The Walking Dead Fanfic: "Fantasy"
Title: Fantasy
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl/Glenn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Daryl cocked his head. "You ever been fishin' before?"
"I'm from Detroit," Glenn replied dryly. "What do you think?"
Notes: Written for the prompt "F" at 1_million_words A to Z Challenge. Oh Daryl/Glenn muse, how I have missed you.
Fantasy
by Severina
Glenn had resigned himself to camping. He was prepared to sleep on the hard ground for three long nights even though they had a perfectly good bed at home, and he had packed two extra large cans of bug spray. But that didn't mean he couldn't make it clear to Daryl that 'vacation' and 'tent in the woods in the middle of nowhere' were not synonymous.
"See, when you said vacation," Glenn said, "I was picturing Vegas. Maybe Hawaii."
"I said I got a raise, not that I won the damn lottery," Daryl said, maneuvering the truck up the craggy dirt road. " 'Sides, I think you'll like this place. My old man used to take me and Merle up here when we was little, 'fore he started spendin' all his time with the waitresses down the roadhouse."
They crested a hill, and though Glenn's mouth was open to reply he was forced to shut it at the vista before him. Crystalline lake, green meadow, wildflowers along the far bank. They were in the middle of nowhere, sure, but this place looked more like a travelogue photo for a tourism magazine than the scene from Deliverance that he was picturing in his head. Glenn, who had spent all of his two years in the city since moving from Michigan, shook his head. "You sure this is Georgia?"
"Atlanta ain't Georgia," Daryl said with a grimace, reading his mind like always. "This here? This is my Georgia."
He was out of the truck almost before they came to a full stop, and by the time Glenn hauled himself out of the vehicle Daryl was shoving the cooler into his arms and hefting the two fishing poles over his shoulder. "We'll set up the tent after," Daryl said.
"We?" Glenn joked.
"Yeah, we. Gonna make a country boy outta you yet, Jet Li. Now c'mon. You wanna eat, ya gotta catch your dinner."
"Wait," Glenn said, setting the cooler down. "Didn't you bring the steaks?"
"Hell no."
"I specifically bought the steaks because we decided on camping and I said we could barbecue steaks and make s'mores."
"Yeah," Daryl said over his shoulder, "and I said we could go fishin'."
"One doesn't preclude the other!"
"Sure it does," Daryl said easily. He was already tugging off his boots at the water's edge, and Glenn seriously, seriously considered just getting in the truck and heading home. Except he knew that Daryl would just shrug and watch him go, and he'd make it to the top of the hill before he shut off the engine and stewed and cursed a blue streak, and then he'd turn around and head back to the lake and really, that was just a waste of gas.
"You're a dick," he called out as he sat down on the grass to unlace his sneakers.
"Your dick," Daryl answered. "And anyway, I still brought the shit for the s'mores. And I brought a case of Bud. Can't have s'mores without a damn beer."
Glenn shook his head. Someday he might ask Daryl for more information about his childhood, but for now the little tidbits Daryl threw out gave him a pretty clear indication of what life was like for Daryl and his brother. If Merle and Daryl weren't proof of nature over nurture, he had no idea what would be. He met Daryl at the shoreline, and then closed his eyes when he eased his bare feet into the water. Bracingly cold, and he shivered even as he grinned at how refreshing it felt after the long ride.
"See?" Daryl said, nudging his shoulder. "Told ya you'd like it."
"Fuck you," Glenn said, but he nudged Daryl's shoulder back as he sat down with him, took the fishing pole he was handed and dangled it awkwardly over his knees.
Daryl cocked his head. "You ever been fishin' before?"
"I'm from Detroit," Glenn replied dryly. "What do you think?"
"All right, just watch me," Daryl said.
And Glenn tried to follow Daryl's instructions; tried to pay attention as he threaded a lure on the hook, explained rods and reels and weights and how to cast the line. But mostly he just watched Daryl's hands, callouses on his fingers and blunt nails; watched the muscles in Daryl's arms flex as he zipped his line out over the water; let the cadence of Daryl's voice drift over him as the cold water rippled around his toes and the sun beat down on his bare head.
"You listenin' to a word I'm sayin'?"
"Huh?"
"Yo, Bruce Lee! You listenin' to me?"
"Huh?"
Daryl snorted. "Ya gonna cast your line or what? We ain't got all damn day!"
Glenn blinked, the fantasy of icy water between his toes, cold beer waiting in the cooler and a Daryl Dixon who actually wanted to be with him evaporating into the sultry Georgia air. He looked up to see Daryl scowling at him; Merle lounging on the bank of the lake with his pole hanging loosely between his knees and a sprig of grass between his lips. Glenn's own pole still hadn't met the water, mostly because he didn't know fuck all about fishing. The only reason he'd even volunteered for this little endeavor was to spend some alone time with Daryl, and Merle tagging along had put the kibosh on that plan.
"Well?" Daryl barked out.
"Fuck it," Glenn muttered.
The pole hit the water with a splash as it dropped from Glenn's lax fingers; his sneakers squelched on the damp bank as he took the three steps to Daryl's side, and Daryl's bristles were rough and raspy on the palms of his hands when he cupped the man's face and leaned up to plant a kiss on his lips. When he pulled back Daryl's face was shocked but not necessarily surprised, and Glenn grinned.
"Fishing's not for me," he said. "See ya back at camp."
