Disclaimer: I don't own the Walking Dead.
Author's Note: Officially updated! Written for a prompt on the kink_meme. I don't remember the exact words, but it went something like: A moment in which Daryl attempts to learn Korean.

It's short and sweet, and the language is accurate. R&R is very appreciated.

Learning His Language

Trying to teach a racist hick from the outskirts of Atlanta how to speak a different language is like trying to teach an old dog new tricks. It's not easy, nor is it all that enjoyable — but sometimes, if you teach him just right, something might stick.

Of course, I was having no such luck.

We had been sitting across from each other at Hershel's kitchen table for about an hour now and it seemed like nothing was going to stick. Not even the simplest of Korean terms would ease a little bit of knowledge out of that seemingly empty brain. His mind was like a fucking wall. He was a wall — a big, country-lovin', tobacco-smokin', crossbow-carryin' wall — and he deflected every piece of information I attempted to throw at him. Every word. Every syllable. Every letter. It was obvious from the start that this wasn't going to work out.

And to be perfectly honest, I don't even know why I let him talk me into this. Was it curiosity? Boredom? Stupidity? Maybe I was just a bit surprised that he suggested it in the first place; after all, it was a little out-of-character. I certainly couldn't imagine Merle proposing the idea, not even if his life depended on it. But Daryl wasn't Merle, and lately I didn't know what to expect from him, or anyone, for that matter. There was so much going on around camp, and so many different attitude changes, nothing was beyond the bounds of possibility. Or that's what I thought at first.

The situation was becoming rather reckless.

"An-nyong," I said for the millionth time that afternoon, drawing out the syllables slowly, steadily, so the damned redneck could comprehend what I was saying. We had gone over the phrase more times than I could count.

But for the millionth time, he remained absolutely clueless. "Ann-what?" he asked.

"An-nyong," I repeated blandly.

"What does it mean?"

"It means hello."

"Oh..." He blinked. He took another swig of the beer he was drinking and slammed it down on the table again, licking his lips at the taste of the stale liquor. "Hey Short Round, can we try another word?" he asked, his monstrous breath hitting my face. "I'm tired of saying the same thing."

"Sure," I tried with my best enthusiastic voice, which turned out to be a mix of sarcasm and slight frustration. I mulled over a couple casual Korean terms and settled on one of the easier ones. Or at least, I thought it was easy. "Chal' chee-nen-nee. It's kind like saying 'how are you' to someone your age."

"Uh... can you repeat that?"

"Chal' chee-nen-nee."

"Chalcheeney?"

"Chal' chee-nen-nee."

"Chalcheneney?"

I heaved another sigh of exasperation, gritting my teeth. "No, no, no. Chal... chee... nen... nee. Say it slowly this time. Chal... chee... nen... nee."

"Chal... cheeney?"

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, pinching the top of my nose with my thumb and forefinger — kind of like a parent would after finding out about a bad grade. "Daryl... you're officially hopeless. You're not even in the range of saying it correctly. It's chal' chee-nen-nee. Chal' chee-nen-nee!"

"That's what I said."

"No, that's what you didn't say."

The corners of his lips started to curl into an angry sneer. "Hey, don't fucking castigate me for not knowing how to speak Korean. I speak American, goddammit."

My eyebrows knitted together in annoyance. Only he would be able to say 'castigate' without a problem and then pronounce a Korean word like total shit, all the while referring to 'American' as a legitimate spoken language. It made me wonder how thick this guy could possibly get. "I'm not castigating you, Daryl," I muttered.

"Well, it sure as hell seems like it." He folded his arms across his chest, glaring up at me with dark, dissatisfied eyes.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," I said, throwing my arms up in the air. "Let's try another word, then. Because obviously you can't get the hang of saying 'how are you' without sounding like a fucking moron." I slid the baseball cap off of my head, tossing it onto the table. I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging on the thick black strands as I struggled to think of a simpler word. Something easier. And more importantly, something that he would remember. Was that even possible in this situation?

I looked around the room for inspiration, my mind working like a frantic translator. Something he would remember. At last, my eyes eventually settling on an object. This could possibly work. I glanced over at a semi-pissed off Daryl. "Alright. I think I got one."

"What is it?" he grumbled.

"Maek-ju."

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes squinting. "What does it mean?"

"Beer."

I watched as a grin unfolded across his lips. Just as I had suspected — I finally got him. "Make-jew, eh?" he said, sniggering as he swiped the bottle off the table, pressing it to his mouth again.

"Actually, it's maek-ju."

"Mayk-jew," he repeated, gargled alcohol spilling from the corners of his lips.

I smiled, shaking my head with bewilderment. "Well, it's close enough."

Maybe the situation wasn't so hopeless, after all.