Stay Frosty
Title: Stay Frosty
Summary: Godric hates zombies. Salazar hates country music. Rowena is a badass, and Helga loves to laugh at the shit Godric does and says.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin (slight/implied), Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and a bunch of OCs
Genre: AU, gen, crack
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; a lot of swearing and the shooting of zombies
Word Count: 2013
Author's Notes: etacanis is thrice to blame for this crack: Galazar, Generation Kill, and her prompt for the Tuesday SQ Rome challenge: 'post-apocalyptic AU'.
Godric fucking hates zombies. He hates them with a passion that is only rivalled by his hatred of gummy sweets that get lodged in between his teeth. Zombies are grey bodies with bits of hair sticking out and they smell like rotten eggs on mouldy toast. And they fucking kill people.
He shares his thoughts with Salazar, who simply tells him to shut the fuck up, the bastard. Godric just shakes his head and continues driving down the deserted motorway, chewing his special brand of gum. There's dust everywhere, which sucks, and Godric's glad that he has his aviators with him. Helga likes to call them his pimp glasses, and Godric quite likes that name.
"It's getting dark. We should find a place to stop soon." Rowena gives Godric directions off the motorway, peering at her map. They end up in a lane full of cottages after a few minutes, the evening light casting a lovely amber glow on the trash in the street.
And the zombies.
The guns come out soon after the zombies start making their way towards their beat-up shitcase excuse of a car. The four of them climb out, weapons in their hands, and start shooting mercilessly at the bodies that used to be people. Godric pretends that he's playing Left 4 Dead 2, and roars out swears that almost drown out the gunfire. On his left, Salazar's silently taking down zombies one at a time, cool as ice, grey eyes shifting from one target to another.
Godric finds Salazar's style of engaging the fuckers boring.
Helga, on the other hand, is a badass. Godric can hear her yell as she hammers the zombies with steel-tipped determination. They ate her dog. Godric hates dogs, but then the stupid brainless fucks ate his cat, so he knows how she feels.
Rowena's much like Salazar, cold and quiet, though Godric can hear her muttering something under her breath as she fires her weapon. Godric will never admit it, especially in front of Helga, who already teases Godric enough about his inability to eat like a civilised being among other things, but he's kind of intimidated by Rowena when she's all quiet like this. Salazar tolerates his bullshit, and Helga encourages it, but Rowena is the only one who can shut him up with a just one look.
"I like that one," Godric says, pointing to the cottage at the end of the lane as they get back into the car. He starts the engine, and doesn't flinch when there's the sound of crunching bones. The others don't object to him choosing their temporary home, but keep their guns pointed out the grimy windows, looking out for more zombies to kill.
Question: if zombies have no fucking brains, how do you blow them out?
Luckily for them, there seem to be no more zombies around the tranquil neighbourhood. Salazar bypasses the security system in a heartbeat, and the four of them troop in, dragging dust and dirt onto the carpet.
"Nice choice, Godric." Helga whistles at the bar at the end of the room, and winks at him. He smirks proudly, puffing out his chest, and regrets it immediately when Salazar throws his pack at him.
Godric glares at Salazar for a moment, and then starts to unpack. "You know, Sal, you need to lighten the fuck up. We're in a goddamn world with stupid brain-eating zombies, but we've got guns and ammo and food and a bar, so stick a smile on that mug of yours, okay. I'm not sucking your dick to turn your stupid-ass frown upside-down, yeah? Well, until you wash it."
"Fuck you." Salazar's words are without heat though, and he's grinning at Godric with sharp teeth. "I'm going to check the kitchen."
"Man, I hope there's real food in that kitchen," says Godric, pulling out a clean shirt from his pack. "I'm tired of eating dried fruit and crackers and shit all the time."
"You eat waste, Godric?" Rowena quirks her eyebrow upwards, a small smile crinkling the corners of her blue eyes. "Would explain the utter bullshit you constantly spout."
Godric grins at her. "You wound me, ma'am."
Rowena gives him the finger, then heads to have a shower in the nearest bathroom. Godric slings his shirt onto his shoulder and walks towards Helga, who's busy checking out the bar. She pulls out a bottle of malt whisky with a delighted chuckle. "I don't give a flying arse. I'm having this tonight."
