Re AU: Glenn is a techie working on secret-awesome-useful projects. The plot initially diverges when the group is NOT attacked upon the return of Merle's search party. Therefore, nobody is bitten and they never go to the CDC, Hershel's farm, etc.

To Whomitmayconcern: I refuse to write a disclaimer on the grounds of OBVIOUSLY YOU FOOL.

To everyone else in life: I love you. Enjoy.

UPDATE: I have FAN ART **flails with joy** It has spoilers for Chapters 11, 14 and 16 so I'd strongly advise waiting to check it out, but it's worth it when you've read that far. She's incredibly talented. Link is in my profile :)

CHAPTER 1

In Which: Daryl's lone wolf mojo is threatened and Glenn can't seem to get a break.

Guest Appearance: Imaginary!Stevie Wonder

Blurry, kaleidoscopic patterns inched tentatively along the ground as early morning sun filtered through the forest canopy. The light show was accompanied by its usual soundtrack. Trees whispered the meaning of inanimate life in sub rosa colloquies as local wildlife underwent circadian reanimation. Unflappable birds opened their act with an habitual trilling chorus. All were unaffected, unconcerned and uncomprehending of the fact that human undead had been walking the earth for sixty cycles of this moment.

Self-awareness began to infuse the scene, touching the sun and the trees and the wind, observing and redefining. After a short time, another joined it, then another. They fed off each other and expanded, coalescing, permeating the area.

Glenn zipped up his tent with a cracking yawn, squishing down sleep-crazed hair as he put on his hat. Scratching his forehead with the base of the brim, he let his gaze wander over the camp. Dale had just crested the RV for morning watch, floppy hat and rifle in tow. Amy&Andrea were moving listlessly around the fire pit, preparing-to-prepare for breakfast, which didn't amount to much. His stomach gurgled fitfully and he was relieved to see Carol join them, taking charge and providing direction in her soft spoken way.

Others were sporadically emerging and congregating, shaking off sleep. Just another day in the apocalypse.

He hesitated and sat down on a tree stump as he debated joining them. Normally this wouldn't belong in the category of 'up for debate', but his frustration had been mounting over the past few days. He had twisted his ankle (not sprained, thanks) a week and a half ago during a supply run. He'd always preferred solo runs, but ever since they returned empty handed from the search for Merle, Daryl had made a habit of tagging along with anyone going into the city, on the ever-shrinking off-chance of stumbling across his brother's trail.

In this case, Glenn was willing to thank any force in the universe that cared to take responsibility for that.

For the most part, the run had been uneventful. Except for sympathetic disappointment at no sign of Merle, it had been pretty much ideal in his opinion. In and out, packs bulging with the spoils of a good scavenge, encountering only two walkers that both went down without much protest. Before heading back though, there were a few things left on his personal list to be grabbed. It took a bit of ratiocinative persuasion ("It's no big deal, really, I'll be fine... Please?") until the grumbling redneck had gone ahead to get the Land Rover (that Glenn had the foresight to hotwire for the occasion) while he made a quick stop at RadioShack, agreeing to meet at the intersection on the far side of the strip mall.

Some of it was cleaned out, with the battery section predictably stripped bare, but there was a surprising amount of stuff left. He supposed the majority of people wouldn't know what to do with it. It took a little time scrounging through the mess, but he managed to find most of what he needed: not one, but three 6-volt solar panels, AA/A and 6-volt battery holders, A-to-A USB extension cable, blocking diode, E-10 lamp base, switch, soldering iron tip and a large spool of solder.

It was like Christmas.

Happily, he tossed them into his backpack, along with a small project box as an afterthought. Only as he was giving the shelves a cursory skim for electrical tape (everyone wanted tape) did he hear it: a low, growling snuffle. He turned to see a walker slowly emerging from behind the checkout desk, its stained uniform polo sporting a name tag that read STEVEN.

A brief, crazed vision flashed through his head of Steven, Undead Employee of the Month, rasping out a polite how-can-I-help-you.

"Found everything I needed, thanks," he offered in appeasement as Stevie Walker began to patiently shuffle across the room. Soon accompanied by a fellow coworker who had also been chilling behind the counter and a customer who had been lurking behind the phone display.

