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"What the fuck are you doing?!"
It takes Merle second to realize that those words came from his own throat – low and deep and made rough by too many cigarettes throughout the years. His rage scrapes from him in the form of a bellow, the words spit past teeth far more accustomed to biting back any kind of retaliation.
The pack of boys he's startled with his shout whirl around and freeze when their wide eyes land on him. Merle's fully aware of what he looks like – brown hair buzzed short, blue eyes narrow and mean; dressed in torn jeans and a ratty tank top that puts his tattoos on full display. He looks like the biker he is, hardened by his life and baring his teeth around the cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth where it belongs. He snorts like a bull, looking past their terrified hesitation at the body curled into the fetal position on the ground.
That unruly tangle of dirty blonde hair would be recognizable to Merle anywhere, and his eyes are dark with the promise of violence when his attention swings back to the punks who have started twitching from the urge to flee. Rolling his head to the side, he exhales a cloud of smoke and squints through it at the one he'd bet his left nut is the ringleader. When he glances down, he sees the tell-tale smear of blood on the tip of the boy's boot, and his rage ignites like a forest fire.
"Y'all got two seconds ta get th' fuck outta my sight," he says, and although his voice may sound pleasant enough, there's an undercurrent of ice and steel that warns the teenagers shaking in front of him that the time for fun and games is done. "Anyone left standin' by th' time I reach three is gonna wish on their Grammy's grave they'd been smart 'nough ta bolt like the rest. One."
The boys scatter, tripping over themselves and each other in their haste to flee. They're fast, their limbs long and coltish from youth, but Merle is faster. He strikes like a snake, fingers hooking in the collar of the leader's shirt and hauling him back until his lips are pressed to the shell of one cold ear. The teenager gasps in fear, struggling to get free, and Merle is nothing but vengefully satisfied when the rasp of his hunting knife being drawn makes the kid whimper pathetically.
"I see you near here again," he growls ominously, and there's nothing carefree or playful about these words, "yer dead. You so much as breathe in his vicinity from now on, boy, Imma do things ta ya that'll make even them terrorist fucks sick. You got that?"
The teenager can't even speak, just nods frantically. Merle sneers at the cowardice and brings the gleaming edge of his knife to rest against the pale, vulnerable throat for a moment. He doesn't try to ignore the vicious curl of satisfaction when the boy chokes out a noise that is too close to a sob to be anything else.
A rough shove sends the kid to his knees, and Merle steps heavily on his back before he can scramble to his feet. Making a show of inspecting his knife, he tilts it until the spotless steel catches the sunlight and then points it at the trembling little pissant quivering beneath his heel.
"You try anythin' again, I'll know. Trust me. So's you go on home now, an' you best remember this next time yer li'l coward bitch ass thinks 'bout gangin' up on someone who ain't even half yer size."
Merle lands a good, solid kick to the boy's side – his final warning – and sheathes his knife as he watches the kid jump to his feet and run like the hounds of Hell are chasing after him. After the punk is long gone, probably already halfway home to bawl to his momma about the crazy psycho with the tats who pulled a knife on him, the oldest Dixon brother pulls his cigarette from his mouth and spits off to the side before turning to look down at the huddled form of his baby brother.
"Gonna sleep there all night, Darleena, or are ya gonna get th' fuck up now?"
"F'k you, Merle," Daryl hisses, peeking up at him with bloodshot blue eyes and sniffling quietly. Just from this angle Merle can see the dark smudges ringing those pale baby blues, can see the blood clotting at Daryl's nose and mouth, and it makes the cold, ruthless part of him want to track down every last one of those teenage punks and slit their throats. Maybe he'd keep them alive for a little bit, make them suffer and squeal, and they'd fucking deserve every second.
"Best watch yer mouth, princess," he snorts as he crouches by Daryl's side and reaches out to grip his brother's chin with careful fingers. He turns the boy's head this way and that, tilting his face up to get a better look at the damage. "Damn, little brother, you try an' make off with one'a their girlfrien's or somethin'? They gotcha good. The hell you jus' take it like a bitch for? Taught ya better'n that, boy."
