Chapter Text
His hand is shaking more than he cares to admit to and through narrowed eyes, he can’t look away from the little white stick. He can’t seem to unclasp his fingers despite his urge to whip the offending object clear across the cramped space of the bathroom. There’s a tiny bubble of a hysterical laugh caught deep in his throat and he swallows it back if only to keep the sound to himself.
The television is blaring in the other room, the sounds of gunfire distorted by the shitty speakers on the stolen set. A drop of water gathers at the tap’s spout and plinks against the sink basin and as he squints at the stick, sweat beads down his forehead. He can hear his breathing, far too loud in the small space and his hand shakes all the more.
It can’t be right, it can’t, it’s not…it’s not fucking possible, things like this just don’t happen, not to guys, not to guys like him no matter what they’ve been up to, what they’ve done or had to do and maybe even wanted to…
The pink plus sign mocks him and he feels the surge of nausea rise up in his belly. As he leans over to his left and vomits weakly into the toilet, he thinks only that it doesn’t seem possible to keep retching like this, not when there’s nothing left in his stomach to bring up, not when he hasn’t been able to keep a damn thing down for the last month.
Some heavy footsteps pause outside the bathroom door, the floor of the trailer creaking under the weight of them and Daryl closes his eyes as he rests his forehead to the cold porcelain rim, his heart slamming an erratic beat against his ribs. His stomach is bone dry and the sour taste in his mouth is a familiar one now, trickles of bile coating his lips.
He mouths a plea that he be spared another round of vomiting and the footsteps beyond the bathroom door move closer, shadows under the edge of the unevenly hung door. There’s a sharp bang on the wood and Daryl feels the stick press into his fingers until his knuckles are white, the plastic ridges marking his palm.
There’s a bark of his name, Merle’s fist rapping at the door with all the impatience that Daryl’s well accustomed to. His lips press together as he heaves his body up. He knows better than to not answer his big brother. With legs like jelly, he tries to move but it’s too late, Merle’s shoving the door open, eyebrows drawn down, scowling at him like he’s failed Merle again somehow, someway.
Pleasing Merle is something he rarely accomplishes when he’s fully dressed.
He stands his ground, his hand sliding neatly behind him, hiding the evidence of why his eyes are burning with unshed tears, why his stomach is twisting and turning, why he’s suddenly terrified.
Merle’s eyes are raking over him, examining and studying him and Daryl feels a warm wave of anger flood his veins, but the anger is nothing compared to the fear, the deep, deep fear he feels. His fingers are slick with sweat and he can smell the tang of whiskey floating in the air, the stale smell of the bathroom closing around him.
A small part of his brain wants to melt against Merle the way he’s almost never allowed to do, to whisper this secret that’s bigger than both of them and have Merle tell him to stop worrying so goddamn much and doesn’t he always look after Daryl in the end, hasn’t he always, while he rubbed his big hand over Daryl’s hair, petting him in that rough but gentle way of his.
Merle’s line of vision moves to where Daryl’s hiding the stick and he tilts his head, lips pursing a little. “Whatchu got there, boy?” he asks and it’s a joke, a fucking joke by how soft his voice is.
He tries but no words come out. There’s nothing he can say and he can’t think past his mantra. It’s not possible, it can’t be possible. He hadn’t been the best of students before he’d dropped out for good, but he remembered the health classes they’d had and this…this, they’d never covered this. His fingers tremble violently again and the stick slips in his sweaty fingers.
There’s a heartbeat that echoes for an endless moment and he can’t breathe as the white stick falls, falls down to the dirty tiled floor, clatters as it lands, and wouldn’t you know it, it lands results side up.
Daryl doesn’t look up. He just stares, stares at the test stick on the floor, at the pink plus sign that had developed on it seconds after he’d finished using it. His breathing is harsh in his own ears, laboured and raspy, and he’s horrified by the tears that are prickling under his eyelids, sheer willpower keeping them from sliding over his flushed cheeks.
“The hell is that?” It’s a stupid question and they both know that Merle knows what it is, but Daryl still can’t move his lips to answer him.
His now empty hand moves and he’s gnawing on his thumbnail, breathing shallowly. His head is buzzing and he feels his stomach hitch like he might throw up again. He drags his eyes back up reluctantly when Merle invades his space, looms over him and there’s not nearly enough space for the both of them in the bathroom.
“Answer me!” Merle growls and backs him up against the wall, Daryl’s leg bumping into the toilet as he goes. “The fuck is that, boy?”
Fear chokes him and he can’t breathe. His chest tightens to a small fist and he feels small, practically cowering in his brother’s presence, and even though he hates himself for it, it’s instinctive, no matter the level of shame he feels.
“I…” Daryl’s grasping at straws but nothing passes his lips. He looks past Merle, at the pregnancy test and against his will, a tear slides down his cheek. He hitches in a choked breath and he mumbles out a jumble of words.
“Say that again?” and Merle’s got one thick finger under Daryl’s chin, lifting his head up, bringing his eyes up to meet Merle’s stare.
“Didn’t know it could happen,” Daryl pushes the words past numb lips and he sees the realization settle in Merle’s eyes. “Didn’t…” He falls silent. There’s nothing else he can say, the pink positive sign screaming mutely on the floor.
Merle’s lips part and he stares down at Daryl, then, almost as if against his will, he turns his head and looks at the stick below them. “That ain’t possible,” he mutters absently, his finger still holding Daryl’s chin up, his palm coming up to grip him tighter. “That, that ain’t fuckin’ possible!”
Daryl closes his eyes for a split second and his head pounds, a bitch of a headache brewing between his temples. “Been sick,” he says, almost under his breath, “Too long for t’ flu now.”
“The hell is this? Think yer funny, boy?”
He swallows over the lump in his throat, dizzy and nauseated and exhausted. He wants to lean forward and rest on his brother, let him do whatever he wants in exchange, but just let him rest awhile, soaking in his brother’s warmth, hear that steady heartbeat he knows better than his own and he hates the weaker side of himself but right now, he needs Merle.
Merle takes a step back and runs a hand over his head, eyes wider than Daryl’s ever seen, and dare he think it, Merle looks spooked. “This ain’t possible, Daryl. Lord knows you ain’t stupid ‘nough to think that this…this don’t happen to men, y’ hear me?”
Daryl lets out a slow breath and he nods to the test. “I know that. Test says different.”
“Fuck what some fuckin’ plastic stick says,” Merle demands and he kicks the test viciously, sending it flying into the edge of the toilet. It splits and cracks in two places but Daryl doesn’t flinch. “I don’t give a shit what it says, you…yer sick is all, ate somethin’ off.”
Daryl nods silently. It can’t be right, he’s a man, he’s no woman, and men don’t get pregnant. Merle takes his nod for agreement and he grabs Daryl’s shoulder, pushing him out of the bathroom, his boot crushing the remains of the test as he goes. Daryl moves with him and he says nothing as Merle shoves him into the bedroom, nothing even as he lands, the mattress springs creaking under his weight and his brother covers his body with his own and his eyes sting all the more.
And later when Merle’s sated, Daryl lies beside him, his head tucked against Merle’s chest. He’s looking at the ceiling and he trembles anew, his body wracked with fear soaked shakes. He knows the test was wrong, has to be wrong. It wasn’t possible.
Men don’t get pregnant, he chants until his eyelids grow heavy. He wills himself to believe it.
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