Walking Dead Fanfic: "Gone" and "Greeting Card"
One of the current challenges over at tvrealm right now is comment fic, wheeeee. I have never participated in one of these before -- all my fandoms are too small, heh -- and it's actually super fun. Each participant leaves a set of prompts, and then our challenge is to fill four of the prompts with fics of at least 100 words. (I set myself a personal goal of at least 500 words.) Here's my first two. :)
Title: Gone
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Merle
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 500
Summary: Merle is near-delirious when they find him, perched on the crumbling rooftop of a run-down convenience store near the interstate, a dozen walkers stumbling below and scratching at the bricks.
Notes: Post Season One. Written for the prompt "The Walking Dead, Merle, gone". As always: Merle is a racist; his views are not mine.
Gone
by Severina
Merle is near-delirious when they find him, perched on the crumbling rooftop of a run-down convenience store near the interstate, a dozen walkers stumbling below and scratching at the bricks. Sweat drips into his eyes, blurring his vision, and at first he thinks they're more walkers, more of those sons of bitches who just don't know that when you die you're supposed to lie down and stay dead. He raises the gun, the one he was going to use to blow his own brains out, but his vision doubles, triples. He's not even sure if he manages to get a shot off, but he hears the crack of returning gunfire, loud and sharp after so much silence, the way it used to be when he'd take Daryl out to the woods and they'd sit in the blind for hours, not talking, not moving, just waiting for a damn buck to wander on by and make itself their dinner. His only hope is that they use the brains God gave them and know enough to shoot him in the head.
When he wakes up he's lying in an actual bed, crisp clean linens and a cold cloth on his forehead and meds that aren't as good as the little blue pills back in his tent at the quarry but they clear his head enough so that he can talk. He raises his arms when he gestures and can still feel the ghost fingers of his missing hand close into a fist.
The man who calls himself The Governor understands his pain, and Merle is smart enough to let the man have all the delusions of grandeur he wants as long as he helps him reap his vengeance.
On the drive to the camp he imagines what he'll do to them. To that blonde bitch who thinks she's better than him; to the nigger that dropped the damn key - thought he was foolin' old Merle, pretending it was an accident, but Merle's mama didn't raise no idiot. And especially to Rick Grimes, who cold-cocked him when he wasn't looking and handcuffed him to the fucking roof in the first place. Yeah, he has lots of plans for Officer Friendly.
He's gonna have himself some fun, and then he's gonna collect his baby brother and go on back to this Woodbury and get them set up just fine. People like him and Daryl, they could do real well in a place like that.
But the camp is deserted, because God never smiles on people like him. People that have a righteous cause always gotta work that little bit harder.
He shrugs off the Governor's restraining arm; rips at the note taped to the dismantled red sports car, tears at the plastic wrapping with his teeth, crumbles the paper in his hand and lets it drop to the dusty ground.
He knows that none of the graves belongs to Daryl. Not to that damn cop, either.
They can be at the CDC by mid-afternoon.
* * *
Title: Greeting Card
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Daryl/Carol
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Summary: He doesn't think. He slips the card in his pocket.
Notes: Post Season Two. Written for the prompt "greeting card"
Greeting Card
by Severina
The pharmacy is a goldmine. They find half a dozen bottles of Percocet, an entire carton of toilet paper, several cases of water shoved beneath the wooden staircase. Daryl slings his crossbow onto his back and joins the group in hauling the loads out to the Hyundai, dirty boots shuffling through the detritus of the shelves lying scattered on the floor, all the things that don't matter anymore - packages of hair dye, tubes of zit cream and lipstick.
On his way back inside he catches sight of a bottle of shampoo snagged under one of the toppled shelves, is bent over and reaching to grab it when he sees the card out of the corner of his eye. A cartoon kitten clutching a red heart, the white paper limp and soiled, smudged by half a boot print that might be his own. He snatches it up, takes a quick glance around. Glenn is still dragging water from the back room and Rick is on point at the door, every line of his body tense. Beyond him, Daryl can just make out the first of the walkers heading in their direction.
He doesn't think. He slips the card in his pocket.
It's only when they're halfway back to the storage lockers that he realizes he forgot to pick up the damn shampoo.
* * *
Carol looks haggard and worn, curled up by the window and squinting over the small print in a medical journal that they snagged on a raid on a doctor's office a while back. There are dark smudges under her eyes, a thin strip of dirt on the wiry muscle of her arm. Still pretty, for all that.
Prettiest thing he ever saw.
He starts and stops the walk over to her half a dozen times, chewing on his nail and trying to ignore the voices in his head calling him a damn fool, until finally he notices that Glenn is watching him with a barely concealed grin. He straightens his shoulders at that, frowns and reaches into his vest and takes the dozen steps across the room to let the card drop onto the book in her lap.
But when she turns those pale green eyes up to his, questioning, all the bravado leaves him in a rush. He ducks his head, swallows dryly, narrowly manages to keep himself from bolting.
"Got you that," he finally is able to mumble.
Her long pale fingers brush against the edges of the card. Like it's something delicate. Something special.
When she doesn't speak he forces himself to raise his eyes. Her lips are upturned in a small smile, and when she looks up at him her own eyes are shining. Daryl blinks, backing away quickly. Suddenly it feels like all eyes are on him, on them.
