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 the prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: "Daryl/Glenn - Glenn decides he is going to woo Daryl." – Please see original chapter for a complete series of warnings and other related information. *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, ridiculousness, and fluff.

The Daryl Dixon Equation

Chapter 6

Step #6: Report Results.

It took him far longer than he cared to admit to dig down to the heart of the problem. Because somewhere in between that split-second at breakfast where he could have sworn that the man had been winking at him, and the moment when his brain had finally kicked in; he suddenly realized that he'd been approaching the whole operation ass backwards from the very beginning.

Because really, he was a guy, Daryl was a guy. And guys really didn't do subtle hints. Figures it would be that simple.

The point was that Daryl wouldn't recognize flirtation, subtle or overt, even if it danced the Macarena ass naked right in front of his face, wearing only Dale's bucket hat and Shane's Mossberg. Hell, knowing his luck, Daryl probably wouldn't even recognize flirtation in the first place. Handsome, emotionally stunted asshole that he was…

Fuck it. This kind of problem called for the direct approach.

This called for the big guns. No more teenage advice columns or half remembered tips he'd overheard from his sisters when he'd come home for Christmas break. No more trying and epically failing on everything from subtle flirtation to dime store magazine strategies; which had included, to his eternal embarrassment, trying to win the man over with moves that had probably made him look just about as sexy and suave as a newborn giraffe.

Amy's magazines were so full of crap.

So ironically enough, in the end, he did exactly that. …The direct approach.

Admittedly, he probably could have chosen a more romantic locale. And yes, maybe he should have waited for a time when they weren't stuck in the middle of the forest, following some old deer trail in the pouring rain, where the imminent possibility of death by electrocution was looking more likely by the minute.

Hell, even he knew better than to make any important decisions when he was frustrated, horny and bored out of his skull. In fact, he didn't know what was worse. The fact that Daryl was acting the same as he always was. Showing him up without even trying; calm, cool, dirt-smeared, and completely ignoring him despite the fact that they'd been tracking the same damn deer for what felt like hours. Or that he was pretty sure he had rain in places he didn't even want to think about. And he was about five minutes away from either drowning standing up, or growing a pair of gills.

But when Daryl had sunk down on his haunches not five seconds later, thighs and ass outlined to perfection in those same, dirty blue jeans that looked like they were five seconds away from sliding off his lean, scar puckered hips. He just lost it.

It was just too fucking much.

He dropped his pack. Just shrugged it off right then and there in the middle of that mouldering forest path and let it hit the dirt with a disgustingly wet splat. Even his machete slipped from his fingers, clanging loudly against the rocks and exposed roots as he squared his shoulders and all but launched himself across the close distance.

The older man had just enough time to rise to his feet. But by then there was no stopping him. He was committed dammit. He was going to do this even if it killed him. (Which, all things considered, Daryl probably would, when the shock wore off.)

"Kid, what the fuck are you do–mmph!"

Because before Daryl could even so much as finish his sentence, he'd already crowded the man backwards, slamming him up against the closest tree the exact same time as he captured the man's lips in a bruisingly desperate kiss.

After that everything just stopped. Hell, the world could have started rotating backwards and the skies turned orange for all he would have either noticed or cared. Because all he could think was this, yes, more… And that it was good…

Fuck, it was good.

It was Daryl who pulled away first, chest heaving, fingers clenching down on his forearms on reflex as the hunter struggled for air. A base sounding growl working its way up from the back of his throat as the man's gaze went smouldering. Shock, surprise, arousal, and interest all warring for dominance across his expressive face as the man cocked his head and fixed him with his signature, dark eyed stare.

And okay, if he still hadn't been half certain that the man was just as likely to deck him as he was to swoop in and kiss him again, he probably would have come all over himself due to that mere look alone.

For a moment they just stood there. Watching each other watch themselves. It seemed surreal after all these weeks. It felt awesome, and impossible, and a bit like he was about to spontaneously combust with the sheer intensity of it all.

