, clearing her throat and raising her eyes once again. “But—no. He didn’t really do anythin’ wrong. I just… it was dumb. Kinda broke my own heart. We were goin’ steady for the last year, but we broke up ‘cause I’m gonna go to college next year. And he-he doesn’t wanna do college. We want different things. So I ended it. I just feel bad about it. I liked him fer so long, an’ I always thought we’d be in love, get married an’ have kids, get a house in Senoia or somethin’, and just do everything together like we always have. But then my feelings kinda… changed. Figured it would be better if we started movin’ on now rather than dragging it out.”

Merle let out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Cold as ice.”

Her shoulders slumped and she frowned. She was picking at the dirt crusted into the creases of her sneakers. “I know. I feel bad.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about all those teenage hormones. About how serious everything felt in high school, like it was all do or die. Well—okay, he could. But it was over 20 years ago. When he was knee-deep in that shit in high school. And even then, he hadn’t had much time for girls and love and heartbreak. He’d been too busy worrying about keeping Daryl fed and bathed, about keepin’ his mama sober enough to microwave a meal and not fall asleep with a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, about fighting off his old man. 

Christ, what he would’ve given to have the kinda problems the Greene girls had.

All the same, he couldn’t help feelin’ a little bad when he looked into the pitiful face of Beth Greene. This was a big deal for her.

And what had he promised Frankie? To be more open to different perspectives, to be willing to learn. His girl wanted him to be a more compassionate human being, and hell, if he hadn’t been doing just that over the last six months, at every opportunity. So maybe this would count for something. It was sure as shit a different perspective, if nothing else.

“Listen,” he said, “this might seem real big an’ bad fer you right now, but trust me, it won’t matter in the long run. Give it a year or two. Hell, give it six months. Y’won’t regret it.”

Beth squinted back at him against the bright sun, mouth all screwed up and face scrunched. “And how would you know?”

“‘Cause I got experience, sweetcheeks. Trust me. I’m old enough t’be yer daddy.”

She scoffed. “Thank God yer not.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, so yer just as mouthy as that mean-ass big sister’a yers, huh?”

At that, she smirked. “I can be, I guess. I’ve heard I gotta be when I’m dealin’ with the likes of you.”

He laughed again. Couldn’t even argue.

“Seriously, though,” he reiterated. “Said yer goin’ t’college?”

“Yeah. I got one more year of high school an’ then I’m goin’ to New Orleans.”

“What’cha goin’ for?”

“Veterinary Medicine. I’m gonna be a vet like my dad.”

Merle chuckled. “Figures. Couldn’t think’a nothin’ else?”

“What else is there? It’s my passion.”

“Y’really are yer old man’s daughter, ain’t ya?”

She rolled her eyes. “Who else would I be?”

Fair enough. He’d never considered that possibility… being proud of the man who raised you, wanting to be like him, to follow in his footsteps and continue his legacy. All Merle had known was desperately wanting to create an entirely new path that diverted far away from whatever road his father had carved for him, because that road most definitely led straight to the lowest circle of Hell.

All he’d known was the desire to cover the splashes of black paint his old man had left with brand new colors he’d never even fathomed.

Merle shrugged. “I’ono. Guess I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” She asked, completely innocent. Like she actually didn’t know and wanted to learn.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether she was playing him for a fool. Then he realized he was talking to a fuckin’ teenager.

She wasn’t trying to play him for anything. She was just young and dumb.

“Forget it,” he said. “Don’t matter. Jus’ some old bullshit ‘cause my ol’ man wasn’t nothin’ like yers.”

Her face fell. “Oh. I… heard about your daddy. ‘Bout how awful he was t’you and Daryl.”

“Yeah,” Merle confirmed, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Y’heard right. But don’t go bringin’ it up around Daryl, y’understand? Jus’ makes him get all cagey. He’s a lot more sensitive than me. He’s a little soft, real sweet. Does him better if he ain’t reminded of it.”

She nodded dutifully. “I know. And I would never. My dad already told me.”

