Hero Worship, by MissMishka

DISCLAIMER: The usual warnings, I claim no ownership of these characters, they are simply borrowed with love and adoration from the original creators to have their

stories embellished on a little more than the show may do. Not for any profit.

He denigrated the zombie female was a contemptuous 'skank' comment before firing his arrow through the lost soul's head without hesitation.

He showed no care, remorse or regret for the woman the Walker might have been before any of this, as he put his boot to her chest for the leverage to yank his artillery back out of her skull. He simply swiped the arrow across the thigh of his pants to clean off some of the blood and flesh from the kill, before calmly moving on.

The series of motions seemed to have been honed to smoothness from far too much practice, in Rick's opinion.

And yet, the guy had taken great care to place his brother's severed hand in the center of the handkerchief and gently fold the fabric over the remain, as if there was some chance that it could be reattached even if they were to find that asshole Merle. Given his own near miraculous circumstances, Rick couldn't disabuse the guy of his foolish hope and confidence, but the Deputy held no optimism himself for that outcome.

Unlike his brother, though, Daryl Dixon was salvageable.

Hell, Rick thought as he continued to creep along after the smoothly stalking stranger, if one didn't know and compare them as siblings, Daryl, taken on his own, wasn't even any more damaged than any of the other survivors.

Following the other man as he followed the blood drops, Rick could not help but compare his interactions with both Dixons, though.

While Merle took potshots at Walkers in the alley, wasting bullets and drawing more of the undead down on them, Daryl had been out tracking a deer intended to feed the group. Rick had sensed no malice in the younger brother upon hearing the news, the way he had come at Rick was with hurt and fear more than anything. Pain, for which Rick was all the more sorry for causing.

Had the roles been reversed, he was sure Merle would have killed the whole camp with a song of bloodlust in his heart, had he given a damn about his lost brother to react at all. It was damned curious to have a loner like that in such a group, but Rick had a sense that staying probably hadn't been Merle's idea.

They both came across as hothead racists, but when ordered to lower the arrow poised to fire at T-Dog, Daryl had obeyed when Rick was certain Merle would have pulled the trigger with a laugh, gun to his head or not.

Daryl was a wounded animal, striking out at those who had struck him where he was most vulnerable-the last of his kin.

Merle was just something of an animal in the form of man.

"Told you he was tough," Daryl said, quiet but defiant all the same. "Nobody can kill Merle, but Merle."

The loyalty and admiration in the words sent a pang of regret through Rick. The tracker sounded like Carl had on occasion when talking to friends about his gun-toting, handcuff wielding Deputy Sheriff dad.

It was natural for a boy to idolize his father, especially when said father did his damnedest to earn that respect and set a good example for the boy to follow.

It didn't bear thinking about the kind of example that must have been set for a younger Daryl Dixon for him to have grown up to worship the likes of Merle as some kind of superhero.

But Rick did find himself thinking about it and wondering about so much more.