Probably time to go.

He spun around and dashed out the front door, Stevie Wonder's Superstition starting to play in his mind's ear as Stevie Walker calmly crashed through the front window in slow-burning pursuit.

His feet pounded the pavement to the rhythm of the beat in his chest and the music in his head. Somehow a mini-herd was now on his heels and growing as passersby opted to join the hunt. So much for an easy run. If he didn't know any better he'd swear he jinxed himself.

Abruptly he tightened the straps of his backpack, strafing to the right. Stevie wailed about devils and daydreams, the walkers moaning in harmony, as he scaled a drain pipe to the roof of the strip mall. It appeared to be walker-free and he wasted no time, sprinting and jumping across the multilevel rooftop, the raw sun beating down and adding an aching throb to the rhythm in his brain.

The edge came sooner than expected and he lurched to a halt, arms pinwheeling as he tried to prevent himself from running off the fucking building. He could see the Rover in the street, could barely make out Daryl's face turning in his direction. Even if he survived, he'd never live it down. Just as he reached equilibrium, he looked down and nearly lost it again.

It was a straight forty-foot drop.

Or was it? The first fifteen feet or so of the wall had a design carved into it that looked deep enough for handholds. Roughly ten feet below that was one of those big name signs, forming a ledge. There was a closed dumpster on the ground. He heard a shuffling sound from somewhere behind and there was no more time to think. Closing his eyes, he spun, grabbed the edge and lowered himself down, feet kicking and scrambling for purchase.

They found it and he descended, Stevie having a congratulatory jam on his guitar as Glenn tried to tell himself that this was just like being on a wall at the climbing gym, just a game. Then he ran out of wall-design and forced himself to drop to the sign. It was unable to support his weight and the far end broke off the wall with an alarming scrape, the whole thing swinging down. Helpless, he slid along it, down and out, finally slipping off the edge with impossibly wide eyes. The dumpster flew up to meet him and he yelped, rebounding from the impact and somehow managing to curl his neck and right shoulder before hitting the ground, rolling three times before finally, mercifully, coming to a stop.

He lay there for a few seconds, sprawled spread-eagle on his back, gasping for breath as his heart pounded furiously. Forcing himself to get up, he cast wildly about for his backpack before spotting it beside the dumpster. He gazed up as he slipped it over his shoulders, marveling at what the hell had just happened. Besides general soreness, he wasn't even seriously hurt.

A deafening honk caused his whole body to flinch. He looked. The Rover was still there and Daryl was scowling and shit, where did all those walkers come from? He headed immediately for the street, running through the weeds that used to be called landscaping, mulch kicking up under his feet. Daryl was staring at him and he met his gaze with a relieved grin, stepping diagonally off the curb, rolling his ankle. He was so taken by surprise that he fell over like a rag doll, bounced his head off the concrete, and promptly passed out.

It was hours later back at camp when he awoke, mortified to learn that after all that he had somehow managed to knock himself the fuck out twenty feet from safety to an audience of 20+ walkers and one chronically unamused redneck. Daryl had apparently done his usual thing, killing a bunch of stuff and saving his ass. He'd never know exactly how close of a call it was because of the redneck's habitual understating of his own heroics, but Daryl had pretty low standards of personal danger and he was being even more churlish than normal. All in all, bit not good.

On the positive side (which Glenn preferred), his brains were not leaking out of his head and his leg had not fallen off. In fact, he wasn't concussed and his ankle was barely swollen. It could have — and if he'd gone solo, would have — gone down much, much worse.

The group had been terribly understanding about it and for a few days he actually enjoyed the fussing. But it had been almost two weeks since then. Two weeks of not being allowed to go on supply runs ("You can't run"), not being allowed to go on watch ("You can't climb up or down"), not being allowed to watch the kids ("You can't go after them when they wander or help them if they get hurt"), not allowed to do laundry ("How will you get to the quarry?").

Barely allowed to pick his nose or wipe his butt.

At first it was nice, then it was annoying, then it was irritating. Now? Now it was bordering on insulting. His ankle was fine but everyone was still treating him as if he were an invalid. No, more than that, an invalid child.

The only one who hadn't was Daryl.

