Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is my fill response to prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: "Daryl/Glenn - Glenn decides he is going to woo Daryl. Bonus #1: He wasn't/isn't gay, but he might be a bit gay for little D. So bonus being he has a cute little sexual identity crisis for a bit. Bonus #2: He has never dated a man. This is a problem. How do men show affection? He attempts to figure this out. Cue to the lolz. = Aka: Glenn does it ALL wrong. Bonus #3: Daryl liked him the whole time but was waiting for Glenn to make a move. And is all like: "lol you little Korean weirdo you." then proceeds to 'show him some manly affection." *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, and adorableness.
Authors Note #2: Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.
The Daryl Dixon Equation
He wasn't sure exactly why he kept dwelling on it. Or why his mind kept cycling back to it at the oddest times and places. It was his way of dealing he supposed. Like Shane and Carl were to Lori and Rick, and Andrea was to Dale.
But somewhere along the line he'd become obsessed with numbers. Equations. He'd started seeing them everywhere. Breaking the world down into prime numbers and raw decimal points in his head. It was predicable, reassuring, and tangible; something that actually made sense in a time when everything else seemed to be spiraling down into impossibility and chaos. - In a small way he supposed it had made him feel safe; in control. Like he had a good handle on things rather then not a fucking clue.
He saw numbers in the ratios of men and women in the quarry camp. And in the number of children that had survived versus that of the elderly. In the percentages of single parent families as apposed to that of nuclear, two parent families; and what differences could be observed in the behavior between them. He noticed how the largest percentage of single person survivors were men. And that the smaller percentage of single women that had survived had been quick to form close ties with other the female survivors almost immediately. Whereas most of the male survivors chose to remain friendly, but notably distant in their dealings with the others. As if uncertain of their welcome or unwilling to get too close to anyone other then that of their own shadows.
It made him wonder about things like the logistics of gender and survival. For instance, why did the camp contain more male survivors then it did women? Statistically it didn't compute. Especially when one considered the fact that in pure percentages women unquestionably out numbered that of men in North America. The discrepancy there fascinated him.
The first time he'd thought about it he'd ended up with a ridiculous mental image of a woman trying to outrun a crowd of walkers in six inch high heels. And couldn't help but snort out an amused laugh as his brain entertained him with a series of progressively hilarious scenarios. – At least until he'd realized how bad and probably accurate such an example actually was, especially in the first few days of the infection; and promptly felt terrible about the entire thing.
Because it was obviously far more complex then that, after all one had to consider all the options, such as the idea of dependents. For example, a single mother with one or more children was less likely to abandon, or attempt escape without them. Something that certainly didn't bode well for that of single parent families survival given the fact that young children often complicated ones possibility of escape ten fold. And naturally, a woman would probably be even less likely to kill her children if one or all of them became infected. – After all, it was hard to listen to logic and reason as far as your children were concerned. Lori and Rick were evidence enough of that reality. A parent would do just about anything for their child. And sometimes that didn't necessarily equated to doing the right thing either.
One also had to consider the equality of access to appropriate weapons, guns for example. After all, how many women ran around packing heat outside of Texas? Statistically male gun owners made up the lasting majority in that regard. – He wondered how that might have affected the odds of survival. Access to guns wasn't necessarily the be-all-end-all of surviving the apocalypse. After all, he certainly hadn't had one in the beginning. But even he had to admit that they dead useful. He didn't care how many geeks Daryl had taken out with his crossbow, or how many he himself had killed with his bat, he'd take a gun in his waistband any day.
But why stop at considering the logistical patterns of survival for simply that of single women and children? What about taking into account the ratio of single survivors versus that of familial units? In terms of their own camp, statistically speaking, single survivors of both gender vastly outnumbered that of surviving families. Why?
It was something he'd noticed whenever he caught a glimpse of the free ways and highways that surrounded the outskirts of the towns they'd past in the months after they'd fled from Atlanta. Because if the wrecks on the highways were any indication, when the shit had officially hit the fan, families had fled together, not apart. - Something that only ended up making them bigger, more intriguing looking meat targets as far as the geeks were concerned. With the majority of them either dying together when their vehicles were swarmed, or turning in transit and killing each other before the surviving spouse could even get the kids out of their car seats.
Either way it brought a whole different meaning to the phrase 'meals on wheels,' that's for damn sure.
As one might imagine the permutations were as endless as they were intriguing. - And needless to say, along with his supply runs to Atlanta and helping out around camp, his new found hobby kept him remarkably busy. Especially in the first few months; long before Rick, Merle, and the all out disaster that had been their last few trips to Atlanta. - In fact somewhere along the line he'd almost managed to convince himself that he didn't feel so utterly alone. ..Almost.
