Hey! Again, I'd like to thank my readers and those who favorite and alert, as well as the reviewers-for chapter 3, this includes MinuteCloser2Failing, simplegay me, and writerchick0214 (I'm going to take a minute and mention that writerchick0214 is one of my very favorite authors in this fandom right now and everyone should go check out her profile)!
I apologize, I think every chapter just gets shorter and shorter. The vast majority of this chapter came out tonight, within a couple of hours; I think from here it should be pretty smooth sailing, so it shouldn't be too terribly long before I get the next chapter out. There will only be one or two more after this!
Also, I'm sorry if there are typos; like last time, I will reread after this is posted and edit from there. It's midnight where I am, which would normally not be SUCH a bad thing, except I have to get up for work in the morning. So I will leave this here! I hope everyone enjoys this chapter!
They don't get the chance to go off into the woods again the next day, because Glenn has to go on a supply run that ends up taking up most of the day, or the next, because Daryl comes down with a twenty-four-hour flu. When he first presented symptoms, the group panicked, sure he must have been bit, but it quickly became apparent that he was just sick, just the kind of normal sick that was present in their lives before all of this happened.
He spends all day shut up in the house, alternating between lying on the couch with a threadbare blanket, which he sometimes needs desperately and sometimes can't stand to have near him, and huddled up in the bathroom over the toilet or lying on the floor. The floor is tiled and it's nice and cool against his feverish skin when he's just been puking his guts out. Carol and Hershel and Patricia hover over him all day and he's cranky with them, uncomfortable in his sickness and with the attention, but they mostly ignore it and he can't really manage many words to protest, anyway.
Glenn spends that day nearly making himself sick with worry, confused about where he stands with Daryl and whether he'd be a welcome presence. He wants to go and make sure Daryl doesn't need anything; he wants to make him feel better in any way that he can. He doesn't know how he would do that, but he figures he'd start by just asking. If Daryl would want to talk to him. Glenn's unsure about that, enough that he can't bring himself to try.
The day after that, though, Daryl's feeling remarkably better. He isn't at one-hundred percent yet, of course, but it's enough that he's walking around and hollering at anyone who tries to get him to sit. Still, though, when Glenn goes out with him into the woods, he's pale and Glenn keeps having to coax him to drink more water.
They get to their normal spot and Daryl turns around to face him, and he looks really tired. Glenn reaches out and places his hand on Daryl's shoulder.
"Not today. I'm just out here to make sure you don't pass out or anything."
Daryl just squints at him, grumbles, "I don't need your fuckin' help." But he takes the crossbow off his back and goes off into the woods, holding it loosely, and Glenn likes to think he's become an expert at reading Daryl Dixon at this point. So he follows, because what he's reading is that Daryl is maybe a little bit grateful, and he doesn't mind if Glenn sticks around.
It isn't until a full two days after that that the day finally comes. Glenn is practically buzzing with excitement and nerves; they've never had such a long pause in their… whatever this is. And so he's antsy and totally eager for it. But he's also going to be taking it up the ass. This is, in itself, pretty terrifying for him. He can't stop fidgeting as he follows Daryl through the trees.
Things between him and Daryl are slightly better than before. Whatever awkwardness settled in before is pretty much gone now, but Daryl's still a little distant. It still fills Glenn's stomach with a really, really awful feeling, like dread or something, which he's not sure he understands entirely—but if Daryl's not saying anything, then by god, he's keeping his own mouth shut, too. He doesn't want to fuck things up any further.
He's not even sure what he did in the first place, really. But he's going to avoid doing it again. Or anything else, if he can help it.
He sees Daryl walking ahead of him, sees the muscles as they move underneath his shirt, and doesn't know what he thinks. So he makes himself think, Daryl really needs to clean the blood and guts off of his shirt. And that doesn't really feel right, so he thinks instead, Daryl's muscles are very attractive.
That doesn't quite feel right, either. His brain is so goddamn frustrating. He kind of wants to throw shit around, but that might attract unwanted attention and also, he's not five years old anymore.
They step into the clearing and Daryl turns his head over his shoulder to give a small, unsure smile. He gingerly sets his crossbow on the ground, then takes out his knife and tosses it down as well. His gun follows; he pulls it out of the back of his pants, checks the safety, then squats down to place it in the dirt next to the crossbow.
"I don't figure you prepped yourself," he says then, almost casually, though he doesn't meet Glenn's eyes as he stands up.
"No," Glenn replies, skin heating up in a blush. "I don't really know what to do, so I was hoping you would… help me out. With that." He pulls off his hat and rubs his hand over the back of his head.
Daryl nods, smiles again, says, "Yeah."
Glenn thinks the smile's not quite right. Like, kind of sad.
He really wishes Daryl would stop looking sad, because it breaks his heart a little bit. He wants to ask what he can do to fix it, whatever it is. Before he has the chance to indulge that whim, though, Daryl reaches into his pocket and pulls out that same little bottle of lube, shaking it a little so the liquid inside sloshes around noisily. He turns to face Glenn full on, looking a little shy.
