The Walking Dead Fanfic: "Not a Dream"
Title: Not a Dream
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl, Carol (Daryl/Beth implied)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 922 words
Summary: Daryl stands in the open doorway surrounded by the humid air and the scent of wildflowers and knows he should be grateful for the safety and the luxury, but he hates every damn minute of it.
Notes: I've only seen The Walking Dead up to the end of Season 5A (the end of the Grady hospital arc) so this is strictly my version of what I imagine they find/found in Alexandria. Written for getyourwordsout bingo for this photo prompt:
.
Not a Dream
by Severina
For most of his group, Alexandria is like a dream.
There are high walls to keep the walkers out, and enough manpower to monitor every mile. There are clapboard houses bordered by elms and oaks; well-fed people lounging in rockers on double-wide verandahs that overlook manicured yards. There are china dishes in shaker cupboards. There are beds that don't have to be shared with mice or fleas.
There are bathrooms. There is hot water. There are clean towels.
Daryl sits on the stairs leading up to the second floor and fiddles with the fletching on his bolt. Steam billows out from the door each time someone exits the bathroom - first Michonne, then Carl, then Carol, and then everyone pretends to turn a blind eye when Glenn and Maggie go in together. There are fluffy bathrobes that drown Carl and barely fit Abraham, and Daryl tucks his knees against his chest and huddles over his bolt and juts his chin toward the open bathroom door whenever anyone asks if he wants to go next.
He listens to Tara laugh for the first time in days as she heads down the stairs with the baby bouncing on her hip. Sees Eugene's eyes slide to his and then dart away before he follows, rat-tail hair streaming water down his back until he slides the robe in place. When he can hear the rattle of dishes from the kitchen Daryl pushes up from the wall, adjusts his bow against his back. The third stair from the top creaks under his boot.
The door is ajar, and he pushes it open with the tips of his fingers. Like it may burn him if he's not cautious.
Bathtub and sink and toilet, all pristine, all looking like something out of one of the magazines his ma used to flip through at the kitchen table, a cigarette dangling from her fingers and a glass of red wine on the table. Back when she was still pretending that maybe his old man would quit the boozing and the catting around and actually make something of his life; that maybe they could move out of the old house with the missing shingles and the cockroaches in the cupboards.
Daryl stands in the open doorway surrounded by the humid air and the scent of wildflowers and knows he should be grateful for the safety and the luxury, but he hates every damn minute of it.
"You okay?" Carol asks.
He doesn't startle. The third stair from the top creaks when there's weight put on it, and despite her careful steps he'd have been able to follow her progress up the stairs regardless.
The funeral home only had a tiny two-piece powder room with a toilet and a sink, he doesn't say. The water was cold but Beth was pleased to have any running water at all; thrilled with that and a scratchy hand towel about the size of his fist and a sliver of soap. Her eyes shone when she filled the sink and the water ran clear, and she closed the door and slipped out of her clothes and he kept an eye out the window while she bathed. But he could still hear her. Singing. He couldn't make out the words but her voice spiraled up and up and he leaned a shoulder against the wall and closed his eyes and let it wash over him same as the water in that tiny sink.
When Beth opened the door after her sponge bath she was shivering and the ends of her hair were damp and curling around her chin, Daryl doesn't say, but her smile lit the hallway. And she tugged on his vest and giggled and wouldn't take no for an answer and then stood guard at the same window while he splashed water on his face and chest and arms and used the rest of the soap that she'd saved for him. And he didn't sing - hell, he'd sound like a frog with laryngitis if he tried - but he felt like he could.
"Daryl?"
He can feel Carol's hand hovering over his right shoulder blade, close enough that he can feel the heat of her skin against his neck. Some instinct is keeping her from moving it that two inches closer - from touching him - and for that he is grateful. If she touches him, he may scream.
Daryl lets his steepled fingers drop away from the door, turns in time to see Carol's hand drift back to her side. Cool eyes appraise him, and whatever she sees makes her lips thin as she crosses her arms at her chest. She's found a ruffled top and a prim pink sweater and she looks like she'd fit in the pages of those fancy home and garden magazines just fine.
She doesn't move, so he eases around her. His arm brushes against hers as he passes, leaving behind a smear of dirt on her sleeve. He stares at the grime that's traveled with him from prison to shack to funeral home to this place, with its high walls and complacent people. He stares at the mess he's already made of her pretty new clothes, like another sweater at another time, and feels her eyes on him - concerned, but calculating, too.
"I asked if you're okay," Carol says.
The door closes on shining white porcelain and sparkling tiles, on a pile of thick towels and moist air redolent with the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. He can breathe again.
