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001.
The last time Glenn sees his family, it’s a bright, sunny, spring afternoon. Maybe a Tuesday (he’ probably very, very wrong about that) (with his luck and guessing, it’s a Sunday). They’re dead.
Hunting drips usually don’t go this way; they usually don’t see zombified family members. Before, all they’d do is shoot a few squirrels, maybe a couple rabbits, kill a few walkers and that would be that. They’d go back to camp, eat meat, and be happy. Glenn should’ve known this time would be different. After all, their groups usually consist of three or four people, five, maybe. Never two and never Daryl and Glenn. Not at the same time, and certainly not by themselves (in the middle of nowhere) (where no one can hear Glenn being brutally murdered). It’s common sense not to put the Korean - because that’s what Glenn is; Korean; not Chinese like some people (Daryl, Daryl, Daryl) think - with the at-least-sort-of-racist white guy. It’s just a no.
But, apparently, Glenn had misjudged poor Daryl Dixon. He’d jumped to conclusions before he should’ve (can you honestly blame the man? The guy has a crossbow and waltzed into camp with a sash of squirrel’s, for god’s sake. He had his reasoning). Daryl turns out to have the slightest whisper of a soul in him. And Glenn is grateful. Very, very grateful.
It’s mind-numbingly obvious who the walkers are, even with their battered skin and missing teeth. Even through the smell, and with the missing eye (or two). Glenn actually thinks he sees one of them start to form words - Glenn, maybe. Maybe it’s trying to say Glenn - thinks one of them is trying to remember him. He thinks it’s his mom, but it could be his sister; they always looked alike. His father is shambling along behind his mother/sister, in front of whichever one the first isn’t (he thinks the latter is his sister; she has more of a youthful glow to her skin) (if that’s even possible for a zombie).
He hears Daryl yell at him, something along the lines of, “Glenn! Get your ass outta there!” but it’s only a muffled cry, muted by the amplified groans and the gravity of the situation, the absolute and outright fear that chills Glenn to the bone. And maybe even a little past that.
Glenn has this moment where he’s scared - so, so scared - but sort of… at peace. If these walkers - his mother, his father, his sister - try to bite his head off, rip him to shreds, feast on his organs; he think he’d be okay with that. He wouldn’t hold a grudge, wouldn’t judge them. He’d. He’d be fine. Maybe even the tiniest bit happy about it. (But, then, he’d be dead, and he isn’t sure if happiness is even a thing when your heart isn’t beating.)
He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and stands there, arms spread just a little, and ready for what’s next. He waits. And waits. He might hear the sound of something drop - something heavy. Or two. Or, maybe, three.
He opens his eyes. There are three walker bodies sprawled across the dirt, an arrow in each head, straight through the eye. Glenn knows right away that this is the work of Daryl Dixon, and he thinks he might be touched. Or mad. He isn’t to awful sure right now (his emotions are all screwed up; thank you, zombified parents and siblings).
All he’s really sure of right now, are the tears burning behind his eyes, and just how fucking angry Daryl is, looks. He’s shouting at Glenn, running up to him and saying, “What the hell, boy?! You coulda got killed! Is that what you want? Is that what you fucking want? Are you fucking stupid?!”
Daryl walks right up to Glenn, flailing his arms and waving around bloodied arrows. All Glenn wants to do is collapse, and Daryl’s sort of making it worse for him. So, when Daryl’s calling him a stupid fuck and a dumb Chinaman, he does. Right there. Just collapses right into a useless pile of sobs and hopelessness. And, well, Daryl catches him before he hit’s the ground, dropping that beloved crossbow to the ground and taking Glenn in his arms. (Is this actually happening? Is Daryl capable of caring?)
Before Glenn can be pushed away, he buries his face into Daryl’s shoulder and just fucking cries. He knows that crying in front of the stone-hard countryman isn’t necessarily the best damned idea in the world, but it seems to be all Glenn is able to do at the moment. And it isn’t as if Daryl is pushing him away (though he isn’t exactly wrapping his arms around him, either) (which is so not the point). They stand there in an awkwardly one-sided embrace, Glenn clinging to Daryl like he wants to with his mother. His father. His sister.