"Was five 'gainst one, Merle, th' fuck ya 'spectin'?" His little brother scowls at him, and Merle's damn proud that even at seven years old, Daryl can glare with the best of them. There's a fire in his veins that all Dixon men are born with, but Daryl also got the curse of their momma's sweetness. The kid can already kill a buck with one well-placed arrow, can skin and gut a rabbit almost as quickly as Merle, but his face is too open, his eyes hide nothing, and if he doesn't lose that as he gets older, he's in for a world of trouble.
"Think ya c'n stand, or ya need ol' Merle ta carry ya like a bride?"
Despite the derisive words, there's a softness in Merle that only ever comes out for Daryl. Their lives are far from nice – too shitty to even be called unhappy, really – and Merle's meanness is as engraved in his bones as the goodness no amount of punches or lashes from their daddy's belt will ever bleed from Daryl. His little brother is too bright to belong with the Dixon Clan; too soft-hearted even if his temper is already formidable enough to make grown men eye him warily.
"Ain't no fuckin' bitch," Daryl grumbles as he slaps Merle's hand away and pushes himself to his feet. It clearly hurts, his young face twisting in pain and a hand hovering over his left side. Merle's eyes narrow, marking the area to be checked thoroughly later, and then he's making a show of sighing and kneeling with his back to his little brother and his arms ready.
"A'right, princess, hop on. Ain't listenin' ta ya bitch all'a way home that yer achin' from some swats."
"F'k you," the kid spits, but there's barely even a moment of hesitation before thin arms are wrapping around his neck and he's catching under Daryl's knees to keep him close as he stands. It jostles the boy, makes him hiss in pain and anger at the failings of his own fragile flesh, but then he's quiet.
"Watch where ya dig yer arms, li'l brother. Don't fuck up th' new ink."
"What'd ya get th's time?"
Merle cuts down the nearest alley, too at home amongst the dimness and the scent of rotting garbage and piss to care about what he might be stepping in. They've always been the dirt under society's boots, set too far apart to even hope for recognition as something other than the outcasts they are. It's never bothered Merle, who learned early on that no one was ever going to help him but him, and he never needed anyone because of it.
The tattoos that cover Merle's back and arms are symbolic to his life. They tell his story far more clearly than any guttural mutterings could, because the art cannot lie. They cannot be misread or misheard by uninterested ears. They cannot be misinterpreted by uncaring mouths, and the sweet burn of the needle is the closest to euphoric he's ever been able to get. It's the best coping mechanism he's ever found, and when their daddy is fresh off another bender and livid from who knows what, Merle takes his own rage to his shop and carves another chapter into a blank patch of skin.
"Show ya when we get home. Tell me 'bout school."
Daryl hates going to school, but it's not because he's stupid. He's one of the smartest people Merle has ever met, and his memory is damn-near photographic to the point that it's a little terrifying. No, Math and History and Reading aren't why his baby brother hates school so much. It's because of the kids whose ears are already filled with poisonous words about the Dixon boys. It's the teachers who don't care enough to try and make a difference – who assume Daryl will make nothing of himself because Merle didn't, and their daddy was never anything special to begin with. They assume his test grades are because he's cheating, never mind that Daryl never says a fucking word to anyone when he's trapped in that building. He has no friends because no one wants to taint their reputation by associating with such backwoods trash.
All Daryl has is Merle, and he knows he's failing on most fronts, but he still tries his hardest where it really matters. Daryl is his world. No one will ever love him as much as Merle does, and no one will ever sacrifice half as much as Merle has, and he's damn proud of that fact. All Merle has is his tattoo gun, his art, and Daryl, and if he was never able to tattoo again he'd never even miss it, because Daryl would fill the voids and light up Merle's world the way nothing else can ever come close to.
Hell, he already has.
---
The woods welcome them in a way that makes the perpetual tension in Merle's shoulders ease the way nothing else can. Out here amongst the sturdy trunks and the swaying branches, with the scent of natural rot and enriching life filling their lungs with each deep breath, they are able to find a peacefulness that is sorely lacking in anything else they do. Even tattoos can't relax Merle like the sunlight breaking through the leaves overhead, or the rustle of rabbits bounding through the underbrush.
"Deer!" Daryl breathes excitedly, and Merle glances over at the doe that stands frozen and tense, watching them with dark, liquid eyes as they pass by.
