RPS zombie comment fic. Um, yeah.
So, uh. There is this Zombie Commentfic Challenge. I wrote something for it. Prompt: any RPS, odd weapons. I was inspired by these photos of Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen at the Empire Awards. So. Sean/Viggo, PG, zombies. Way to break into a new fandom, dude. *facepalms*
The Empire (Award) Strikes Back
They mugged together for the photographer, bottles of Jameson held high, Viggo with his plaque. "They'll think us complete sots," said Sean. "Not that they're wrong."
"Can you blame them?" said Viggo. "We look like Bowery bums. At least I shaved." He brushed a hand across Sean's stubbly beginnings of a beard, snatching it back just before the photographer could catch him in the act, then murmured, "Not that I mind."
"Sod off," muttered Sean amiably, flashing him a warning glance, and Viggo smiled and shrugged, and stepped away from him, just a fraction. But Sean was right: better to wait until they were away from the camera's prying eye, away from the crowd at the Empire Awards, so he behaved himself, more or less, for the rest of the shoot, until the photographer told them they were free to go.
The reception seemed to have gotten louder while they were in the photo room. Tinkling laughter and the occasional shriek floated down the hall to them, over the music. Viggo bent close to Sean's ear. "Back to the reception, or to my room?"
"You're the star of the evening, Mr. Icon Award. Better make an appearance or they'll think they didn't get their money's worth."
"You think this cost them more than ten bucks?" Viggo said, holding up the plaque.
"Nah. But there's the whiskey."
As they walked toward the ballroom, they heard a sudden crash from somewhere up ahead; then a loud thump, and a second one, and a scream. "What's that, do you think?" asked Sean.
"Too much whiskey, maybe."
Another scream. Louder, closer. A figure in black appeared at the end of the hall, coming toward them, and as Viggo squinted into the light it resolved itself into Tim Burton.
"Hey, Tim, what's -" he started, and then Sean was yanking on his arm and pulling him back.
"Jesus God," hissed Sean in his ear. "D'ya see what's happened to him?"
He looked back at Tim. His glasses were askew, and he was walking with a stiff, odd gait, and his mouth...his mouth was open, and there was something smeared around it, and suddenly Viggo's pulse stuttered and went into overdrive as he realized what had happened.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
"Let's get out of here," whispered Sean urgently, and tugged on his arm again, and Viggo was not going to argue, oh, no, but he was not going to turn his back on...on the thing Tim had become.
Slowly they backed up, feeling along the wall until they hit the elevator doors, and Sean stabbed the button ferociously, repeatedly. "Fuck. Come on, come on."
The screaming from the ballroom was continuous, now. There must be more of them, back there. Celebrity zombies. The tabloids would have a field day tomorrow. Assuming anyone survived to tell the tale.
"Come on, you stupid lift, piece of shite!"
With effort, Viggo tore his eyes away from the sight of Zombie Tim, advancing on them slowly but steadily, and turned to Sean. "We can take the -" he started, and just then Sean looked at him, and then over his shoulder, and his eyes went wide. He grabbed the Empire Award from Viggo's hand and hurled it hard at the zombie's head. A direct hit; it crumpled to the ground.
The elevator doors slid open and they fell inside. Sean pushed the button and the doors slid closed. The elevator started to move.
"That was my award," said Viggo.
"Look," said Sean. "God knows for how long we're going to have to barricade ourselves in your room. We're going to need both bottles of whiskey."
The door slid open. "True enough," said Viggo, and they stepped out into the hall.
The Empire (Award) Strikes Back
They mugged together for the photographer, bottles of Jameson held high, Viggo with his plaque. "They'll think us complete sots," said Sean. "Not that they're wrong."
"Can you blame them?" said Viggo. "We look like Bowery bums. At least I shaved." He brushed a hand across Sean's stubbly beginnings of a beard, snatching it back just before the photographer could catch him in the act, then murmured, "Not that I mind."
"Sod off," muttered Sean amiably, flashing him a warning glance, and Viggo smiled and shrugged, and stepped away from him, just a fraction. But Sean was right: better to wait until they were away from the camera's prying eye, away from the crowd at the Empire Awards, so he behaved himself, more or less, for the rest of the shoot, until the photographer told them they were free to go.
The reception seemed to have gotten louder while they were in the photo room. Tinkling laughter and the occasional shriek floated down the hall to them, over the music. Viggo bent close to Sean's ear. "Back to the reception, or to my room?"
"You're the star of the evening, Mr. Icon Award. Better make an appearance or they'll think they didn't get their money's worth."
"You think this cost them more than ten bucks?" Viggo said, holding up the plaque.
"Nah. But there's the whiskey."
As they walked toward the ballroom, they heard a sudden crash from somewhere up ahead; then a loud thump, and a second one, and a scream. "What's that, do you think?" asked Sean.
"Too much whiskey, maybe."
Another scream. Louder, closer. A figure in black appeared at the end of the hall, coming toward them, and as Viggo squinted into the light it resolved itself into Tim Burton.
"Hey, Tim, what's -" he started, and then Sean was yanking on his arm and pulling him back.
"Jesus God," hissed Sean in his ear. "D'ya see what's happened to him?"
He looked back at Tim. His glasses were askew, and he was walking with a stiff, odd gait, and his mouth...his mouth was open, and there was something smeared around it, and suddenly Viggo's pulse stuttered and went into overdrive as he realized what had happened.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
"Let's get out of here," whispered Sean urgently, and tugged on his arm again, and Viggo was not going to argue, oh, no, but he was not going to turn his back on...on the thing Tim had become.
Slowly they backed up, feeling along the wall until they hit the elevator doors, and Sean stabbed the button ferociously, repeatedly. "Fuck. Come on, come on."
The screaming from the ballroom was continuous, now. There must be more of them, back there. Celebrity zombies. The tabloids would have a field day tomorrow. Assuming anyone survived to tell the tale.
"Come on, you stupid lift, piece of shite!"
With effort, Viggo tore his eyes away from the sight of Zombie Tim, advancing on them slowly but steadily, and turned to Sean. "We can take the -" he started, and just then Sean looked at him, and then over his shoulder, and his eyes went wide. He grabbed the Empire Award from Viggo's hand and hurled it hard at the zombie's head. A direct hit; it crumpled to the ground.
The elevator doors slid open and they fell inside. Sean pushed the button and the doors slid closed. The elevator started to move.
"That was my award," said Viggo.
"Look," said Sean. "God knows for how long we're going to have to barricade ourselves in your room. We're going to need both bottles of whiskey."
The door slid open. "True enough," said Viggo, and they stepped out into the hall.