“They’re dead,” he chokes out around his sobs. “They’re… they’re just dead. I-I knew they were - I mean, look around, for Christ’s sake, but… but I didn’t want to… I just…” his voice dissolves into violent breaths and echoing cries. He waits for Daryl to push him off, call him a wuss, and maybe put an arrow in him. Just for spite.
It takes Glenn the better part of twenty minutes to calm down just a bit - only to the point where he can see through his tears - which is when Daryl triess to move the boy to their vehicle (other wise known as Daryl’s rotting pickup in need of gas). Okay, attempt is actually a strong word. It’s more like a feeble attempt that fails. Pretty damn miserably, if you ask them.
Glenn falls apart before they get halfway down the trail, flinging his arms around Daryl’s neck in what could have been considered a flail, and lets out this embarrassing sob that probably draws every walker within a three mile radius to them. Daryl groans just as loud, and grunts maybe half that. “Boy.” It sounds cold, and vaguely threatening, though slightly comforting. Oddly enough. “You have to work with me if you gonna start falling apart, damn it.”
Approximately four seconds later, Glenn is being carried - bridal-style, not over-the-shoulder, like Glenn originally thought Daryl would carry anything and everything - by Daryl, is deposited in the passenger’s side of the truck, and, as soon as Daryl climbs into the driver’s seat, is right back to crying into his shoulder. All in four seconds.
They drive until the sun begins to sink below the tree-silhouetted horizon. The sky is stained pink and orange and a little purple. Glenn has stopped crying, but he sure as hell isn’t in a healthy state. He’s still sniffling, still scrubbing his face. Is still a right mess.
Daryl parks the truck facing the view, looks over to Glenn, and sighs. “What was that? Earlier?” His voice is impossibly empathetic, gentle as hell (and when the hell did Daryl become gentle?) and Glenn keeps falling apart, his seams bursting just a little more. “Did. Did you know them or somethin’?”
“Yeah,” Glenn croaks. His voice is raw and his throat is scratchy. He might be stuttering a little, too. (It’s a wonder he’s even able to talk in his state.) “It… They were my family. Uh, my mom. Dad. Sister. I guess. I just sort of froze up when I saw them. Is all.” He’s scared of what comes next.
Daryl waits a beat before saying, “You wanted to get bit, didn’t you?” It’s so soft, nearly a whisper. Glenn falls apart that much more.
He lets the silence answer the question.
“You fine now, though? Ain’t gonna run off an’ do that again, are ya?” Daryl is seriously scaring Glenn because, last he remembered, the man didn’t care about much. Especially not about Glenn.
“No, uh. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think? So it’s a possibility?”
Glenn goes cold, a frown set on his face. “Why the hell do you even care? You hate me. Or don’t you fucking remember?”
Daryl is visibly taken aback, his brows knit together and his grip tightens on the steering wheel. His knuckles are stark white. “I never hated you, boy. I. We. Goddamn it, Glenn, I don’t fucking hate you, okay?”
Glenn stays silent, picking at the lint on his jeans and frowning deeper. He wonders what the hell it is that goes on in Daryl’s head (offhandedly questioning if it’s ever about him). When the sun has disappeared behind the trees, Glenn speaks, quiet and broken. He isn’t sure if Daryl is even awake.
“I. I know you don’t hate me,” he says. “I - uh. I’m sorry for… I’m sorry for all that. I just… I-”
“I got it.”
Glenn wonders if that’s all he’ll ever get from Daryl.
He goes to sleep, curled in on himself in the passenger’s seat of Daryl’s truck. He might feel something touch his hand, definitely feels something hold it. He falls asleep, dreaming of - not for the first time - Daryl.
002.