Another reason why Helga is a badass: the woman has taste.
Salazar comes back into the living room to announce that yes, the kitchen is stocked with actual food, and that the appliances are all still plugged in and working. Godric thinks he might actually cry, because Sal is holding a fucking packet of fucking beautiful bacon that expires in two days.
Dinner that night is wonderful. They keep their ready-to-eat packets in their bags, and make do with what's left in the kitchen, which is a lot. Godric's claimed the bacon as his, writing his name on the plastic in obnoxious capital letters with his Sharpie, and was tempted to sleep with the damned pretty thing until Salazar promised that it was all Godric's in the morning.
Salazar found pizza, with extra ham, frozen in the fridge, and he's having that for dinner, sprawled out against the couch. He looks more comfortable than Godric's seen him in weeks, which makes Godric smile, though he'd never admit that to anyone. Except maybe Helga, who seems to love nudging him in the shoulder, the little cheery bitch.
She's having her whisky and some delicious-smelling meat dish she cooked all on her own. Godric tried to snatch some earlier, but got a hot wooden spoon rapped on his knuckles for his trouble. He stares at it, even now. The smell is so damned good. "Fuck off, Gryffindor," Helga says, grinning, moving away to sit beside Rowena, who's smirking and digging into her salad and tacos.
It's childish, but Godric sticks his tongue out anyway. He likes his pasta. It's fresh and well-cooked, thank you very much, with lots of tomato sauce and mushrooms. Truth be told, you could have offered Godric a stale piece of toast and it would have still tasted better than the fucking dry, tasteless goop that they had to survive on while on the road. So he doesn't care if he's slurping and making obscene noises that obviously turn Salazar on, by the look of it (Godric files this under interesting shit and continues, even louder). He doesn't care that Rowena looks faintly disgusted, and that Helga is openly laughing and yelling insults.
He makes the fucking gorgeous pasta his bitch, and doesn't stop until there's more sauce on his face than in the bowl.
---
They're on the road again a few days later, aiming to reach London in a week or so. Godric's still the designated driver, only because he claims the others drive like weak-ass babies. Helga's on his nine, bitching about the lack of alcohol on their road trip, and ignoring Salazar, who patiently tells her that they're not on a fucking road trip, and that they need to stay sober.
To get back at him, Godric and Helga sing country music. Salazar hates country music. He shuts up after the fifth Taylor Swift song they belt out.
Rowena doesn't say much, but keeps herself busy by fiddling around with a radio almost as beat-up as their crappy car. They took it from the cottage, and she's been able to nurse it from whining to occasional bursts of messages.
"…anyone out there, please go to the safehouse in central London… 're at five-two-six Isling… are nine of us staying here currently… need supplies… wounded in the leg…"
When they are finally at the outskirts of London, it's been four days since anyone took a shower, and Godric is high on sleep-deprivation and coffee crystals and constantly bitches about the need to have a good wank. He shuts up when they approach London in another couple of hours. Helga perks up a little when she sees a rogue zombie and picks up her gun again, humming the Doctor Who theme tune as she aims a quick headshot to the fucker. From then on, she's on full alert as they drive into the deserted capital city.
"Stay frosty," says Salazar. The sky is an ominous grey, and it feels like they're in a fucking movie. Godric half-expects Tom Cruise or Kiefer Sutherland to pop out of one of the buildings nearby to save their arses from a zombie mob.
But there is no mob, thankfully, and no movie stars. There's an eerie silence, with the occasional crunch of more than road.
"Turn left," Rowena says suddenly, and continues to guide Godric through the huge city, the radio pressed against her ear. She's still holding her gun steady, pointing it out of her window, ready to kill any brain-eaters out there. Godric respects her even more.
They reach the supposed safehouse by sundown.
"There's fuck all. Where're the people?" Helga whispers, eyes scanning the block of flats as Godric circles it yet again.
Suddenly there's a man in front of their car, and Godric grits his teeth to bite back a huge yell as he puts on the brakes, because the man is not grey and stumbling and undead.
"Fuck you, man!" Godric says, snarling, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as the man approaches his window. "Don't fucking do that, you fucker!"