"Christ kid… Is this why you've been twitchin' for the past few weeks?" Daryl finally exclaimed, suddenly sporting an expression that was startlingly reminiscent of a man whose fingers had just fallen on the final piece of a particularly troublesome jigsaw puzzle.

He boggled at him for a long moment before his brain caught up. What? After all this time the man actually knew! He'd noticed and done nothing? Un-freaking-believable! - But before he could get a word in edgewise, the man was talking again.

"Why didn't you just say so? Com're," the man hummed. Hooking him in and effectively smothering his indignant squawk with the eager press of his lips. One hand curling around his face as calloused fingers followed the curve of his rain soaked skin. The sensation going electric as Daryl's teeth pulled gently at his lower lip. All sharp teeth and heated promises as the man moved a few millimeters closer.

"Hey, I didn't see you making any first moves, dumbass!" he shot back a few moments later, only pulling away when oxygen became a serious concern. Crossbow banging against the inside of his knee as Daryl leaned into him. The action rife with teasing friction and demanding presses as the man tried to regain his balance in the slippery, forest muck.

But as if in answer, Daryl just threw back his head and laughed. - They were deep, full bodied rumbles that pitched into the afternoon sky like providence. Rich, dark, and so unbelievably honest that he knew he'd do just about anything to hear them again.

So, instead of waiting for an answer, he surged up until it was him pressing Daryl up against that tree. Capturing his thin, weather-chapped lips in a kiss that sent gentle shivers coursing down his spine…

The man's mouth tasted like tinder smoke and that stale, slightly tangy taste that was reminiscent of unbrushed teeth and old sweat. But he couldn't even bring himself to care. Because this was too good, too right, and somehow no where near enough. It was everything he hadn't even realized he'd been hoping for the whole god damned time.

..And best of all? It finally seemed as though they were on the same god damned page..

In fact, before he could even think it through, the man was already towing him in. Arms dirt smeared and rain slick as he pulled him close. Lips lazily possessive and firm as they trailed down the arch of his chin, following the frantic jump of his pulse as the man nipped him squarely across the jugular. Soothing the skin with the nub of his nose before he tipped his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes as the man's keen gaze fixed squarely on him.

"…Wanna take this somewhere else, kid?" the man murmured, voice deliciously rough as he hunched his shoulders back in the direction of camp.

And if he practically tripped over his own lips in his haste to answer, he figured that the small smile he got from Daryl in return was well worth the embarrassment.

Step #7: Conclude with official findings:

He didn't know the date, at least not exactly. And nor did he have a spare piece of paper and a pen in which to officially write it down. But he did have the moments. The memory of stumbling back to Daryl's tent, skin buzzing in arousal and nervous excitement as Daryl fumbled with the zipper. Trying and utterly failing at casual as Shane and Dale gave them the fish-eye from their seats around the fire. Barely noticing the easy smirk and knowing grin Andrea graced them with from her place on watch atop the RV, as Daryl yanked him in by the belt loops and took him down into the blankets.

He remembered the way Daryl gasped and bit down on his lower lip whenever he curled his hand around the hunter's length. Or the way the man rolled them over like he weighed next to nothing without warning. Fingers rain slick and curious as the man's hands ghosted down his flanks.

Actually, come to think of it, he remembered a whole hell of a lot that he probably couldn't even bring himself to write down, let alone even think about getting officially published in some new age science journal or psychological study if the world ever started running normally again.

…It was a shame really, gripping stuff and all that…

But then again, if he knew one thing about the scientific method, it was that his work wasn't even close to being done. There were still experiments to test, theories to confirm, and variables to smooth over. In fact, he was beginning to think that solving the "Daryl Dixon Equation" was a lot like following the instructions sewn into the labels of your clothing. - Lather, rise, wash, and most important of all, repeat.

You know, for the good of…um...Science.

A/N: This story is now complete. Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

"Chemistry is all about getting lucky..." - Robert Curl