When they get back to camp, Shane all but glares daggers into their souls. Which physically hurts. “Where the hell’ve you two been?!” he shouts, rambling on about the dangers and how they promised to only be gone a day, tops, and got back seventy-two hours later. “We were worried sick about you, goddamn it! You can’t fucking do that! Okay?”
Glenn sits and lets him yell, but Daryl - being his usual stubborn-as-hell self - won’t have it. “What the fuck do you care? You ain’t in charge of nothin’, dammit. No one made you the fucking queen, so I’d just lay the fuck off.”
Shane shouts some more (“Look here, Dixon. You aren’t in charge of shit, either, so I’d shut the hell up if I were you”) before Daryl grabs Shane by the arm and drags him over to the edge of the woods, his nails digging into Shane’s flesh. Glenn sees Dale and a few others tense up, though they don’t make a move to stop it. Glenn just stands there, dumbfounded.
He sees Daryl spit some words at Shane (who’s mirroring Glenn at the moment) (he might hear the occasional “Glenn” and “family” and maybe even “you oughtta lay off on the boy or I’ll bash your skull in” but other than that, it’s pretty hard to tell what they’re talking about) before Daryl lets go of Shane’s arm and stomps the way to his tent.
They’re all in shock - none more than Shane, though Glenn comes close. No one moves.
“What was that?” Dale hisses, frozen to his spot.
Shane might smirk at Glenn. Just a bit. “Oh. That was… uh. It was something else. I suppose.”
Glenn’s jaw drops a little, his heart cracks (sort of), and there goes another seam. Glenn is for sure going to fall apart by the end of the week. No doubt about it.
003.
Glenn thinks that the world might be against him. Just a little bit.
He’s stuck again, just outside of camp, the jagged, rock wall behind him that’s at least four hundred times his size lies behind him, three walkers in front, all hungry and goggling Glenn like he’s the best damn thing they’d ever seen. He’s seconds away from dying and he knows it. He thinks he might be okay with it again. Might be at peace with it or whatever - no matter how hippie that sounds.
It’s silent for Glenn - maybe for the world, save the groaning and the shuffling of the walkers, tattered shoes and pant legs skimming the ground, decaying arms and fingers grasping at trees and beings and things Glenn wishes they wouldn’t grasp at (him, for instance). Glenn’s breathing heavy, breaths coming in short gasps and pants (cut him some slack, he just ran halfway up a the fucking mountain that leads to their campsite, though he didn’t quite make it) (damn those supply runs. Damn them). His hands are sweating, slippery palms scrabbling at his hip, feeling for a gun that isn’t there. Just his luck. He’s survived thousands of walkers at once, a city full of the beasts hundreds of times over, the initial fall of America, only to be finished by three lone walkers, not one hundred feet from safety. Those hundred feet seem like thousands of miles, and three walkers seems like four too many.
The three shamble onwards, their bones crooked, their guts hanging out. Their lips have rotted away, their gums exposed and their teeth gnashing at the air in front of them. Glenn frowns. If someone were to kill him, he thought they’d at least have lips.
He squeezes his eyes shut, fearing the worst. Fearing being torn apart, limb from limb, eaten. Maybe even turning into one of them, stumbling through the world, grabbing at every piece of flesh, tumbling after every whisper of a smell, after every sound that might not even be there. He shudders, nails digging into his palms, praying that it’ll be quick and that he won’t come back. Not as one of them.
He doesn’t look until the groaning and shuffling comes to an abrupt stop, the echoes hanging in the air. There, on the ground, sit three walkers, sprawled across the gravel. There’s an arrow through each of their heads, perfectly shot through an eye. To his left, he sees Daryl storming over, slightly pissed off, a frown set on his face. His crossbow is hanging loosely off his shoulder. “Goddamn it, Glenn. How many fucking times do I hafta save your ass?” His voice dissolves into incoherent mutters, and Glenn isn’t sure if they consist of malice or something else.
Knowing Daryl, it’s probably malice.