"I'm sorry. We had to get your attention. I'm Christeson."
"Well-" Godric swallows his rant when Salazar kicks the back of his chair. 'Be polite', his grey eyes say quietly through the rearview mirror. Arsehole. "Fine. Where are the rest of your people?"
"Inside. Zombies stay underground, mostly. There are some fuckers who lurk around, but they generally prefer the damp in the sewers and don't come out until it's nearly dark, like now, so we've got to go." He swallows nervously and helps them to bundle up their supplies - the sounds of shuffling feet can be heard from down below. Godric says a fond goodbye to their shitcase of a car before being pulled unceremoniously by the collar into the flat.
There are eight of them waiting: three men, four women, and a girl. Rowena immediately attends to the wounded young man who's got a gunshot wound to the leg, assisted by a distraught young woman who looks to be his sister. Helga follows Christeson and Helena, his wife, to the supply room.
An elderly man is the leader of the ten, and says his name is Ferrando. He has a raspy voice that grates on Godric's nerves, but Godric doesn't show it. He knows authority when he sees it with a fucking rifle over its shoulder. Salazar, Ferrando, and his daughter Natalie head off into another room to discuss strategy, and Godric is left with the motherly-looking Rae and her children.
"Are you here to save us?" The girl looks to be three, and normally Godric can't be arsed with kids, but her eyes are huge and green. "Momma says that there are bad things outside, like dragons."
Rae smiles at Godric, and pets her daughter on the head tiredly. "Emmy can be quite chatty."
Godric grins back, and offers Emmy a hand to shake, settling down on one knee. "I'm with my friends, and we're all going to kick some zombie butts for you, okay?"
"Promise?"
Godric chuckles as he hooks pinkies with the little kid biting her lip. "Promise."
When Emmy finishes hugging a very surprised Godric who's suddenly all too aware of how much he smells of their greasy car, she whispers something that makes him laugh and ruffle her head of strawberry blonde hair.
"Yes," he says, beaming at Rae and Emmy. "We can most definitely call this place Hogwarts after your favourite Pumbaa toy."
Summary: Godric hates zombies. Salazar hates country music. Rowena is a badass, and Helga loves to laugh at the shit Godric does and says.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin (slight/implied), Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and a bunch of OCs
Genre: AU, gen, crack
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; a lot of swearing and the shooting of zombies
Word Count: 2013
Author's Notes: etacanis is thrice to blame for this crack: Galazar, Generation Kill, and her prompt for the Tuesday SQ Rome challenge: 'post-apocalyptic AU'.
Godric fucking hates zombies. He hates them with a passion that is only rivalled by his hatred of gummy sweets that get lodged in between his teeth. Zombies are grey bodies with bits of hair sticking out and they smell like rotten eggs on mouldy toast. And they fucking kill people.
He shares his thoughts with Salazar, who simply tells him to shut the fuck up, the bastard. Godric just shakes his head and continues driving down the deserted motorway, chewing his special brand of gum. There's dust everywhere, which sucks, and Godric's glad that he has his aviators with him. Helga likes to call them his pimp glasses, and Godric quite likes that name.
"It's getting dark. We should find a place to stop soon." Rowena gives Godric directions off the motorway, peering at her map. They end up in a lane full of cottages after a few minutes, the evening light casting a lovely amber glow on the trash in the street.
And the zombies.
The guns come out soon after the zombies start making their way towards their beat-up shitcase excuse of a car. The four of them climb out, weapons in their hands, and start shooting mercilessly at the bodies that used to be people. Godric pretends that he's playing Left 4 Dead 2, and roars out swears that almost drown out the gunfire. On his left, Salazar's silently taking down zombies one at a time, cool as ice, grey eyes shifting from one target to another.
Godric finds Salazar's style of engaging the fuckers boring.
Helga, on the other hand, is a badass. Godric can hear her yell as she hammers the zombies with steel-tipped determination. They ate her dog. Godric hates dogs, but then the stupid brainless fucks ate his cat, so he knows how she feels.