"Don't go startin' the waterworks," he says gruffly. "It's just a damn card."
He spends the rest of the night cleaning his arrows. But he notices that she tucks the card carefully away, still smiling.
.
Title: Gone
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Merle
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 500
Summary: Merle is near-delirious when they find him, perched on the crumbling rooftop of a run-down convenience store near the interstate, a dozen walkers stumbling below and scratching at the bricks.
Notes: Post Season One. Written for the prompt "The Walking Dead, Merle, gone". As always: Merle is a racist; his views are not mine.
Gone
by Severina
Merle is near-delirious when they find him, perched on the crumbling rooftop of a run-down convenience store near the interstate, a dozen walkers stumbling below and scratching at the bricks. Sweat drips into his eyes, blurring his vision, and at first he thinks they're more walkers, more of those sons of bitches who just don't know that when you die you're supposed to lie down and stay dead. He raises the gun, the one he was going to use to blow his own brains out, but his vision doubles, triples. He's not even sure if he manages to get a shot off, but he hears the crack of returning gunfire, loud and sharp after so much silence, the way it used to be when he'd take Daryl out to the woods and they'd sit in the blind for hours, not talking, not moving, just waiting for a damn buck to wander on by and make itself their dinner. His only hope is that they use the brains God gave them and know enough to shoot him in the head.
When he wakes up he's lying in an actual bed, crisp clean linens and a cold cloth on his forehead and meds that aren't as good as the little blue pills back in his tent at the quarry but they clear his head enough so that he can talk. He raises his arms when he gestures and can still feel the ghost fingers of his missing hand close into a fist.
The man who calls himself The Governor understands his pain, and Merle is smart enough to let the man have all the delusions of grandeur he wants as long as he helps him reap his vengeance.
On the drive to the camp he imagines what he'll do to them. To that blonde bitch who thinks she's better than him; to the nigger that dropped the damn key - thought he was foolin' old Merle, pretending it was an accident, but Merle's mama didn't raise no idiot. And especially to Rick Grimes, who cold-cocked him when he wasn't looking and handcuffed him to the fucking roof in the first place. Yeah, he has lots of plans for Officer Friendly.
He's gonna have himself some fun, and then he's gonna collect his baby brother and go on back to this Woodbury and get them set up just fine. People like him and Daryl, they could do real well in a place like that.
But the camp is deserted, because God never smiles on people like him. People that have a righteous cause always gotta work that little bit harder.
He shrugs off the Governor's restraining arm; rips at the note taped to the dismantled red sports car, tears at the plastic wrapping with his teeth, crumbles the paper in his hand and lets it drop to the dusty ground.
He knows that none of the graves belongs to Daryl. Not to that damn cop, either.
They can be at the CDC by mid-afternoon.
* * *
Title: Greeting Card
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Daryl/Carol
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Summary: He doesn't think. He slips the card in his pocket.
Notes: Post Season Two. Written for the prompt "greeting card"
Greeting Card
by Severina
The pharmacy is a goldmine. They find half a dozen bottles of Percocet, an entire carton of toilet paper, several cases of water shoved beneath the wooden staircase. Daryl slings his crossbow onto his back and joins the group in hauling the loads out to the Hyundai, dirty boots shuffling through the detritus of the shelves lying scattered on the floor, all the things that don't matter anymore - packages of hair dye, tubes of zit cream and lipstick.
On his way back inside he catches sight of a bottle of shampoo snagged under one of the toppled shelves, is bent over and reaching to grab it when he sees the card out of the corner of his eye. A cartoon kitten clutching a red heart, the white paper limp and soiled, smudged by half a boot print that might be his own. He snatches it up, takes a quick glance around. Glenn is still dragging water from the back room and Rick is on point at the door, every line of his body tense. Beyond him, Daryl can just make out the first of the walkers heading in their direction.
He doesn't think. He slips the card in his pocket.
It's only when they're halfway back to the storage lockers that he realizes he forgot to pick up the damn shampoo.
* * *
Carol looks haggard and worn, curled up by the window and squinting over the small print in a medical journal that they snagged on a raid on a doctor's office a while back. There are dark smudges under her eyes, a thin strip of dirt on the wiry muscle of her arm. Still pretty, for all that.
Prettiest thing he ever saw.
He starts and stops the walk over to her half a dozen times, chewing on his nail and trying to ignore the voices in his head calling him a damn fool, until finally he notices that Glenn is watching him with a barely concealed grin. He straightens his shoulders at that, frowns and reaches into his vest and takes the dozen steps across the room to let the card drop onto the book in her lap.
But when she turns those pale green eyes up to his, questioning, all the bravado leaves him in a rush. He ducks his head, swallows dryly, narrowly manages to keep himself from bolting.
"Got you that," he finally is able to mumble.
Her long pale fingers brush against the edges of the card. Like it's something delicate. Something special.
When she doesn't speak he forces himself to raise his eyes. Her lips are upturned in a small smile, and when she looks up at him her own eyes are shining. Daryl blinks, backing away quickly. Suddenly it feels like all eyes are on him, on them.
"Don't go startin' the waterworks," he says gruffly. "It's just a damn card."
He spends the rest of the night cleaning his arrows. But he notices that she tucks the card carefully away, still smiling.
.