“R-right. I. Sorry, I guess. My gun, a walker managed to knock it outta my hand in the city. Didn’t have time to pick it up. I, uh. ’M sorry,” Glenn fumbles over his words (his awkward pizza delivery boy side is showing more than he’d like) in an attempt at an explanation. He’s not sure if Daryl even understands a word of it.
“Just shut up,” he spits, getting close to Glenn’s face. He tries to reel back, but, uh, wall. “I thought you weren’t… You told me. Damn it, Glenn, you told me you weren’t gonna let shit like ‘at happen again. You fucking scared me, boy. I was worried. Thought you were tryin’ to off yourself again.”
Glenn opens and closes his mouth, looking like a damned fish (which is slightly embarrassing). Nothing more than a squeak manages to escape his lips. He really hopes that Daryl isn’t ridiculing him in his head.
“I know that you ain’t actually tryin’ to do that, but it’s still scary as hell, damn it. So don’t fucking pull shit like that again.” With that, Daryl stomps off, three bloodied arrows in one hand, his crossbow gripped in the other. Glenn thinks he might be cussing under his breath, but there’s no way to be sure.
Glenn is quite terrified as he chases Daryl up the mountain-thingy (Glenn thinks mountain is a stretch, but it sure as hell isn’t just a hill), he trips over his feet - they might both be left - stumbling and tripping his way up the trail. His hands shake, his brain rattles around in his skull, and his stomach is fluttering (like, the butterfly kind of fluttering). He blames it on the shock, and the shock alone (because it’s so not being caused by Daryl. No fucking way). (Though, he isn’t even sure shock can cause butterflies. Not that it matters because there is no way in hell that he’s going to admit that Daryl is at the root of this whole girly, nervous feeling he’s getting.)
He wants to - tries to - follow Daryl when they reach the top, but the man sort of scurries off to his tent, that might or might not have Merle in it, too (Glenn’s pretty sure Merle’s gone off into the woods. Alone. Again, but he’s not positive. Either way, the threat of Merle Dixon is too great to even approach the tent) (the racist bastard).
Shane clasps a hand to Glenn’s shoulder, half frowning, half (wistfully) smirking. “What was that about, kid?”
Glenn hesitates a moment before saying, quietly and a little pathetically, “I have no. Fucking. Idea.” He then proceeds to walk to his tent, duck inside, and just fucking collapse on his sleeping bag, face buried into the pillow. He doesn’t plan to move for a day or twelve.
001.
Later - much later, the next few days later - Glenn makes his way to Daryl’s tent. The man has been silent for, well, ever since that walker run-in Glenn had. He’d hardly emerged from his tent or the woods (respectively), and when he did and Glenn managed to catch a glimpse, he was angry (or depressed. Sometimes he’d be depressed). He’d trudge around, all solemn with an expression just to this side of deadly. He’d clean his crossbow more violently than usually (which really is saying something for Daryl), he’d sneak off on his own too much for (Glenn’s) comfort, and just, well. Just being weird in general.
When he gets there, he might hear some rustling and maybe some labored breathing (very, very sad labored breathing. Almost like crying). Glenn hesitates before knocking on the tent flap (as much as you can knock on a plastic tent flap). There’s more rustling, and then he hears Daryl, his voice strain and downright sad. “Go away.”
It sounds; oh, hell, it sounds like Daryl’s been actually crying (Daryl? Crying? Impossible. Glenn didn’t even know he had a soul) (okay, that was harsh, but you get the point, Daryl Dixon does not cry ever) which can be nothing but bad. Still, Glenn is persistent. “D-Daryl?” he calls. “Daryl, c’mon. It’s me. Just. Just open up, yeah? I only want to talk.” Pause. “Please, Daryl?”
“No.” The answer is just about immediate and completely cold. “No, go away, Glenn.” And - yeah - that hurts.
“Daryl. Come on, man. I want. Just. I need to fucking talk to you, okay? So open up,” he says, aiming for stern, but falling towards hopeless. Glenn hadn’t ever been one for controlling his emotions.
