Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

Warnings: Please see original chapter for all warnings and general information.

Authors Note #1: *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, Daryl being Daryl, as well as blood, gore, minor wound descriptions, and sensuality.

Gnarled

Chapter Two

He ran a hand across his face, more frustrated than disgusted when his fingers came back clammy and smeared with red. He'd really done a number on himself this time. That was for damn sure…

He was about to reach over and wipe his hand on the stack of cloth napkins that were still arranged on a serving tray on the other side of the table when he was brought up short. His grit encrusted lashes fluttering once, then twice, as his eyes caught on a row of pictures set up along the window sill across the room. Metal frames glinting invitingly as they reflected in the low, afternoon sun.

And for a long moment, he found that he couldn't look away. Drawn in by a long series of pictures that seemed to represent a life lived in stills. From beginning to end he took it all in. There were happy grins and sly smiles, milestone moments, and pictures that could have only been taken at the spur of the moment. He saw mud pie contests and playground flirtation. A badly lit high school prom, and a wedding. He saw a first car, a first child, a trip to the Grand Canyon, and the births of a second, a third, and then finally a fourth. He caught the first steps of a favorite grandchild, and the choice moments from four different weddings strung out between the intervening decades. He saw bad fashions and even worse hairstyles. A thirty year wedding anniversary, a best friends wedding, and trip to Europe. He watched an entire family grow up and get old. And yet, despite the years and the wrinkles, the laughter and smiles had always remained the same.

Shit.

He swallowed his sneer and wiped his hands on his jeans instead, ignoring the gritty fabric as he let the filthy material soak up the blood and sweat without a word of compliant. - They'd intruded here enough as it was.

For a long moment they remained silent. Growing all too aware of each other the longer they allowed the silence to drag. Each of them trapped in their own thoughts as firmly as a snarl of birds tangled in a wire cage. Hung up on bruised egos and wounded pride as they slowly let the reality of their situation sink in.

He let his chin dip into his chest, pointedly refusing to look anywhere else but his lap. Not trusting himself to say something he might regret or inadvertently incite the kid into feeling like he had to run off at the mouth about something or other.

Christ, he didn't like this. He didn't like this one fucking bit.

Because he could hear every breath the kid sucked in. All too aware of the way the younger man's chest would shudder, and then expand. Pressing feather light across the span of his back before he finally exhaled. He felt all of it. The way the man breathed out in that soft, unhurried rush of air. All forced calm and pitched with nerves as it ghosted across the vulnerable curves of his neck. And how the kid's breaths had slowly begun to mirror the rhythm of his stitches, matching the way the pick pierced through his skin and drew the thread down with it as he tied off yet another line of stitches.

He'd given up counting at ten.

Instead he made himself focus on the floor, watching idly as the odd droplet of blood blossomed across the pale blue carpeting. Trying not to think too hard about the previous inhabitants of the house they'd invaded. A home that still smelled wholesome and good, just like it 'oughta. Seemingly untouched by the death and destruction that had wrecked the entirety of the small town they'd been in the process of raiding.

It was almost as if the people who had lived here had simply locked up and left. Their departure remarkably absent of any of the usual signs of panic or blood shed. In fact, the only sign that indicated that the house had been left in the middle of an otherwise normal day was the untouched pot of coffee mouldering on the burner in the kitchen. And the worn, murder mystery that had been left open on the breakfast bar. The lone stool pushed back in a way that made him think that whoever had been sitting there had gotten to their feet far too quickly.

He wondered if they had been one of the lucky ones. Having figured out what was going on long before the crush. Before the crowded freeways and ten mile pile ups. And made it safely to whatever haven they'd been heading towards. He wondered if they had-…

He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts from his mind as he tensed up on reflex. Feeling a might foolish for the places his mind had wandered as Glenn worked busily behind him. Not failing to notice that the harsh dig of the suture pick was growing noticeably gentler the longer the silence was left to stand. Almost as if the kid could sense the nature of his troubled thoughts through mere touch alone.

But that wasn't the point, at least not really. The point was that it didn't do well to dwell on what was said and done. It was an offense to the living just as much as it was a useless gesture to the dead. Besides, it wasn't like there was anything they could do about it now anyway. They had their own god damned problems to worry about.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he looked up and caught sight of his reflection in the china cabinet set up directly across from their makeshift triage station. And in spite of himself, he winced. Christ, he looked like crap.

