Walking Dead Fanfic: "Heat"
Title: Heat
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Glenn/Maggie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1171
Summary: He'll always be grateful that somehow she saw beyond the geeky, awkward nerd in the baseball cap.
Notes: Written for hc_bingo for the prompt "hiding an injury/illness". Gapfiller/missing scene that includes things that happen in Episodes 401 and 403.
Heat
by Severina
Glenn finds Maggie curled in the corner of their bed, head bent over a notepad. He watches her tap the pen on the paper, brow furrowed and tongue poking from between her teeth; feels the same rush of awe and admiration that he's known ever since he saw her for the first time, riding up on horseback with a baseball bat and an urgent message. He'd thought she was out of his league then. He still thinks it now.
He'll always be grateful that somehow she saw beyond the geeky, awkward nerd in the baseball cap.
He shakes his head, steps into the cell and eases down onto the cot. The cap's long gone, snatched right off his head by a walker in the middle of a foraging run that went sideways quick. He only regrets losing it on days like this; he rubs at his eyes, still feeling a little sun-blind after hours on the tower, staring out over the fences, trying vainly to catch the first sign of anything going wrong. He can almost still feel the warmth of the day shimmering off his skin, causing heat mirages to dance in front of his eyes. At his side, Maggie sets the pen aside, stares blankly at the cracked grey wall.
He leans over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, ducks his head to catch her eye. "You seem distracted."
She shifts on the bed, glances up at him for the first time since he's come through the door. "Walkers on our doorstep, running low on canned goods, three and a half weeks without a drop of rain," she says teasingly. "Gee, what could possibly be on my mind?"
Glenn tries to return her smile, but the result feels wan and weak on his face. The speed that they're going through the food supplies is weighing on him, too, and the drought is taking its toll on Rick's vegetables. They're going to need to put out more snares, get Daryl to take on more hunting trips. They just never seem to catch a break.
"It's fine. We'll work it out," Maggie says. She tosses the pad and its scrawled calculations toward the desk in the corner, leans forward to touch his cheek. "We always do."
Glenn closes his eyes, wants nothing more than to lean into her touch, let her soothe away his worries. But he knows her, knows her and loves her better and more than he's ever loved anyone. So he forces himself to open his eyes, to wrap her fingers in his hand. "It's not that," he says. "You've been distracted for a while now. Whatever it is, if something's happened, you can tell me, you know. Maybe I can fix--"
"I'm late."
Glenn freezes, barely notices when Maggie pulls her hand away and stands, paces toward the sink. "But…" he starts, has to stop to swallow past the dryness in his throat. "But we use condoms."
"That are expired," Maggie says. She turns and looks at him, the corner of her lip twitching. "You did know that condoms expire, right?"
"Yeah… what? Of course," Glenn huffs out. He can tell by the look on her face that she's not fooled for an instant.
"I've only missed one. It happens sometimes, especially when there's a lot of stress. We won't know anything until I miss a second period."
"Okay," Glenn breathes out. "Okay. But." Glenn blinks, rises and tries to get his scattered thoughts in order. The cell suddenly seems too small; hell, the prison seems too small, the heat baking inside its walls making it hard to breathe. He swipes a hand through his sweaty hair, tries to imagine Maggie with a new life growing inside her. Getting bigger, doing that awkward penguin-waddle that pregnant ladies get. Like Lori at the end.
Like Lori.
He takes her hands, looks into her eyes and tries to keep the desperation from his voice. "Maggie. We can't have a baby."
"Well, that might be out of our hands," she says easily, "and into God's."
"But-"
"We'll know more in a few weeks," she says. "C'mon. Dad's on kitchen duty and I promised I'd help."
She steps back and tugs on his hands, and he can do nothing but follow.
* * *
They need twelve graves. Glenn's working on his third; for the past several hours the only sound has been the crunch of shovels pushing into dry soil and the grunts and occasional mutterings of the people digging with him, all of them working to the background music of the geeks snarling at the fence line.
His vision blurs as he lifts yet another shovel full of dirt.
He lets himself rest for a moment, leans on the shovel as he swipes a forearm across his brow and grimaces at the greasy residue that coats his skin. He needs to stop and take a break soon, drink some water. Maybe heat up a can of stew.
But the thought of food makes his stomach roil, makes him press his lips together and swallow dryly.
He looks across the field, finds Maggie watching him. So he tries to smile, tries to look confident. He tries to tell himself that it's just the heat getting to him, the long hours laboring under the blazing sun that is causing the clammy skin, the muscles in his arms to feel strained and sore. It's just the heat, sapping his strength.
He forces himself not to touch his fingertips to his neck, not to probe at the swelling glands. Tells himself he doesn't feel the tickle at the back of his throat.
When Maggie pushes at a loose strand of her hair, his heart clenches. Everything in him wants to go to her, to pull out her ponytail and feel her soft hair slide across his palm, to cup her cheek and kiss her. Take her somewhere safe, where there are no such things as walkers or psychopaths or mystery illnesses that make your blood boil before you die an agonizing death. And he wants her to hold him, so that he'll remember what he has and so that he won't rail at all the things they'll never have - safety and security and freedom of movement and the baby that didn't come this time and now will never have the chance to be born.
Glenn feels the cough building, forces it back and turns his attention to the open grave.
He will help bury their dead, and then he'll go to the council meeting. He'll do his best to ensure that Maggie and Beth and Hershel are safe. He'll keep fighting as long as he can.
He has people that rely on him, and he's not going to give himself over to the isolation wing until he's absolutely certain that he's sick. Maybe he's just got a summer cold. Maybe he's just been working too hard.
Maybe it's just the heat.
