Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead.

Summary: Glenn figures this must be the end of the world. Not just because of the Walkers, no, but because he finds Daryl Dixon increasingly attractive as each day passes. DarylGlenn, oneshot

Um, yeah. I've adored this show since it premiered last year. I know it's also a comic, but I haven't gotten around to reading it yet. I think the show is brilliant, but I have always been kind of intimidated to write for it (because it's just so awesome). But, seeing so many other awesome authors for this fandom kinda encouraged me - and I ship DarylGlenn so hard it's not funny - I thought I'd try this out. Anyway, please enjoy!

Circadian

There's just something incredibly wrong about all of this.

Glenn has thought this several hundred (thousand, million, whatever) times since the whole thing started. He wonders a lot of things now. What had they possibly done wrong to warrant this kind of thing, what had gone wrong in the first place… He remembers vague depictions on the news, but otherwise they wouldn't show anything at first. Too scared of how people would take it.

To be honest, everything just…happened.

He doesn't dwell too much on these things now. Too much dwelling can get you into a not-so-good place. He's seen in happen to good people, kind people. Dwelling in this world causes things to go wrong. Causes people to not care as much. So he can't keep thinking of certain things that would make him become absentminded. Absentmindedness in this world equals death.

However…

Sure, the Walkers are awful. Sure, everything has gone straight to hell in a frayed and messed up hand basket. Sure, he's frightened most every minute of every day. But there is one thing that calms him. One thing that upsets him as well.

And that, frankly, would be his sudden and inexplicable attraction to him.

Even that sentence makes Glenn smile awkwardly, a twist of his lips that he wishes he could will away.

Stupid.

That's the only word that he can think of to describe all of this. Stupid. Dumb. Ignorant. And all those other words that are synonyms for moronic. It's completely out of the question to gain an attachment to anyone in this world, even more out of the question when it's someone that is so rough and raw and unfiltered and wrong for him.

Maybe it's pretty exciting too.

Excitingly stupid, he thinks to himself as he brushes his hands off on his jeans.

They've stopped on the side of the road again, the camper having broken down - and really, Glenn's not surprised, the thing is as old as all get-out - and for some reason his thoughts have drifted to this particular topic.

Now, Glenn has mastered the art of secretly staring at someone. He used to do it all the time to random girls on the street that he would never get the guts to talk to, but this is the first time his staring problem has been directed at someone that it shouldn't be directed towards (and, okay, he totally doesn't count that random married guy in that equation).

Daryl Dixon stands near him, crossbow slung over his shoulder. He cracks his neck and moans and wow, that's the sexiest sound ever. Of course, Glenn has a lot of those moments when it comes to Daryl now. He's not even sure why. Every instinct he has should be shouting that the guy is a racist bastard with no redeemable features, but no. That is completely wrong. Daryl has proven himself over and over and Glenn knows this. He knows this and consoles himself with this when the tension in his body seems to be too much.

Glenn can't really seem to think of anything at this moment. He's completely immersed in watching the man across from him as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, completely oblivious to the way that Glenn's eyes are trailing across his body in infinitesimal amounts. Slow, slow, trying to remember all of this. It's important for Glenn to do so, because in this world, who knows how much time they have?

He watches the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, the way that the sweat falls over his dirty tanktop and even dirtier skin, the way his eyes dart to wherever there's even the slightest sound. He tries to memorize the color of his hair, as matted by muck as it is. He traces his stubbly jaw line with his eyes, and imagines how it would feel against his own skin.

A shiver crawls down Glenn's spine.

He tries to push it from his mind, he really does. Or he tells himself that he does. He's actually not really sure what he's trying to do anymore. Frankly, while driving around, there's few a moment that goes by without him thinking of Daryl, riding around on that motorcycle, so much more exposed to the walkers than the rest of them.

He also tries not to worry.

He knows that Daryl can defend himself - knows it more than he knows his own name - but he is often hard-pressed to keep that in mind.

Glenn sighs and waits for several of the group members to come back from their break, waits for them to get the mobile home running again. He's daydreaming, imagining mashing his mouth against Daryl's just because he can. Because the world is so screwed up that he should be able to do whatever crazy impulse he wants. Who would care? No one, that's who. Who would care if he just randomly decided to do that with Daryl? The world's ending. Two guys together shouldn't be nearly as extreme.

Daryl would care, though. The thought smacks him in the face before weaving though his veins, rooting in every cell. He knows that Daryl would rather feed himself to the Walkers than submit to Glenn's feelings of admiration and attraction.

"Hey, boy."

Glenn starts. He knew he had been staring, but this time he had been caught. So much for being a stealthy creeper, he thinks self-deprecatingly.

Daryl doesn't seem to notice, only continues, "You keep spacing out like that, you'll be Walker-food in a second. Dumbass."

Glenn doesn't know what comes over him, but he says quickly, "You say that like you actually care what happens to me." The smirk on his face belies the seriousness of the statement. He means it. He wants to voice what he thinks. And maybe, just maybe, he wants Daryl to deny that statement. To say that he does care. Yeah, fat chance.

But Daryl does something different. He doesn't deny it, but he doesn't confirm it, either. He just stares at him, that mass of greasy and mangled hair on top of his head making him more attractive than anything else in this world. Those eyes pierce right through him, his lips purse, a grunt escapes his lips, and he mutters, almost begrudgingly, the words that Glenn had never thought he would hear.

"Don't say things that aren't true. Ain't nice."

There his heart goes, fluttering madly like a bird on the cusp of death. He's certain that Daryl can hear it - he wouldn't be surprised, actually - so he tries to think of any way that he could possibly mute the sound.

"You as red as a beet," he points out, quite unnecessarily.

Glenn can feel that, too. He can feel the way that his cheeks must be flushing out of control right now. The curse of the easily flustered is alive and stomping over everything that he has been trying to hide.

"So." He shrugs his shoulders as if it is no big deal.

A funny, rough sound reaches his ears. He sees that Daryl is laughing, his shoulders shaking with the action. And that laugh is the most…indescribable thing Glenn has ever heard.

"I don't get you," he says, "but I guess you ain't bad company."

Glenn blinks, feels his cheeks burn yet again, and just stares.

Daryl looks at him, and his lips twitch into the faintest of smirks before he adjusts the crossbow over his shoulder and decides to look away. "But that starin' at me…well, I don't mind, but other people are bound to notice."

Glenn chokes on his words several times before finally getting out a simple, "Sorry."

"No need," he says, waving his hand dismissively, "I do my share of starin', too."

If Glenn thought his face was red before, he'd hate to see how it looked now.

Daryl doesn't seem to mind, which shocks him. He's gone back into the stoic state he was in before, except he can see a faint tinge of smile on his lips.

And Glenn goes back to staring at the enigmatic man for the hundredth (thousandth, millionth, whatever) time, finding comfort that maybe - just maybe - Daryl returns the gaze every now and then.

Ironically, nothing has ever felt so normal.

End.