Unimpressed, he simply glared at his reflection. Watching first hand as a baleful frown swept across his filthy features. He was dirty, sweaty, bloody, and bruised to shit, and the kid didn't look much better. In fact it was hard to figure out which of them looked worse. Him with his wound, or Glenn with his t-shirt stained up to the fucking armpits with sweat, blood, and brain matter. His coal black hair plastered flat to his skull in the heat and humidity, and face seemingly permanently crunched up in a look that he could only guess was concentration.

All in all they looked like one of those poorly lit, gang violence advertisements the government used to run around election season. "Help us clean up our streets" or whatever the fuck they were trying to 'fix' this time.

Jesus, they were a mess.

He shook his head. Eyes burning with the unexpected sting of sweat as his body seized in a sudden flinch. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek in an effort to stay silent as the suture pick slipped and pierced through his skin. - But even then, he barely had time to register the sensation before his senses were overwhelmed by the feeling of Glenn molding himself into him. Murmuring soft apologies into the curve of his shoulder as he leaned in, pausing for a long moment to wipe his hands on one of the towels they'd managed to pilfer before he resumed stitching.

Christ..

He didn't even think twice about it as he snagged the bottle of Russian Standard and took a healthy swig. Letting the hard liquor work its magic as he shook himself out his self made stupor and passed it back to Glenn so that he could do the same. Not even bothering to hold back a knowing smirk as Glenn spluttered around his own mouthful. - Anything to take his attention away from the growing tremble that was working its way up his limbs. Senses shorting out like forked electrical sockets and faulty wiring as the younger man all but draped himself across his back.

All in all the kid wasn't half bad. But in this case, he doubted anything short of an expert would be able to put the jut of his shoulder back together unscathed. Because he could tell by the way that Glenn was stitchin' that this one was going to scar up something fierce. If he was being honest, he should have been tending to it himself. Maybe that way he'd be able to fix the worst of the damage and save himself from a gnarled up knot of scar tissue when it finally healed.

He should have, but he didn't…

In a way he'd always been proud of his scars. Simply seeing them for what they were, the milestones and merit badges of a life lived both fully and freely. Nothing more, and nothing less. Only now, for some rather discomforting reason, all he could really think about was how the mottled, scar-littered canvas of his callous-roughened skin must look like in comparison.

He shook his head, entirely ignoring Glenn's displeased grumble as he carefully pulled yet another stitch firm against his skin. How a dude could look so god damned pretty he had no idea. It was either that or maybe the vodka was stronger than he'd thought. By this point it was getting rather hard to tell.

It wasn't until Glenn had fastened a tensor bandage around the wound, securing the ends with a couple of butterfly clips that he figured he could finally relax. There was just something about the kid's skin brushing against his that had him on edge. It was doing something strange to his insides, like he had wood ticks jumping around in his gut, or acid eating away at him from the inside.

Hell, the sensation alone had him all but crawling up the god damned walls.

All he wanted to do was to shoulder their supplies, and get a fucking move on. But apparently the kid didn't get the god damned memo. Because before he could even so much as open his mouth to protest, the kid was leaning in. Blunt nails tracing the muscled flair of his undamaged shoulder like an inadvertent caress.

He nearly bit off his own god damned tongue.

"You're tense," The kid remarked, tone hesitant but growingly determined as his fingers spidered across the surface of his blood-slicked skin.

He made a noncommittal grunt at the observation. Fixing the kid with a questioning glare as he moved his shoulder experimentally, making sure that the tensor didn't hinder too much of his movement before he called the job complete. After all, it wouldn't do to be caught out in the open, struggling to reload his bow in the middle of an attack, because of a shoddy bandaging job, now would it?

"Your muscles," Glenn repeated. Slowing his words like his outburst had been obvious, as the kid prodded at the flat of his shoulder with his index finger.

"How would you know?" he retorted, slowly trying to inch his way off the bench before the kid got wise and stilled him with the small of his hand.

"My mom was a masseuse back in Korea," Glenn replied, tugging at the straps of his blood encrusted shirt as he stretched the ruined material down the length of his back in preparation for god only knows what.