1 down, 24 to go!
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Glenn/Maggie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1171
Summary: He'll always be grateful that somehow she saw beyond the geeky, awkward nerd in the baseball cap.
Notes: Written for hc_bingo for the prompt "hiding an injury/illness". Gapfiller/missing scene that includes things that happen in Episodes 401 and 403.
Heat
by Severina
Glenn finds Maggie curled in the corner of their bed, head bent over a notepad. He watches her tap the pen on the paper, brow furrowed and tongue poking from between her teeth; feels the same rush of awe and admiration that he's known ever since he saw her for the first time, riding up on horseback with a baseball bat and an urgent message. He'd thought she was out of his league then. He still thinks it now.
He'll always be grateful that somehow she saw beyond the geeky, awkward nerd in the baseball cap.
He shakes his head, steps into the cell and eases down onto the cot. The cap's long gone, snatched right off his head by a walker in the middle of a foraging run that went sideways quick. He only regrets losing it on days like this; he rubs at his eyes, still feeling a little sun-blind after hours on the tower, staring out over the fences, trying vainly to catch the first sign of anything going wrong. He can almost still feel the warmth of the day shimmering off his skin, causing heat mirages to dance in front of his eyes. At his side, Maggie sets the pen aside, stares blankly at the cracked grey wall.
He leans over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, ducks his head to catch her eye. "You seem distracted."
She shifts on the bed, glances up at him for the first time since he's come through the door. "Walkers on our doorstep, running low on canned goods, three and a half weeks without a drop of rain," she says teasingly. "Gee, what could possibly be on my mind?"
Glenn tries to return her smile, but the result feels wan and weak on his face. The speed that they're going through the food supplies is weighing on him, too, and the drought is taking its toll on Rick's vegetables. They're going to need to put out more snares, get Daryl to take on more hunting trips. They just never seem to catch a break.
"It's fine. We'll work it out," Maggie says. She tosses the pad and its scrawled calculations toward the desk in the corner, leans forward to touch his cheek. "We always do."
Glenn closes his eyes, wants nothing more than to lean into her touch, let her soothe away his worries. But he knows her, knows her and loves her better and more than he's ever loved anyone. So he forces himself to open his eyes, to wrap her fingers in his hand. "It's not that," he says. "You've been distracted for a while now. Whatever it is, if something's happened, you can tell me, you know. Maybe I can fix--"
"I'm late."
Glenn freezes, barely notices when Maggie pulls her hand away and stands, paces toward the sink. "But…" he starts, has to stop to swallow past the dryness in his throat. "But we use condoms."
"That are expired," Maggie says. She turns and looks at him, the corner of her lip twitching. "You did know that condoms expire, right?"
"Yeah… what? Of course," Glenn huffs out. He can tell by the look on her face that she's not fooled for an instant.
"I've only missed one. It happens sometimes, especially when there's a lot of stress. We won't know anything until I miss a second period."
"Okay," Glenn breathes out. "Okay. But." Glenn blinks, rises and tries to get his scattered thoughts in order. The cell suddenly seems too small; hell, the prison seems too small, the heat baking inside its walls making it hard to breathe. He swipes a hand through his sweaty hair, tries to imagine Maggie with a new life growing inside her. Getting bigger, doing that awkward penguin-waddle that pregnant ladies get. Like Lori at the end.
Like Lori.
He takes her hands, looks into her eyes and tries to keep the desperation from his voice. "Maggie. We can't have a baby."
"Well, that might be out of our hands," she says easily, "and into God's."
"But-"
"We'll know more in a few weeks," she says. "C'mon. Dad's on kitchen duty and I promised I'd help."
She steps back and tugs on his hands, and he can do nothing but follow.
* * *
They need twelve graves. Glenn's working on his third; for the past several hours the only sound has been the crunch of shovels pushing into dry soil and the grunts and occasional mutterings of the people digging with him, all of them working to the background music of the geeks snarling at the fence line.
His vision blurs as he lifts yet another shovel full of dirt.
He lets himself rest for a moment, leans on the shovel as he swipes a forearm across his brow and grimaces at the greasy residue that coats his skin. He needs to stop and take a break soon, drink some water. Maybe heat up a can of stew.
But the thought of food makes his stomach roil, makes him press his lips together and swallow dryly.
He looks across the field, finds Maggie watching him. So he tries to smile, tries to look confident. He tries to tell himself that it's just the heat getting to him, the long hours laboring under the blazing sun that is causing the clammy skin, the muscles in his arms to feel strained and sore. It's just the heat, sapping his strength.
He forces himself not to touch his fingertips to his neck, not to probe at the swelling glands. Tells himself he doesn't feel the tickle at the back of his throat.
When Maggie pushes at a loose strand of her hair, his heart clenches. Everything in him wants to go to her, to pull out her ponytail and feel her soft hair slide across his palm, to cup her cheek and kiss her. Take her somewhere safe, where there are no such things as walkers or psychopaths or mystery illnesses that make your blood boil before you die an agonizing death. And he wants her to hold him, so that he'll remember what he has and so that he won't rail at all the things they'll never have - safety and security and freedom of movement and the baby that didn't come this time and now will never have the chance to be born.
Glenn feels the cough building, forces it back and turns his attention to the open grave.
He will help bury their dead, and then he'll go to the council meeting. He'll do his best to ensure that Maggie and Beth and Hershel are safe. He'll keep fighting as long as he can.
He has people that rely on him, and he's not going to give himself over to the isolation wing until he's absolutely certain that he's sick. Maybe he's just got a summer cold. Maybe he's just been working too hard.
Maybe it's just the heat.
1 down, 24 to go!
.