"Well, really what you gotta do is get stretched out a little, so it don't hurt. Later." He sniffs, rubs his nose. "I could do it, or you could. Up to you."
The thought of doing that to himself freaks him the fuck out because, first of all, he's not exactly Mr. Confident when it comes to fingering himself open, and so he doesn't want Daryl to watch him do it. Second, he's woefully inexperienced. He'd feel better if Daryl was the one doing it, so that it would be done right. Glenn is only mildly surprised by how comfortable he feels with the idea of it.
"You do it," he says, trying to sound decisive but ending up with something closer to pleading.
Daryl just nods and steps closer, pointing at the tree behind Glenn. "'Kay, take your pants off and put your hands against the tree, then." He looks down to the bottle, flicking the cap open, and Glenn wordlessly obeys, thinking of how strange it is, seeing that tiny little bottle in Daryl's big hands.
There is a pause. One of those hands settles on his hip and gently guides it back, just a bit. Glenn can feel the breaths he's taking become heavier, more laborious, and his skin is heating up very slightly all over. The anticipation is killing him.
It takes even longer for Daryl to make another move, and Glenn thinks—is Daryl just, like, looking at it? Because if so, he's damn glad he paid extra attention to washing that area in the shower this morning.
Daryl's other hand comes down softly on his skin, on the edge of his ass, almost where it meets his hipbone. There's some lube on his fingers already, smearing as he moves his hand over the swell, movements slow and calm and sweet.
And just like that, it's over.
Daryl's hands leave Glenn and he's backing away quickly, refusing to even look in Glenn's direction. Before Glenn can even finish turning around and pulling his pants back up, Daryl is mumbling that he can't do it, they need to stop this, he doesn't want this anymore, moving all the while. He's wiping the lube off on his pants, gathering up his weapons.
"Wait—wait, Daryl!" Glenn stalks forward, face burning with embarrassment. "What—what the hell? What did I do?" He grips Daryl's shoulders firmly, forcing him to turn and face him. Daryl scowls and knocks his hands away.
"I ain't doin' this no more, got it?"
"You mean—you mean just the sex, right? I'm sorry, I didn't want to make you do anything you didn't want to—"
"I mean everything, Chinaman, I don't wanna be your fuckin' friend, alright? Just leave me be." With a final shove at Glenn's chest, he stalks of into the woods, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder before he disappears from view.
Glenn stands there for a few minutes, completely floored, feeling humiliated and sad and sick to his fucking stomach. His eyes are burning, tingling with rapidly forming tears that he wants desperately to hold back. He swallows thickly and blinks and a few tears roll out, falling swiftly down his face, but he keeps his mouth clamped shut, tongue pressed hard against the roof of his mouth, and wipes them away.
He trudges heavily back to the farm, forcibly working his face back into a neutral expression the whole way.
When he finally enters the house, Lori and Maggie and Andrea are sitting around the table talking, looking as though they're getting along for once, and they look up at him.
"Hey, Glenn," Lori greets, a note of confusion slipping into her voice. "You're back pretty early. Where's Daryl?"
By this point, everyone in their little group knows about their friendship. They've never intruded on the most intimate conversations or the more physical moments, of course, but they know that Glenn goes with Daryl on every hunting trip now, and they see the way they hang out together on the farm.
Glenn shrugs. "He just started yelling at me and went off on his own." He's banking on the fact that everyone here knows that Daryl is an asshole (because he is, Glenn thinks, he's the biggest asshole, he's such a huge fucking asshole) and they won't question it.
It works. The women nod at him sagely before turning back to their conversation, and Glenn locks himself in the bathroom for a few minutes of alone time. And not the sexy kind.
He huddles on the floor against the counter and buries his face in his folded arms. He feels like utter shit, he really does. He's hurt and angry and guilty all at once, with hot, thick threads of embarrassment filling up the veins and the bones in his whole body. His head feels so, so heavy.
What did he do? Seriously, he really wants to fucking know, because he feels so lost and groundless. He feels horrible and he doesn't know why, like Daryl just took him and flung him out into space, into exile, to just drift around.
And that makes him mad, because he feels like Daryl's just stringing him along. And he feels like he's going to let himself be strung along, because Daryl means something to him and he wants to know and fix the damage he's caused.
And Jesus, he's going to just miss being in Daryl's company. He's going to miss being his friend. Because as much as he wants to fight for this, for whatever it is they had, he doesn't want to force things. He doesn't want to make it worse.
He kind of thinks he has to back off on this one, as much as it hurts. Maybe Daryl will come around at some point.
So he stands up, turns on the tap to a small, but steady stream of cold water, and splashes his face a few times before patting himself dry. He takes a deep breath, braces himself for his new world, the one where he can't have Daryl by his side. It's strange, because they really haven't even been friends for very long, but it's so difficult to think about this new reality. So he doesn't; instead, he opens the door to the bathroom and sets off to find someone or something else to occupy his time.