His psych major buddies would have probably gone on in great lengths about the empirical nature of the primal male animal, or the social construction of gender in post disaster situations. Personally, he had no idea, and honestly, he didn't really care either way. His interest in the matter was purely from a mathematical standpoint. He had always liked numbers, and decided not to look too much further into it then that. – Because honestly? His imagination could be a scary ass place. ..There be dragons and etc.
But it wasn't until the CDC that he switched from numbers of gender and social construction to numbers of an entirely different kind. ..Particularly the Daryl Dixon kind. Like, for example, focusing on how many times he could recall hearing the man laugh, or seeing him smile. - How many times he'd watched the man swallow an explosive reaction or a harsh word, trading an instinctual impulse for that of a heavy silence or a pointed word.
The equations were oddly mind boggling. Because apparently, trying to quantify Daryl Dixon was a far bigger task then he'd originally thought. It was like the definition of the man alone was as indefinable as that of his character. Refusing to be tied down or harnessed in anyway. - It was fucking mind blowing.
The mathematician in him was having right tantrum over it to be honest. He was used to well researched theories and solvable problems. To equations that had specifically defined definitions and logic based algorithms. He lived for pie charts and strategy diagrams. For the counter pointed weights of mass and density that could be pin pointed down to the smallest possible measurement.
He was used to understanding things. People. It was all the same. He understood how things like supply and demand worked. How consumption patterns could be plotted to display a certain equations that could be recognized on a nation wide scale. Or how to calculate the exact amount of gas you had left in your fuel tank when the red light clicked on. - Practical things, useful things. Things that could be definitively answered rather then left to languish in the wishy-washy grey area and unsolvable hell holes that were literary and historical theory.
And true to form Daryl shot all that right to hell. The problem of Daryl Dixon was unexpected. Daryl was different. He was interesting, irritating, confounding, and a whole lot like teasing your tongue across an electric fence to see if it was live or not. - He was an equation that wouldn't work through. All raw decimals and crapped up prime numbers.
…He loved a challenge, sure. But damn everything to hell if this wasn't becoming a bit ridiculous…
It didn't take him long to realize that he was probably going to have to do something about this. …For science. Obviously. - Because one sleepless night dwelling on a Dixon was more then enough in his opinion. Either way, the reality of the whole thing was beyond frustrating. How could someone like Daryl Dixon be this complex? Hell, how could anybody be? He had to know. - Besides, it was simple chemistry. For every action there was an equal and opposition reaction. Cause and effect. But if no action occurs, then either for the good or the bad of it there would be no resulting reaction.
And apparently, since no one else saw the need to step up to the plate, he was going to have to be the one that took one for the team. – Again.
So, he set about his strategy with a methodology taken directly from the scientific method. It was perfect. Impartial by design, structured to cut down on any bias and supposition that could negatively affect the outcome of the experiment being performed. It was logical, precise. Clean cut and focused. – …And so completely and utterly doomed...
Because somewhat ironically, he actually got stuck on the first god damned step. Hell, technically it wasn't even the first official step. It was the mini step that came before the first step. The kind of basic, step by step process that was practically synonymous with teaching the scientific method to snot nosed first year juniors. Kids barely out of elementary school that still noogied each other on the playground and played lava monster on the jungle gym.
Step 1: Ask a Question
According to what he remembered from his beginners' physics text book, the scientific method was ultimately based around that of a question. - A question regarding something that was both observable and an undeniably present within the current conception of scientific understanding. It revolved around a basic understanding of how the world works. The essential how, what, where, when, and why's of scientific theory. It was basically people asking questions about how the world worked. Like at what temperature does water boil? At what temperature does it freeze? It was simple really.
And of course, this was where all his problems really started. - Because in all honesty, what was his question? And exactly why was he doing this again?
The whole thing forced him to actually consider just why he was so interested in Daryl Dixon in the first place. - For example, why did he give a flying crap how often the man smiled or with how much regularity he could pull a grudging snort of laughter from behind those inexplicably hesitant lips? And on that note, why did he even care?
…And naturally, just as he was forcing himself to consider those very same thoughts, that was also the same moment where his brain and his dick finally caught the clue bus…
A/N: Please let me know what you think? - And indeed if you think I should continue? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!
"But the reason I call myself by my childhood name is to remind myself that a scientist must also be absolutely like a child. If he sees a thing, he must say that he sees it, whether it was what he thought he was going to see or not. See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting." ―Douglas Adams. (From: "So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish.")