To be fair, he hadn't said or done anything at all really.

Sure, Glenn noticed a few disapproving frowns if someone happened to be coddling him within a ten foot radius, but that wasn't often. Mostly the man kept to himself, heading into the woods for days at a time and returning with piles of miscellaneous dead animals. These would be dumped silently by the fire pit before he retreated back to his tiny separate camp that was set further back into the woods. He would head out with Shane or Rick for supply runs. Sometimes he would watch them around the fire at night from afar.

Wasn't he bored? Glenn wondered what exactly happened during these hunting trips of his. Maybe... Hm.

The sounds and smells of the here and now flooded in as he returned back to the present and rapidly blinked away his memories. He rose from the stump stiffly and unzipped his tent, waist and up disappearing inside before popping out a few minutes later, along with his backpack. After double checking its contents, he zipped both pack and tent shut and walked resolutely past the fire pit, past the RV, past the slew of tents and made his way to Daryl's camp, pointedly ignoring the curious looks being sent his direction.

Last night he had overhead Carol mention offhandedly that they were getting low on meat, within Daryl's hearing range. This was intentional, of course, and all involved knew he'd head out for more in the morning.

Glenn was relieved to see he had gotten there in time, as Daryl was sitting beside his personal smaller fire pit, still finishing preparations. Crossbow appeared cleaned and oiled, the nearby whetstone indicating freshly sharpened knives. He watched as the older man took a bite of jerky meat before folding the rest into a cloth that disappeared into the pack. A swig of water was taken from a canteen before quickly following the jerky. Knife into sheath, check.

Glenn shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, uncertainty gripping him now that it was time to verbalize his presence. Hands slipped into pockets, chin tucked down imperceptibly.

"Hey, Daryl."

The man grunted without looking up.

Glenn shifted again. Fidgeting fingers plucked at loose threads, absently unravelling his pockets, an action he would regret when he realized it later.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

Daryl stood and smoothly slung both pack and crossbow over his shoulder before turning away and heading toward the treeline.

"Fixin to go huntin," he tossed over his shoulder, statement clearly intended to be both his first and last in this exchange.

"Mind if I join you?"

That pulled him up short. Glancing back at the Asian from the corner of his eye, Daryl snorted derisively. "Kid, you'd be bout as useful as tits on a tree."

Mild amusement bloomed involuntarily within him as Glenn's face contorted in a volley between umbrage, bewilderment and mild disgust. Almost-smirking, Daryl leaned his left side against the nearest tree, crossing his bare arms over his chest.

"Sides, thought you was layin up today."

That made the kid bristle. "My ankle is fine. It wasn't even a real sprain and it's been weeks! I offered to keep watch, babysit, even the laundry! It's driving me crazy sitting on my butt all day. I'm totally healed now!"

The reply was a single raised eyebrow.

"Seriously, look!" he demanded, voice raising, and proceeded to stomp the dirt vehemently with his recently injured leg which, to be honest, didn't feel like sunshine and roses.

Daryl scowled and was by his side in three strides, grabbing a handful of his collar and hoisting him up just enough to take the pressure off his ankle. Glenn found himself stomping (confusingly) on nothing at all before the other man was suddenly dragging him unceremoniously down the path to the woods. Startled, he let loose a yip that carried worryingly in the clear morning air.

"Th'fuck, Asia," Daryl groused, shaking him a lightly. "It's the bleedin asscrack o' dawn, shut your mouth unless you wanna turn camp into a walker B&B."

"Let me go!"

Daryl sighed inwardly and allowed Glenn to wriggle out of his grasp, frowning as the kid stalked carelessly into the forest ahead of him. "An' don't go off with your pistol half cocked, you'll sulk straight into a walker."

"I am not sulking!"

This reply was paired with one of the sulkiest faces Daryl had ever seen.

He was not impressed.

Very superstitious, wash your face and hands
Rid me of the problem, do all that you can
Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin' strong
You don't wanna save me, sad is my song

When you believe in things you don't understand
Then you suffer
Superstition ain't the way

Very superstitious, nothin' more to say
Very superstitious, the devil's on his way

"Superstion" by Stevie Wonder

"Let us come together before we're annihilated." — Stevie Wonder