Rowena's much like Salazar, cold and quiet, though Godric can hear her muttering something under her breath as she fires her weapon. Godric will never admit it, especially in front of Helga, who already teases Godric enough about his inability to eat like a civilised being among other things, but he's kind of intimidated by Rowena when she's all quiet like this. Salazar tolerates his bullshit, and Helga encourages it, but Rowena is the only one who can shut him up with a just one look.
"I like that one," Godric says, pointing to the cottage at the end of the lane as they get back into the car. He starts the engine, and doesn't flinch when there's the sound of crunching bones. The others don't object to him choosing their temporary home, but keep their guns pointed out the grimy windows, looking out for more zombies to kill.
Question: if zombies have no fucking brains, how do you blow them out?
Luckily for them, there seem to be no more zombies around the tranquil neighbourhood. Salazar bypasses the security system in a heartbeat, and the four of them troop in, dragging dust and dirt onto the carpet.
"Nice choice, Godric." Helga whistles at the bar at the end of the room, and winks at him. He smirks proudly, puffing out his chest, and regrets it immediately when Salazar throws his pack at him.
Godric glares at Salazar for a moment, and then starts to unpack. "You know, Sal, you need to lighten the fuck up. We're in a goddamn world with stupid brain-eating zombies, but we've got guns and ammo and food and a bar, so stick a smile on that mug of yours, okay. I'm not sucking your dick to turn your stupid-ass frown upside-down, yeah? Well, until you wash it."
"Fuck you." Salazar's words are without heat though, and he's grinning at Godric with sharp teeth. "I'm going to check the kitchen."
"Man, I hope there's real food in that kitchen," says Godric, pulling out a clean shirt from his pack. "I'm tired of eating dried fruit and crackers and shit all the time."
"You eat waste, Godric?" Rowena quirks her eyebrow upwards, a small smile crinkling the corners of her blue eyes. "Would explain the utter bullshit you constantly spout."
Godric grins at her. "You wound me, ma'am."
Rowena gives him the finger, then heads to have a shower in the nearest bathroom. Godric slings his shirt onto his shoulder and walks towards Helga, who's busy checking out the bar. She pulls out a bottle of malt whisky with a delighted chuckle. "I don't give a flying arse. I'm having this tonight."
Another reason why Helga is a badass: the woman has taste.
Salazar comes back into the living room to announce that yes, the kitchen is stocked with actual food, and that the appliances are all still plugged in and working. Godric thinks he might actually cry, because Sal is holding a fucking packet of fucking beautiful bacon that expires in two days.
Dinner that night is wonderful. They keep their ready-to-eat packets in their bags, and make do with what's left in the kitchen, which is a lot. Godric's claimed the bacon as his, writing his name on the plastic in obnoxious capital letters with his Sharpie, and was tempted to sleep with the damned pretty thing until Salazar promised that it was all Godric's in the morning.
Salazar found pizza, with extra ham, frozen in the fridge, and he's having that for dinner, sprawled out against the couch. He looks more comfortable than Godric's seen him in weeks, which makes Godric smile, though he'd never admit that to anyone. Except maybe Helga, who seems to love nudging him in the shoulder, the little cheery bitch.
She's having her whisky and some delicious-smelling meat dish she cooked all on her own. Godric tried to snatch some earlier, but got a hot wooden spoon rapped on his knuckles for his trouble. He stares at it, even now. The smell is so damned good. "Fuck off, Gryffindor," Helga says, grinning, moving away to sit beside Rowena, who's smirking and digging into her salad and tacos.
It's childish, but Godric sticks his tongue out anyway. He likes his pasta. It's fresh and well-cooked, thank you very much, with lots of tomato sauce and mushrooms. Truth be told, you could have offered Godric a stale piece of toast and it would have still tasted better than the fucking dry, tasteless goop that they had to survive on while on the road. So he doesn't care if he's slurping and making obscene noises that obviously turn Salazar on, by the look of it (Godric files this under interesting shit and continues, even louder). He doesn't care that Rowena looks faintly disgusted, and that Helga is openly laughing and yelling insults.
He makes the fucking gorgeous pasta his bitch, and doesn't stop until there's more sauce on his face than in the bowl.