“A’right, good.” He cleared his throat and hocked up a loogie, turning his head to spit it into the gravel next to the front tire. Then he grinned. “Anyway, nice talkin’ to ya, Beth. Keep that chin up, y’hear? Ain’t hittin’ on ya or nothin’, but yer a li’l too pretty t’be cryin’ over some small town boy. Just wait ‘til college in N’Orleans, ‘til ya got some real experience under yer belt, before ya go gettin’ all weepy over breakin’ somebody’s heart.”

Beth quirked a brow and gave him a slightly disbelieving look. Then she said, “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He turned the key in the ignition and started the truck back up, shifting into Drive. He gave her one last glance out the window.

“Nice meetin’ you, Merle,” she hollered out over the noise of the engine.

He cackled as he pressed down on the gas pedal and hollered back out the open window:

“That’s what they all say!”

About four years later, Merle could barely recall the first real exchange he’d had with the youngest Greene. Could barely even remember her at all, quite frankly.

‘Cause why would he? Wasn’t nothin’ to remember. She was just jailbait. Just the younger sister of a much meaner, bitchier, feistier Greene who was ready to throw hands every time he so much as dared to open his mouth around her.

He was a good dog. Well-trained and housebroken, by this point. He’d learned which people would jump back from his bark, and which would smack his nose hard. And Maggie Greene was one who’d smack him real hard. Not even on the nose, but right in the face, just for the hell of it. 

Shit. He reckoned he had to respect that kind of tenacity. At least to a certain point.

But then his little brother started fuckin’ around with the youngest Greene girl. The baby of the family. The most precious, most forbidden fruit.

Daryl, of all people, started toein’ the line of what was acceptable and what would get the Dixon boys run outta town with pitchforks and torches.

When Merle first clocked it, he kept his opinions to himself. 

A new perspective. Somethin’ I don’t quite understand—just ‘cause I don’t get it don’t mean I gotta condemn it. He ain’t know no better. He’ll learn, though. It’ll only be a few weeks, just a piece of ass he’s been needin’ to keep him going. But he’ll get over it soon enough.

Then he was at the bar with them. Saw the way they shot sly glances toward one another. Felt the palpable tension that made the air damn near electric—made it damn near unbearable to be present for. He was fuckin’ uncomfortable with the way he could tell how badly they wanted to get their hands all over each other.

They probably thought they were bein’ real sneaky, too.

Christ. This dumbass was gonna get himself into some seriously hot water.

Merle took it upon himself to have a real stern talk with Beth. She seemed to take his words to heart.

But then she just kept going. Draggin’ his sweet baby brother further and further under. Fuckin’ bewitching him with her pussy or some shit.

Every time she was nearby or even mentioned in passing, Merle could practically see the stars appearing in Daryl’s eyes.

Yet he kept denying it. Even to Merle. Even to Frankie. Claiming it was just a summer fling, that it was no more than sex, that Beth would head back off to New Orleans and they’d both move on as if none of it had ever happened.

Merle may be ignorant, but he wasn’t fucking stupid. And his girl sure as fuck wasn’t dumb: Frankie could see it, too. She’d tried to offer advice to no avail.

And by the end of the summer, when shit finally got real and those two idiots still hadn’t figured out how to cut their old ties, to abandon their dumbass preconceived notions and just admit that they were stupid in love and lust with each other, Merle came to the stark realization that he needed to do something.

He pushed gently at first, but as the weeks and months passed and both of those idiots remained stubborn as ever, he accepted that he had no other choice but to intervene.

Prison time and loving Frankie may have changed him, but none of that could erase his fine-tuned manipulation skills. 

Some might call him Cupid, but it was just his duty as the older and wiser brother.

Besides, he’d already decided on another color for the Dixon canvas. He’d been looking for just the right shade of green. Thought he’d find it in the green of the grass on the other side of the fence—the side of the fence he now shared with Frankie. Or maybe the green of the money that had changed his life completely. Then it hit him very suddenly: the green wasn’t for him.

It was for Daryl…

The perfect shade of Greene.

it’s not over yet…