The next thing Glenn knows, Daryl is stomping out of the tent, shouldering past him and heading straight in the other direction, a duffel bag in one hand, a crossbow in the other. Glenn instantly thinks the worst.
“Daryl! Daryl, we need to talk! Get back here, damn it!” he shouts, trying oh-so-hard to keep from embarrassing himself, though he knows he’s failing.
“No!” Daryl yells, whipping around, pointing his (thankfully arrowless) crossbow at Glenn. “No, we don’t need to fucking talk, okay? There ain’t nothing goin’ on, so. So just fuckin’ leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone? Are you kidding me? Daryl, you are obviously seconds away from leaving camp, I am not going to leave you alone,” Glenn insists, pointing a finger at Daryl (which, admittedly, is no match for the crossbow), and biting back the urge to slap or kiss Daryl (he isn’t sure which he wants to do more) (he needs time to decide). “I.” Glenn’s voice has shrunk as he lowers his eyes to Daryl’s feet (his finger stays in the air). “I won’t let you go, Daryl.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want to, Chinaman,” Daryl snaps. “I don’t need you lookin’ after me. I ain’t yours, so just. Just fuckin’ leave. That’s all I want from you.”
“Daryl, I swear on everything, I will follow you through hell if you leave,” Glenn says, eyes darting up to meet Daryl’s. He’s definitely been crying. Glenn sees Daryl raise is crossbow and drop his bag.
“Even if I shot you?”
“Especially if you shoot me.”
His bow goes down.
“It’s dangerous out there, Daryl. You’d be eaten within days - hours, maybe. And I know you’re strong and independent and stuff, but damn it, Dixon, I just. I can’t… I.” Glenn wants to say the words that fill his head, let Daryl know what he’s thinking. About him. But. But he can’t. Not really.
“You what? What can’t you? C’mon, Chinaman, just fucking say it,” Daryl sneers, rolling his eyes along with his words.
“I. I can’t fucking live with myself if I let you go. I can’t. I, fuck, Daryl, I can’t live without you here, period!” Glenn says - screams, really - and he might feel tears well up in his eyes. He looks at the ground again, sufficiently terrified to look Daryl in the eye. He also refrains from sudden movement - perhaps the man is like a dinosaur. Maybe. (Probably not, but, hey, it’s worth a shot.)
He hears Daryl’s breath, heavy and a little shaky, might hear him mumble a “Fuck,” under his breath, and Glenn might die a bit because what does Daryl even expect him to make of that?
“Glenn. I… What is that supposed to mean exactly? I… You… just, please?” Glenn dares to say that he begs, seconds away from dropping to his knees.
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Daryl? Because it’s pretty damn obvious what I mean, and -”
“Spell it out then, damn it! If you want me to understand, tell me! Do something about it! Fuck, Glenn. Just fucking tell me, okay?” His voice all but dissolves.
Glenn doesn’t actually say anything, though, doesn’t go into detail about his feelings. Hell, he doesn’t even remember how to form words at this point. All he does is take one, long and swift step forward, presses his hands into Daryl’s shoulders, and leans up (he might have to stand on his toes. Which is hotter to Glenn than it should be).
At some point their lips might meet. Daryl might drop his crossbow and duffel, and Glenn’s hat definitely comes off. Glenn hopes that - maybe - this is what he’ll get out of Daryl from now on, a kiss, a crossbow-drop, and his arms wrapping around Glenn. Maybe. Hopefully.
They pull apart a while later, Daryl panting, Glenn scared for his life (once again) (understandably, though, because it’s Daryl, for God’s sake, he’s bipolar as hell and maybe homophobic? Glenn doesn’t want him to suddenly change is mind and put an arrow through him).
Breathlessly, Daryl says, “I’m definitely staying.”
Glenn wants to say good, or ask if he means forever, but he bites back the urge and just kisses him again. And it might be a tad bit perfect. At least for now.
-fin-