Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead.

So, this story is written from Glenn's perspective. I got the idea from a friend, who said it would be interesting to see Daryl dehydrated and Glenn take care of him, especially if it was their first encounter. The setting is before Season 1, maybe a couple weeks before Rick Grimes showed up. There will be eventual slash, I promise you that, but right now I just want to focus on Daryl's dehydration.

Anyways, I hope you like it. Chapter Two will be up soon. (I plan on having around three chapters, btw.) R&R.

Chapter One:

Just when I thought post-apocalyptic life couldn't get any more ridiculous, Daryl fucking Dixon had to enter the picture.

He arrived in a cloud of nicotine one dreary Saturday evening, swaggering through the forest with a rusty silver crossbow slung over his shoulder. A cigarette dangled carelessly on the end of his bottom lip, and he inhaled the smoke through his nose, breathing in the thick, musky scent. His loosely-fitted clothes were slathered in streaks of crimson blood — walker blood, I believe — and his greasy brown hair was drenched with afternoon sweat. A slimy sheen of persperation glistened on his forehead.

I didn't notice him at first. Not until he spoke.

"Hey," he had called out through the silence. Almost instantly, my head snapped up, my eyes scanned the area. I had been alone in the forest, picking suspicious-looking berries from a suspicious-looking bush, humming the lyrics to a song I didn't know. The last thing I had expected was to find a filthy-looking man walking towards me from the edge of the trail, the sounds of leaves crunching underneath the weight of his grimy leather boots.

I swallowed down hard. "Ermm... hi?" I managed to reply, an uneasy look crossing my face. Shane, who had been assigned the role of group leader at the time, had never bothered to mention what rules to adhere to when encountering strangers — especially ones with weapons. Digging for an answer in the back of my brain, I decided to do something that Shane would have never accepted. I stumbled up from my awkward crouching position, dropping the woven basket of questionable fruit at my side.

I let him stagger towards me without any sense of hesitation. As he neared closer, his details became more vivid. The filtering sunlight reflected every rugged feature, every wrinkled flaw. I must admit, I was so overwhelmed with how worn-out the man looked, it kind of frightened me. He looked crazy, like he was about to stick an arrow in my side and drag me back to wherever he had appeared from.

But hopefully that wasn't going to be the case.

When he finally made his way over, he stood in front of me with his hips tilted to the side, breathing in the cigarette smoke like it was air. "Name's Daryl..." he had said, his country accent thick and raspy. "Daryl Dixon." He offered out his hand, which was shaking and limp. After a moment of breif uncertainty, I took it, englulfing his difficult fingers in my own. For some unknown reason, they were covered in muck and had jagged purple bruises scattered amongst the backs.

At that very moment, I was aware of two things.

One, he wasn't going to kill me. He was frightening and repulsing, but he didn't impose a threat. There was a certain innocence and sincerity about the handshake that made me feel secure, even if the man was clearly the filthiest being to ever walk among the Atlanta terrain.

And two, he was tired as hell. Now that I could examine him from up close, you could see the red blood vessels clouding around the whites of his eyes, the sweat literally leaking from his pores. The man was giving it all his strength just to stand up properly with the crossbow lugged over his shoulder.

It was also obvious that he was more than just tired; he was exhausted, almost on the verge of passing out. I was afraid that if I let go of his hand, his body would collapse and crash into the dirt below us.

So instead of letting go, I decided that it would be the best choice just to stand there and hold onto his palm with as much force as I could manage. Grappling his fingers, entwining them with mine, I felt the scum of dried blood and sweat mingling on my skin.

This was not how I was planning to spend my Saturday evening.

"Name's Glenn," I told him, biting on to my lip. I swear I could've chewed it off. "Are you okay? You look pretty... fatigued..." That was one way of putting it, I guess.

He took another drag of the cigarette, the odorous smoke enveloping the air that surrounded us. It was maladorous and stale. This can't be good for him, I remembered thinking, my eyebrows knitting together in frustration. I wanted to rip the damn thing out of his mouth and bury it under my foot. Couldn't he see that the fumes were just making him weaker? If his body was aching, his lungs must have been on fire.

"No," he replied, his bloodshot eyes searching desperately for mine. "Do you have any water?" he asked urgently, the corners of his mouth tugging into a serious frown. I could tell that was the only reason he was over here.

Water. Yes, of course. I turned my head to the side and peered over my shoulder, expecting to see my pouch of water propped up by the berries. On these types of occasions, I would usually bring it along just in case it got too hot. But to the other man's misfortune, I found myself looking for something that wasn't there. All I could find was that stupid woven basket, laying askew on the ground. A wave of sudden realization washed over me.

Shit.

"I don't have any," I admitted, my voice becoming panicky. I tried to compose myself, but my paranoia kept seeping through. I was never good at these types of situations.

Daryl whimpered a little, yanking the cigarette out of his mouth. He let the white tube fall to the ground as he lifted his fingers to wipe the sweat off his forehead. "Fuck," he groaned, "I need some damn water..."

"I know, I know," I sighed, my eyes darting around the forest. From that moment on, I was painfully aware of the fact that he was now my responsibility. If something happened to him, it would be my fault. Sighing, I let my eyes wander around the trail.

Dragging him back to camp was automatically out of the question; it was too far away. The man would've lost conciousness before he could've recieved help. Then I'd be stuck with the gruntwork of hauling his half-dead ass around — something my puny arms probably couldn't tolerate. The man was fucking huge, after all. It didn't take a genious to figure that out.

"Do you know if there's a river around here?" I asked pathetically, still searching. There were a couple more places I could think of, such as the city, but they were too distant to travel by foot and too risky to consider. The last thing I wanted was a walker to spring from the bushes and take a bite of the man, especially if it was on my hands.

"If I knew, I'd be there," he retorted, his voice starting to crack. "I thought you would've known."

"Okay," I half-muttered, staring blankly into the shrubs. I didn't want to ask him why he thought that, so I let it drop.

At this point, I was becoming very impatient.

But just when I thought I was about to give up, the corner of my eye triggered on something — a hidden opening in the trees, not too far-off from the trail. The crisp, clear daylight oozing from the gap resembled a bright white light, guiding me towards relief.

I had found my plan. Now, if I could just get him to move...

I pulled my eyes away from the spot and turned back to Daryl, who was beginning to pant, his mouth hanging open. The way his tongue was drooping out made me think of a dog. His poor, crippling body was hunched over the ground and he looked absolutley miserable. "You think we can make it over there?" I asked him, tightly clasping onto his hand, even harsher than before. I didn't want to rush the man, but if he wanted fluids, we had to hurry. "There might be, like, a lake or something..."

"Yeah," he grumbled, straining to lift his head. Once his desperate eyes found the opening his panting became a little less severe, his composure a little less weak. He semi-straightened himself up and inhaled through his nose, focusing on the light. "C'mon..." he urged, taking a wobbly step forward.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "You could wait here—"

"It's fine," he interrupted. "C'mon."

For a breif moment or two, his eyes reflected hope. He carefully placed his feet on the ground, one after another, until he found his body moving across the landscape. A tiny grin spread across my cheeks. "Alright," I said, patting him on the back.

And to my absolute horror, that's when he fell, face-first into the dirt.