{- .. Gas Station

In which user is deaf, and while Glenn is on a run, he finds them in a gas station.

Request !!

(To the person who requested this, I never thought to do a deaf user. Brilliant. Also, will be making Daryl’s POV tmrw)

This one is LONGGG, it was also a lil difficult to write, I tried 🤷‍♀️

Initial message.

The world doesn’t end all at once. It chips away, piece by piece, until something you took for granted just... isn’t there anymore. For you, it was sound.

You’d been driving hard down a cracked, overgrown road, engine growling louder than the pounding of your own heart. Walkers had been close behind, their snarls climbing in pitch the way panic does in your chest. And then it happened—your car lurched, sputtered, and fire coughed up from under the hood. You barely got the door open before the engine blew. The blast lifted you, a cruel hand tossing you into the dirt.

There was a flash—then ringing. Louder than anything you’d ever heard. And then nothing. Not silence in the peaceful way people talk about. Silence like the world had been cut out from under you, leaving only vibration and fear.

---

Back in Alexandria, he was itching for something simple. After the horde, the town was a mess—walls splintered, people shaken. Everyone pitched in, rebuilding bit by bit, but sometimes he had to breathe. For him, that meant a run. A quick one. Supplies.

Maggie had given him that look—half worried, half resigned—when he told her he’d only be gone a few hours. “Be careful,” she’d said. And he’d promised. He always promised.

The roads outside felt different now, quieter after the storm. His boots pressed over cracked pavement, weeds curling through the asphalt like they were reclaiming it. He kept moving, eyes sharp, ears tuned to the faint rustle of wind or groan of a walker.

That’s when he saw it. A gas station. Windows busted out, sun bleaching the once-bright logo. Places like that were risky—always had been—but they were worth checking. Sometimes he found canned food shoved under shelves, sometimes just dust.

He slipped his knife into his hand and crossed the lot, steps light. That’s when I saw... them.

Their back was to me, shoulders tense, hair falling forward as they crouched near a shelf. The way they moved told him they weren’t a walker. Too careful, too alive. But they didn’t turn. Didn’t notice. Normally people flinched at the smallest sound. His boots scuffing, his breath. They didn’t.

He slowed, watching the way their head tilted slightly, searching but not hearing. That’s when it clicked.

They weren’t ignoring him. They couldn’t hear him.

He froze, weighing his options. They were alive, scavenging, and they hadn’t noticed him yet. If he startled them, it could go bad—panic makes people do stupid things, and he didn’t want to be on the wrong end of whatever they had in their hands.

So, he eased forward, slow as he could, knife lowered so it didn’t look like a threat. When he was a few steps away, he raised his free hand and waved it gently through the air.

They stiffened, spine snapping straight. For a second he thought they might bolt. Then they spun, eyes wide, body braced for a fight.

He kept his hands where they could see them, palms out, watching the panic fade into something warier. They didn’t move much, but their eyes stayed locked on his, sharp and alert.

“Okay...” he breathed quietly to himself, then slowed his movements. Pointing to himself again, he said, “Glenn,” just to keep things steady between them. Then he crouched a little, bringing himself down to their level. His fingers tapped the air as he tried to figure out how to ask what he needed.

He raised one finger, then pointed at his eye, then hooked his thumb toward the lot outside. He mimed a sloppy, staggering walk—the kind only the dead had—and pretended to stab downward with his knife. Then he held up his hand, palm out, fingers spread wide. How many?

They blinked, hesitant, then slowly lifted their own hand. Five. Then another two fingers, smaller this time, like they were counting carefully. Seven.

He nodded. “Seven.” His voice stayed low, but he made sure to meet their gaze, let them know he understood.

Then he raised two fingers, tapping them together, and pointed at them. His expression sobered. “Humans?” He mouthed it slow, drawing the shape of the word in the air with his lips so they could follow.

For a long moment, they didn’t move. He thought maybe they hadn’t understood—or maybe they didn’t want to answer. But then their jaw tightened, and they raised a single finger. One.

He held it there, between them, letting it sink in. Then he tilted his head, questioning, softening his hands open like ‘why?’

Their throat worked. No sound came, but they lifted their hand, formed a gun with their fingers, and turned it toward themself—then shoved it away, hard, their eyes flashing with the memory. They shook their head firmly. The message was clear. They tried to kill them.

He let out a quiet breath, nodding once. “Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

That was all he needed. They weren’t dangerous—not the kind that mattered, anyway. Just someone who’d survived, same as him.

Finally, he pointed back toward the road, toward the horizon, and then at his chest again. Alexandria. Home. Then he extended his hand toward them.

Their eyes flicked from it back to his face, searching, testing if he meant it. He gave the faintest smile, the kind meant to bridge the gap where words couldn’t.

And slowly, they took it.

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