"Ya say that like we ain't never seen one b'fore, li'l brother," Merle snorts. "Eat 'em, don't we?"
"Ain't th' same an' y'know it," Daryl huffs, and when he digs the heel of his sneaker into Merle's side a little too hard to be anything but deliberate, the older Dixon retaliates by dropping his brother on his ass in a patch of ferns. Daryl yelps in pain and surprise, wheezing through it and glaring with watery eyes.
"Fuckin' dick," he snarls, and for a seven year old to sound that close to spilling blood is impressive and saddening at the same time. Merle hides the way his heart twists painfully with a smirk, his hands on his hips as he looks down at his baby brother and watches Daryl pick himself up gingerly. His nose stopped bleeding before they left town, his split lip swollen and hot but also clotted shut. The only positive thing is that it was a group of teenagers and not their daddy, or else Merle would be a lot more concerned about broken bones. If any ribs had been broken or cracked, Daryl wouldn't have been able to handle the piggy-back ride.
"Gotta be quicker if ya don' wanna end up in th' dirt, Darleena," Merle jeers, but he's already crouching down to help Daryl up and keeping him still with a hand on one tiny, narrow shoulder as he lifts his shirt to check his ribs and belly. The bruises are already blooming in ugly shades of black and blue, hints of purple coloring the ones over his sore ribs. Merle prods at them gently, feeling for any worrying damage. For his part, Daryl clenches his fists and refuses to make a sound, keeping his breathing as steady as he can manage and his head high the way Merle taught him long ago.
"I think yer gonna make it, bro," he teases, and he keeps his expression serious as he reaches up to pat Daryl's head – and then promptly uses that hold to push himself to his feet again. Daryl shouts in surprise and anger, throwing a punch that hits him in the stomach and makes him wince slightly. The kid may only be seven, but he hits hard. Merle's anxious to see just how wild he gets when he's older, when his rage has more focus and his muscles are more developed.
He's going to be a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure. Merle will make damn sure that no one ever ruins Daryl in any way, or holds him back from whatever greatness he strives for. His baby brother is meant for something far better than the shitty hand they've been dealt, and no one will ever take that away. Not while Merle still breathes.
"Not 'f ya keep droppin' me," Daryl grumbles, but the melancholy sadness that had clung to him in town is gone now. Out in the forest, hidden from everything but each other by the trees, he's wild and unhindered in a way he can never be otherwise. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes are as bright and clear as the Georgia sky. He's once again a seven-year-old boy, untroubled and selfish the way only innocence can be when he tugs on Merle's dirty tank top and demands, "Show me. Said ya would."
"Said I would when we was home," Merle retorts, and Daryl rolls his eyes so hard it's a wonder they don't fall out of his head.
"We are home," he says irritably, and Merle is getting ready to point out that no, they aren't, but then he stops to think about it and he realizes that Daryl is right. Ever since Daryl was old enough to walk on his own, Merle has raised him almost exclusively in these woods. They only go back to the dilapidated, run-down shack their daddy calls a house to sleep, or when they don't have any other choice. Merle has spent more nights than he can remember sleeping out beneath the stars with Daryl curled up against his side, so painfully young and yet already so familiar to the cruelties of the world.
Merle has raised his little brother to be wild, their feral nature just barely tamed and contained. His own anger is quick to flare, catching like flames and destroying anything in its path. Daryl's rage is young, still has plenty of time to develop, but when he's truly angry he's as icy as snow-capped mountains and as destructive as hurricane winds. Merle can see it already, and he has no pity for the one who pushes Daryl too far. His brother is sweet, and far too gentle for their lives, but he's just as likely to bite as any other animal when cornered.
"Yer jus' bein' impatient, brat," he chuckles, but he's already reaching back to drag his shirt off and letting it drop to the ground without a care for what might get on it. Daryl leans forward eagerly, eyes on the paper towel taped across Merle's left collarbone. "S'about time fer this ta come off anyway, so's it can breathe."
"Who gave it ta ya?" Daryl asks, his sharp eyes and sharp mind knowing too much even at his age.
"Terry," Merle snorts as he peels the tape off and crumples the paper towel into a ball. It's stained by a few drops of ink and blood, but the tattoo itself is no longer bleeding, and the cool air across the hot, angry skin feels good enough that he smiles and sighs.