He could hear Merle whooping all the way up the trail.
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl/Glenn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Daryl cocked his head. "You ever been fishin' before?"
"I'm from Detroit," Glenn replied dryly. "What do you think?"
Notes: Written for the prompt "F" at 1_million_words A to Z Challenge. Oh Daryl/Glenn muse, how I have missed you.
Fantasy
by Severina
Glenn had resigned himself to camping. He was prepared to sleep on the hard ground for three long nights even though they had a perfectly good bed at home, and he had packed two extra large cans of bug spray. But that didn't mean he couldn't make it clear to Daryl that 'vacation' and 'tent in the woods in the middle of nowhere' were not synonymous.
"See, when you said vacation," Glenn said, "I was picturing Vegas. Maybe Hawaii."
"I said I got a raise, not that I won the damn lottery," Daryl said, maneuvering the truck up the craggy dirt road. " 'Sides, I think you'll like this place. My old man used to take me and Merle up here when we was little, 'fore he started spendin' all his time with the waitresses down the roadhouse."
They crested a hill, and though Glenn's mouth was open to reply he was forced to shut it at the vista before him. Crystalline lake, green meadow, wildflowers along the far bank. They were in the middle of nowhere, sure, but this place looked more like a travelogue photo for a tourism magazine than the scene from Deliverance that he was picturing in his head. Glenn, who had spent all of his two years in the city since moving from Michigan, shook his head. "You sure this is Georgia?"
"Atlanta ain't Georgia," Daryl said with a grimace, reading his mind like always. "This here? This is my Georgia."
He was out of the truck almost before they came to a full stop, and by the time Glenn hauled himself out of the vehicle Daryl was shoving the cooler into his arms and hefting the two fishing poles over his shoulder. "We'll set up the tent after," Daryl said.
"We?" Glenn joked.
"Yeah, we. Gonna make a country boy outta you yet, Jet Li. Now c'mon. You wanna eat, ya gotta catch your dinner."
"Wait," Glenn said, setting the cooler down. "Didn't you bring the steaks?"
"Hell no."
"I specifically bought the steaks because we decided on camping and I said we could barbecue steaks and make s'mores."
"Yeah," Daryl said over his shoulder, "and I said we could go fishin'."
"One doesn't preclude the other!"
"Sure it does," Daryl said easily. He was already tugging off his boots at the water's edge, and Glenn seriously, seriously considered just getting in the truck and heading home. Except he knew that Daryl would just shrug and watch him go, and he'd make it to the top of the hill before he shut off the engine and stewed and cursed a blue streak, and then he'd turn around and head back to the lake and really, that was just a waste of gas.
"You're a dick," he called out as he sat down on the grass to unlace his sneakers.
"Your dick," Daryl answered. "And anyway, I still brought the shit for the s'mores. And I brought a case of Bud. Can't have s'mores without a damn beer."
Glenn shook his head. Someday he might ask Daryl for more information about his childhood, but for now the little tidbits Daryl threw out gave him a pretty clear indication of what life was like for Daryl and his brother. If Merle and Daryl weren't proof of nature over nurture, he had no idea what would be. He met Daryl at the shoreline, and then closed his eyes when he eased his bare feet into the water. Bracingly cold, and he shivered even as he grinned at how refreshing it felt after the long ride.
"See?" Daryl said, nudging his shoulder. "Told ya you'd like it."
"Fuck you," Glenn said, but he nudged Daryl's shoulder back as he sat down with him, took the fishing pole he was handed and dangled it awkwardly over his knees.
Daryl cocked his head. "You ever been fishin' before?"
"I'm from Detroit," Glenn replied dryly. "What do you think?"
"All right, just watch me," Daryl said.
And Glenn tried to follow Daryl's instructions; tried to pay attention as he threaded a lure on the hook, explained rods and reels and weights and how to cast the line. But mostly he just watched Daryl's hands, callouses on his fingers and blunt nails; watched the muscles in Daryl's arms flex as he zipped his line out over the water; let the cadence of Daryl's voice drift over him as the cold water rippled around his toes and the sun beat down on his bare head.
"You listenin' to a word I'm sayin'?"
"Huh?"
"Yo, Bruce Lee! You listenin' to me?"
"Huh?"
Daryl snorted. "Ya gonna cast your line or what? We ain't got all damn day!"
Glenn blinked, the fantasy of icy water between his toes, cold beer waiting in the cooler and a Daryl Dixon who actually wanted to be with him evaporating into the sultry Georgia air. He looked up to see Daryl scowling at him; Merle lounging on the bank of the lake with his pole hanging loosely between his knees and a sprig of grass between his lips. Glenn's own pole still hadn't met the water, mostly because he didn't know fuck all about fishing. The only reason he'd even volunteered for this little endeavor was to spend some alone time with Daryl, and Merle tagging along had put the kibosh on that plan.
"Well?" Daryl barked out.
"Fuck it," Glenn muttered.
The pole hit the water with a splash as it dropped from Glenn's lax fingers; his sneakers squelched on the damp bank as he took the three steps to Daryl's side, and Daryl's bristles were rough and raspy on the palms of his hands when he cupped the man's face and leaned up to plant a kiss on his lips. When he pulled back Daryl's face was shocked but not necessarily surprised, and Glenn grinned.
"Fishing's not for me," he said. "See ya back at camp."
He could hear Merle whooping all the way up the trail.
.