---
They're on the road again a few days later, aiming to reach London in a week or so. Godric's still the designated driver, only because he claims the others drive like weak-ass babies. Helga's on his nine, bitching about the lack of alcohol on their road trip, and ignoring Salazar, who patiently tells her that they're not on a fucking road trip, and that they need to stay sober.
To get back at him, Godric and Helga sing country music. Salazar hates country music. He shuts up after the fifth Taylor Swift song they belt out.
Rowena doesn't say much, but keeps herself busy by fiddling around with a radio almost as beat-up as their crappy car. They took it from the cottage, and she's been able to nurse it from whining to occasional bursts of messages.
"…anyone out there, please go to the safehouse in central London… 're at five-two-six Isling… are nine of us staying here currently… need supplies… wounded in the leg…"
When they are finally at the outskirts of London, it's been four days since anyone took a shower, and Godric is high on sleep-deprivation and coffee crystals and constantly bitches about the need to have a good wank. He shuts up when they approach London in another couple of hours. Helga perks up a little when she sees a rogue zombie and picks up her gun again, humming the Doctor Who theme tune as she aims a quick headshot to the fucker. From then on, she's on full alert as they drive into the deserted capital city.
"Stay frosty," says Salazar. The sky is an ominous grey, and it feels like they're in a fucking movie. Godric half-expects Tom Cruise or Kiefer Sutherland to pop out of one of the buildings nearby to save their arses from a zombie mob.
But there is no mob, thankfully, and no movie stars. There's an eerie silence, with the occasional crunch of more than road.
"Turn left," Rowena says suddenly, and continues to guide Godric through the huge city, the radio pressed against her ear. She's still holding her gun steady, pointing it out of her window, ready to kill any brain-eaters out there. Godric respects her even more.
They reach the supposed safehouse by sundown.
"There's fuck all. Where're the people?" Helga whispers, eyes scanning the block of flats as Godric circles it yet again.
Suddenly there's a man in front of their car, and Godric grits his teeth to bite back a huge yell as he puts on the brakes, because the man is not grey and stumbling and undead.
"Fuck you, man!" Godric says, snarling, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as the man approaches his window. "Don't fucking do that, you fucker!"
"I'm sorry. We had to get your attention. I'm Christeson."
"Well-" Godric swallows his rant when Salazar kicks the back of his chair. 'Be polite', his grey eyes say quietly through the rearview mirror. Arsehole. "Fine. Where are the rest of your people?"
"Inside. Zombies stay underground, mostly. There are some fuckers who lurk around, but they generally prefer the damp in the sewers and don't come out until it's nearly dark, like now, so we've got to go." He swallows nervously and helps them to bundle up their supplies - the sounds of shuffling feet can be heard from down below. Godric says a fond goodbye to their shitcase of a car before being pulled unceremoniously by the collar into the flat.
There are eight of them waiting: three men, four women, and a girl. Rowena immediately attends to the wounded young man who's got a gunshot wound to the leg, assisted by a distraught young woman who looks to be his sister. Helga follows Christeson and Helena, his wife, to the supply room.
An elderly man is the leader of the ten, and says his name is Ferrando. He has a raspy voice that grates on Godric's nerves, but Godric doesn't show it. He knows authority when he sees it with a fucking rifle over its shoulder. Salazar, Ferrando, and his daughter Natalie head off into another room to discuss strategy, and Godric is left with the motherly-looking Rae and her children.
"Are you here to save us?" The girl looks to be three, and normally Godric can't be arsed with kids, but her eyes are huge and green. "Momma says that there are bad things outside, like dragons."
Rae smiles at Godric, and pets her daughter on the head tiredly. "Emmy can be quite chatty."
Godric grins back, and offers Emmy a hand to shake, settling down on one knee. "I'm with my friends, and we're all going to kick some zombie butts for you, okay?"
"Promise?"
Godric chuckles as he hooks pinkies with the little kid biting her lip. "Promise."
When Emmy finishes hugging a very surprised Godric who's suddenly all too aware of how much he smells of their greasy car, she whispers something that makes him laugh and ruffle her head of strawberry blonde hair.
"Yes," he says, beaming at Rae and Emmy. "We can most definitely call this place Hogwarts after your favourite Pumbaa toy."