Daryl reaches up curiously to trace his fingers over the lettering. It's a messy scrawl, something that looks rushed and jumbled rather than elegant and precise. The curls and loops are harsh points, the black ink standing out starkly against the reddened skin. Once the irritation fades, it'll look even darker against Merle's pale chest, and he watches the way Daryl admires the quote – the whispering touch of his dirt-smudged fingertips and the brightness of his eyes against the bruises.
"We ain't ashes," he says solemnly.
"Damn right we ain't, little brother." Merle ruffles his chaotic blonde hair, already seeing the darker tint that hints at the rich brown color it will one day become. His own hair was the same way, the only thing he inherited from their momma, and he smiles at the thought that their momma is dead, but at least parts of her still live on in her boys.
Daryl smiles too. "I like it, Mer."
"That's nice. Ain't fer ya, but that's nice. Ink should only be on ya if you like it, li'l bro. It ain't fer no one else, so fuck 'em if they don' like it, 'cause it ain't for them."
"Ya only tell me tha' all'a damn time," Daryl snorts, and he may be injured, but he's still quick enough to duck under the swat Merle aims at his head.
"Cheeky bitch," he huffs. When he musses Daryl's hair again, the boy doesn't even twitch. He knows Merle will never hurt him - not like their daddy.
They start walking again after Merle grabs his shirt, wandering with no direction in mind other than Not The House. The warm sun feels good on his bare skin, and Daryl - who always loves to see his tattoos – can't keep his eyes or his hands to himself. He runs his fingers over the tormented faces swirling in smoke on Merle's left forearm; the reminder of the drugs that had tried to conquer his life before their momma died and he found tattooing to cope. He had Daryl to think of, too, the boy just shy of five and already so damaged without someone to guide and protect him.
Daryl's fingers touch the bloody portrait of a screaming child, the face almost unrecognizable beneath the damage and the hair a tangled, matted mess. Merle looks at it sometimes in the safety of the darkness, with only the moon and the stars to offer any light. He looks at it and remembers why he has to be better, why he has to be stronger than his vices, because after he'd come home from juvie the first and only time and he'd seen the scars Daryl had acquired while he was gone, he'd sworn then and there never again.
Not all of Merle's tattoos are bloody and brutal. His right arm is a forest of flowers and wildlife, every plant and animal native to the state he's grown up in - a tribute to the wilds that have been his home. There's a regal eight-point buck to memorialize the first one he'd ever killed – a vine of Cherokee roses wrapped around the tines and trailing down the thick neck to mark who the offering of the buck's life had been for. There's a fox curled around his wrist, a fern unfurling across the back of his hand, and all other manner of beast and vegetation swirling up his arm in a chaotic display that is still so beautiful.
Aside from the Cherokee roses, and a few other tattoos he's given himself, Merle's favorite is the name tattooed just above his heart. It's the first one he ever got, and it's a little faded from age. He'll touch it up soon, make the letters bold and dark again, and he loves the way Daryl smiles every time he sees it.
Tattoos are supposed to mean something to you, and fuck anyone who doesn't understand them or like them. Each piece of artwork is immortalized on your skin, the ink forced into muscle and flesh in a way that can never be undone. Maybe not every tattoo will make sense to everyone, but so long as you know what it means, that's what counts. Merle has always believed that, and his tattoos reflect his life in a balance of horror and beauty spread across his frame.
Out of every tattoo he's ever gotten, out of all of the hours of addictive pain and all of the money, none of them come close to the pride and honor and love he feels every time he sees his brother's name written over his heart.
--
The triumph is a gleaming monstrosity of polished chrome and black metal. The vibration of her beneath him is the closest he's ever come to comfort aside from the forest and Daryl, and his brother adores the motorcycle just as much as he does. It's an integral part of them, something as familiar as their own skin, and Merle can't help his smile as he roars through town early the next morning with Daryl's backpack tight against his back and his little brother pressed securely against his front.
Daryl is still too small to reach the handles, so he's holding onto the sun-warmed metal bars tightly, his hair whipping against Merle's dirty sleeveless shirt and his cheeks pinked from the wind. He's grinning so widely it has to hurt, his face scrunching in a way it only does when someone has reached that level of happiness. His eyes are darkened by bruises, his nose painted by the aftereffects of yesterday and his lip looking sore. He's probably in pain, especially when he breathes, but he doesn't show it.