"Nope," Daryl says.
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl, Carol (Daryl/Beth implied)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 922 words
Summary: Daryl stands in the open doorway surrounded by the humid air and the scent of wildflowers and knows he should be grateful for the safety and the luxury, but he hates every damn minute of it.
Notes: I've only seen The Walking Dead up to the end of Season 5A (the end of the Grady hospital arc) so this is strictly my version of what I imagine they find/found in Alexandria. Written for getyourwordsout bingo for this photo prompt:
.
Not a Dream
by Severina
For most of his group, Alexandria is like a dream.
There are high walls to keep the walkers out, and enough manpower to monitor every mile. There are clapboard houses bordered by elms and oaks; well-fed people lounging in rockers on double-wide verandahs that overlook manicured yards. There are china dishes in shaker cupboards. There are beds that don't have to be shared with mice or fleas.
There are bathrooms. There is hot water. There are clean towels.
Daryl sits on the stairs leading up to the second floor and fiddles with the fletching on his bolt. Steam billows out from the door each time someone exits the bathroom - first Michonne, then Carl, then Carol, and then everyone pretends to turn a blind eye when Glenn and Maggie go in together. There are fluffy bathrobes that drown Carl and barely fit Abraham, and Daryl tucks his knees against his chest and huddles over his bolt and juts his chin toward the open bathroom door whenever anyone asks if he wants to go next.
He listens to Tara laugh for the first time in days as she heads down the stairs with the baby bouncing on her hip. Sees Eugene's eyes slide to his and then dart away before he follows, rat-tail hair streaming water down his back until he slides the robe in place. When he can hear the rattle of dishes from the kitchen Daryl pushes up from the wall, adjusts his bow against his back. The third stair from the top creaks under his boot.
The door is ajar, and he pushes it open with the tips of his fingers. Like it may burn him if he's not cautious.
Bathtub and sink and toilet, all pristine, all looking like something out of one of the magazines his ma used to flip through at the kitchen table, a cigarette dangling from her fingers and a glass of red wine on the table. Back when she was still pretending that maybe his old man would quit the boozing and the catting around and actually make something of his life; that maybe they could move out of the old house with the missing shingles and the cockroaches in the cupboards.
Daryl stands in the open doorway surrounded by the humid air and the scent of wildflowers and knows he should be grateful for the safety and the luxury, but he hates every damn minute of it.
"You okay?" Carol asks.
He doesn't startle. The third stair from the top creaks when there's weight put on it, and despite her careful steps he'd have been able to follow her progress up the stairs regardless.
The funeral home only had a tiny two-piece powder room with a toilet and a sink, he doesn't say. The water was cold but Beth was pleased to have any running water at all; thrilled with that and a scratchy hand towel about the size of his fist and a sliver of soap. Her eyes shone when she filled the sink and the water ran clear, and she closed the door and slipped out of her clothes and he kept an eye out the window while she bathed. But he could still hear her. Singing. He couldn't make out the words but her voice spiraled up and up and he leaned a shoulder against the wall and closed his eyes and let it wash over him same as the water in that tiny sink.
When Beth opened the door after her sponge bath she was shivering and the ends of her hair were damp and curling around her chin, Daryl doesn't say, but her smile lit the hallway. And she tugged on his vest and giggled and wouldn't take no for an answer and then stood guard at the same window while he splashed water on his face and chest and arms and used the rest of the soap that she'd saved for him. And he didn't sing - hell, he'd sound like a frog with laryngitis if he tried - but he felt like he could.
"Daryl?"
He can feel Carol's hand hovering over his right shoulder blade, close enough that he can feel the heat of her skin against his neck. Some instinct is keeping her from moving it that two inches closer - from touching him - and for that he is grateful. If she touches him, he may scream.
Daryl lets his steepled fingers drop away from the door, turns in time to see Carol's hand drift back to her side. Cool eyes appraise him, and whatever she sees makes her lips thin as she crosses her arms at her chest. She's found a ruffled top and a prim pink sweater and she looks like she'd fit in the pages of those fancy home and garden magazines just fine.
She doesn't move, so he eases around her. His arm brushes against hers as he passes, leaving behind a smear of dirt on her sleeve. He stares at the grime that's traveled with him from prison to shack to funeral home to this place, with its high walls and complacent people. He stares at the mess he's already made of her pretty new clothes, like another sweater at another time, and feels her eyes on him - concerned, but calculating, too.
"I asked if you're okay," Carol says.
The door closes on shining white porcelain and sparkling tiles, on a pile of thick towels and moist air redolent with the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. He can breathe again.
"Nope," Daryl says.
.