Merle couldn’t recall a warmer winter. Growing up dirt poor and in and out of Juvie constantly didn’t make for nice winters. And now, as the world went to shit, he was sitting comfortably in the little apartment the Governer let him stay in. How lucky he was.

Despite this -- despite his ‘look out for yourself only’ mentality, his insistence to everyone else that he was fine -- it was clear he was in a piss-poor mood. All he could think about, as he was safe and warm and comfortable, was his little brother.

Somewhere out there was Daryl. Dead, alive, one of those freaky walkers. It didn’t matter. He was out there. And no matter how much he wanted to believe he was okay, that he wasn’t hurt, all he could think was that he was here, warm and safe and happy, while his little brother was out there. If he was alive, by some miracle, he was likely starving, or sick, or-... he couldn’t let himself continue those thoughts. They scared him, and his fear often translated quickly to anger.

He sat back on his couch, watching the snow fall. He was so used to being in pain. Taking punches so Daryl didn’t have to, giving up his coat so his baby brother didn’t freeze. Yet here he is, happy and healthy. It wasn’t right. His duty as a big brother was to protect him, but he hadn’t even seen him in months by now.