They're Dixons, after all. Pain is a normal facet of their existence, even if Merle does everything he can to shelter his little brother from their daddy and his alcohol-driven bouts of violence. Even despite the aches, Daryl can always find a reason to smile, and Merle is jealously pleased every time the smiles that light his baby brother up brighter than the sun are because of something he's done.
There are already parents dropping their children off at the front of the school, and teachers waiting to gather the shrieking kids into some semblance of order to lead them inside. Most of the adults fall silent when Merle pulls up to the curb, mingled looks of horror and revulsion twisting their faces into ugly expressions that probably match their ugly souls. He pays them no mind as he leans the bike and braces a foot against the sidewalk, steadying it and helping Daryl climb off. Several of the looks turn to shock at the sight of the boy riding such a dangerous vehicle with no helmet or anything to keep him secure. Merle ignores the scandalized mutters as he slides Daryl's backpack off his shoulders and hands it over.
"You gonna wait here for me ta pick ya up after school?" he asks with a pointed glance towards the other kids. None of them are old enough to be the punks who cornered Daryl on his way home yesterday, but Merle trusts none of these people worth a damn, and if he didn't want Daryl to get an education and make something better of himself, he would have said fuck it a long time ago and kept his brother safe at his side.
"Yeah," Daryl mumbles quietly. His shoulders are already curling in, his head lowered so his messy bangs hide the worst if the damage. Merle tuts and grabs his chin, forcing him to look up and grinning savagely.
"Keep that head'a yers up, Darleena," he chides. "These rich bitches ain't got shit on you. Yer a Dixon, little brother. Yer a helluva lot rougher than any'a these pansy-ass motherfuckers. Keep tha' spine straight, ya hear me? Got nothin' ta hide from. Yer worth more'n all'a the people in this fuckin' deadbeat town three times over. Don't let 'em getcha down, not fer nothin'. Ya got me?"
"Yeah, I got ya. Nice li'l speech there, Mer. Didn' know ya knew so many big words." His little brother isn't smirking, but he's still got enough of himself left to tease. His eyes twinkle like the clearest mountain ponds, his strength more impressive than the oldest trees in all of Georgia, and Merle is so damn proud that he hauls his little brother in for a quick, one-armed hug and presses the suggestion of a kiss against the boy's out of control hair. He'll never admit it, and Daryl will never bring it up, and when he pushes the kid back with a smirk Daryl finds an answering one as he slings his backpack over his shoulder with hardly a wince.
"Don' be late, asshole."
"Don' ask fer miracles, princess. You jus' wait fer ol' Merle ta pick up yer delinquent ass like a good boy, an' don' be runnin' off int'a no brawls. Save the fightin' fer th' bars, kid."
Grinning, Merle throttles the triumph until it roars to life, making several people jump and stare. He knows what he looks like, his sleeveless shirt dirty under his biker vest – the old angel wings on the back in desperate need of a scrub. He's got a mean face and more tattoos than bare skin, with his crossbow strapped to the back of his bike and the bulk of a knife at his hip speaking toward a life of violence and survival that none of them could ever hope to understand. They're soft and tamed, caged in by their neat little society and their polished ideals.
"Love ya, Mer," Daryl whispers; his faint words drowned out by the rumble of the bike but his chapped, torn lips framing the words perfectly. His eyes convey the rest, bright and warm and full of adoration Merle Dixon never expected anyone to aim his way.
With a quick nod, he slaps at his chest, his palm thudding heavily over his heart. He leaves it there for a second, giving Daryl his answer, and he watches his little brother hitch his backpack a little higher onto his shoulder as he turns to walk toward the school.
Merle watches him until he's beyond the doors, blue eyes narrowed and protective as he tracks his little brother amongst the crowds the way only a hunter can. Once he's inside, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him, Merle heels the kickstand up and drives away, the sun warm on his face and the mutterings of the people behind him as meaningless and unimportant as the bleating of sheep.
Nothing in the world is more important to Merle than his art, his tattoo gun, and Daryl. Up against that, nothing else means a damn thing – and that's the way it will always be.