A smart retort rose to his lips. But he forgot what he was going to say somewhere in between nearly choking on his god damned tongue and forgetting how to breathe, as Glenn's hands curled around his shoulders and squeezed. - And for a long moment he couldn't even characterize the sensation. Pain, pleasure, it didn't even matter. Because whatever it was, it was enough make his muscles seize in place. Forcing him to gnaw on the inside of his cheek in order to keep quiet as his abused muscles began to throb.

Fucking ow! …He swore the kid did that on purpose...

"You gunna do my nails next Asia?" he grunted, cursing himself as his voice dipped low. Tensing in response as Glenn's nails raked half moon furrows down the length of his prickling skin. Conscious thought filtering out of his mind like water from a sieve as his brain wavered, uncomfortable and confused as the kid ignored him and dug right in.

"Nah… A chemical peel first, I think. Your pores could use a good scrub out. Followed by a deep tissue massage and maybe a bikini wax if you're still feeling feisty," Glenn shot back. Not missing a beat as he worked his fingers around a particularly sore patch of muscle. Not letting up until he had him groaning in pain. …Or at least he told himself it was pain.

"Chemical peel, deep tissue, bikini-what now?" he hissed, lips twitching in grudging amusement as Glenn laid into him, getting all sassy and shit. The kid had some serious spunk, he'd give 'im that.

"Seriously man, how are you even still standing straight? This has got to ache like a son of a bitch," Glenn grimaced, pressing in close as he slapped his hands against the dip of his shoulder in an effort to get the muscles to relax. Thumbs working in soft, pressurized circles as the kid quickly sussed out a bunch of areas he hadn't even realized were aching in the first place.

Now that he mentioned it, he had been a bit...sore lately. - Say what you want about cushy suburban living, but he'd kill for a chance to sleep in a real bed for a change.

It took him a while, but after a long and rather hesitant moment he leaned into the press. Rolling his uninjured shoulder pointedly as Glenn's fingers skimmed low, wordlessly indicating where he wanted the kid to focus on next.

"See? Told ya' you needed this," Glenn chuckled, strong hands sinking into the hard knots of his shoulders and back almost effortlessly. Following the hard ridges of uneven scar tissue and abused muscle as the kid worked him over relentlessly.

He raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing, content to let the kid think whatever he wanted so long as he kept doing… ah!…That.

To be honest it felt…good, a little too good actually… - Christ, he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed this. He'd always been of the opinion that there was something special about a woman laying her hands on him like this. Hell, he'd lived for those casual one night stands and leggy summer flings that had been gifted with those soft, eager little hands that were just right for getting at all those sensitive, hard to reach places.

But in all fairness, the talents of his past exploits didn't hold a candle to this. Hell, at this point he reckoned nothing ever could…

He held back a half-pleasured hiss, caught somewhere in between pain and the former as Glenn continued his ministrations. His fingers sharp and relentless as they sought out every sore muscle, every abused patch of skin, and deep seeded hurt. Leaving nothing untouched or unexplored as the younger pressed flush against him, hands never stopping their gentle, spiraling movements as slowly, the gnarled knots and abused muscles began to give way. And despite his better judgement, for a while he got lost in it. Lost in the feeling of smooth hands rasping against his skin, and in the way pain gradually gave way to pleasure.

He was still idling in that lazy place that existed somewhere in between pain and pleasure, when Glenn's fingers sunk into an unexpectedly sensitive spot between his shoulder and neck that had him seeing stars. And just like that he was fucking gone.

He moaned. He couldn't help it. Back curving in response, as the sound echoed in his ears. Coming out throaty and embarrassingly wanton as the sensation sent a bolt of electricity coursing down his spine. - Oh..

The impending sweetness of release splintered through his nerve endings like he was five seconds away from just exploding out of his own god damned skin. Libido overriding that of his conscience as his body made it perfectly clear that it was set to ride the slow waves of pleasure that the man was unknowingly providin' all the way down to the god damned station…

Fuck, this was good… He hadn't realized it could be like this. He hadn't-…Mmmm…

A/N: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! - I just wanted to thank all my reviewers thus far, you guys are amazing. You really make it a joy to write in this fandom! There should be one more part after this if all goes well.

"Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on." - Henry Rollins