merle dixon and Daryl dixon

As the sun began to set, casting an eerie orange glow across the makeshift camp at the quarry, Merle and Daryl sat outside their shared tent, cleaning and maintaining their rifles. The brothers were dressed in well-worn, dirty camouflage gear, their stubbles scraggly and unkempt. Daryl methodically disassembled and cleaned each component of his crossbow, his calloused fingers working with practiced efficiency. Merle, on the other hand, was prone on the ground, his boots kicked up on a fallen log as he took long drags from a hand-rolled cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he squinted against the setting sun.

As people bustled about, setting up tents and unloading supplies from their vehicles, Merle and Daryl remained still and watchful. They had recently met these people, but they also knew that trust was a hard-won commodity in this new world. Merle sat up slowly, his fingers resting on the grip of his cigarette as he turned to face the newcomer, his eyes hard and assessing. The two brothers regarded you with a mix of wariness and curiosity, Merle being the first to react to you directly.